The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2

by Jodi Redford

  “Ms. Peach shouldn’t have said that. About you not having a heart. It isn’t true.”

  “How do you know?” She snorted. “Maybe I’m the world’s first living heart donor.” Her self-mockery managed to spackle the hairline crack that’d started to weaken her defenses.

  “Shug, it’s okay to be upset.”

  “I’m not.”

  A tiny, frustrated sigh fizzled from Logan. “I still think you need to blow off some steam. Let me take you on that bike ride.”

  And be surrounded by him and that vibrator on wheels? Can anyone say torture? “I already told you I can’t.”

  “Why? You’ve taken care of the problem with Peach.”

  “Yes, but there are a ton of other things I need to take care of.” Not the least of which was figuring out how to handle her upcoming meeting with Seven.

  Faster than she could blink, Logan stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You’re afraid to be alone with me. Admit it.”

  She gave a laugh that sounded forced, even to her ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been alone many times.”

  “Not so often lately.” His eyes sparkled with challenge. “Not since I kissed you in your office.”

  Her face uncomfortably hot, she swallowed. Hard. Damn him, he would have to dredge up memories of the kiss that’d shaken her more than a 6.0 earthquake. “You’re imagining things.”

  “Am I?” He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, the soft glide of his knuckles along her skin making her shiver. The gold specks in his irises seemed to glow with an inner heat. “Or maybe you’re scared shitless about the way I make you feel.”

  “Honestly, your ego is out of control.”

  “Then prove it. Come ride with me.” He twined the wayward, springy lock of her hair that refused to stay in place around his forefinger. “I promise I’ll behave.”

  “Please, we both know that’s physically impossible for you.”

  A noise that sounded suspiciously like the cluck of a chicken broke from him, making her teeth grind. “Thank you for proving my point.”

  His cackle grew louder, and she waggled a finger in warning. “I’m perfectly capable of shutting you up. Permanently, if I so choose. Might want to remember that.”

  He grinned. “Ah, shug, you know you’d miss the sound of my sexy voice.”

  Damn it, he was right. Not that she’d admit it out loud. “How about we compromise on the bike issue and you give me a rain check for later?”

  Cocking his head to the side, he stroked his goatee, apparently mulling it over. “Okay. Tomorrow then. We can go for a quick spin before going out for dinner.”

  Of all nights for him to choose…

  “Tomorrow isn’t good.” She had no idea how long her meeting with Seven would last, but better to plan on it being most of the evening. Logan’s eyebrows slashed low, and she scraped her teeth across her lip before letting her exhale leak free. “Don’t give me that look. I fully intend to keep my word.” Just not tomorrow.

  An angry growl rolled from Logan. “I can’t believe you’re skipping out on our anniversary.”

  She gaped at him. “Our—” Oh shit. She’d totally forgotten about it, their annual dinner to commemorate the day she and Logan signed their witch and familiar contract. No wonder he was so pissed. “I’m sorry. We’ll do it the following night, all right?”

  “No, it’s not damn well all right. I turned down Frank Champion’s offer to ride in his yearly poker run so I could stay home and be with you.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “No shit. But I wanted to. It’s important to me.” A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. “But obviously I’m the only one here who gives a fuck.”

  “Logan…” Hopeless frustration welled inside her when he turned his back on her and stalked off.

  Great. She hadn’t even had her meeting with Seven, and already things were headed down the crapper.

  Chapter Two

  Logan parked in his customary spot behind Champion’s Bar and yanked his helmet off. With an unholy passion, he hated how his foul mood had spoiled what should have been a perfect ride. He hated even more that he was head-over-ass insane for the stubbornest woman on the planet.

  Insane. Yeah, about summed it all up. He’d hit the nail dead center when he admitted to Clarissa his propensity to go loco whenever he caught a whiff of her arousal. Fuck, who was he kidding? She didn’t even need to be turned on to make him howl like a moon-crazed lupine on the hunt for a she-wolf in heat. When it came to Clarissa, he was horny enough for the both of them. But the real damnable part was that he not only suffered out-of-control lust where Clarissa was concerned, his heart was tied up in knots too.

  That last part didn’t set well on him at all. He’d always lived by the motto of keeping things light and flirty. Particularly since offering your heart to someone tended to be more dangerous than slathering yourself in honey and strolling into a bear’s den. It was a million times more dangerous when the woman you ached for guarded her own heart like it was damn Fort Knox.

  Gritting his teeth, he locked up his helmet and strode through the restaurant’s back entrance. Usually he preferred to stay away from Champion’s on his day off, but the prospect of numbing his heartache anywhere else didn’t feel right. Besides, Frank sure as shit didn’t have any problem with his employees spending their hard-earned dollars at the bar, even if Logan preferred not mixing business with pleasure. When it came to drinking, anyway. Fuck knows, he’d certainly brought home his fair share of ladies after they’d passed him their phone numbers while he’d poured their tequila shooters and Screaming Orgasms. Still, those women had never meant anything to him beyond a mutually good time. That arrangement had worked out fine in the beginning, each party getting exactly what they wanted from the other. But then the day came when he’d realized he wanted something more. Something real.

  Or more specifically, someone.

  Intent on exorcising Clarissa from his mind, he stalked the remainder of the way down the short hall. The noisy clatter of dishes and the incomprehensible exchange of curses between Paolo and Victor, the cooks, didn’t quite drown the wailing rhythm-and-blues number that blared from the jukebox. He was halfway to the bar area when he spied two familiar faces.

  Changing course, he moseyed to the booth where Marabella Blanchard and Willa Jameson were absorbed in their little powwow. Both witches were so preoccupied with their discussion they didn’t even glance his way when he halted beside their table. Not one who believed in being ignored, he cleared his throat. Loudly. Willa and Marabella jumped before jerking their gazes in his direction.

  “Evenin’, ladies.” He looked over his shoulder and caught Tully’s eye. The young bartender held up a bottle of the local brew they were pushing that month, and Logan nodded. Hell, he didn’t give a rat’s ass. So long as the beer was cold and dulled the edges of his irritability. Forcing a grin that felt far from authentic, he slid next to Marabella and stole an onion ring from her plate. He bypassed the veggie burger. Anything made from bean curd wasn’t normal and probably tasted like gorilla shit. “So what’s got you two hunkered in this corner? Girly chitchat about shoes and soap operas?”

  Willa leveled him with a peevish squint. “Believe it or not, our lives don’t revolve around Jimmy Choo’s or Days of Our Lives. Any other sexist misconceptions you need dispelled?”

  This time his grin was genuine. He finished polishing off the absconded onion ring and licked the grease from his fingers before replying, “Nope, I’m good. Besides, if I discover you ladies don’t really have lingerie pillow fights, it’d break my heart.”

  Willa muttered something beneath her breath that sounded suspiciously like “delusional werewolf”. In that moment, she reminded him of a smaller version of Clarissa, minus the red hair.

  “We were talking about Jenny Cavanaugh,” Marabella said softly, breaking though his musings. “I feel so awful for her poor family. After everything they went t
hrough with the gambling scandal, now this.” Apparently reading his confusion, she frowned. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear what happened? I would have thought it’d be prime gossip at the bar.”

  “Not that I recall.” Besides, he’d been too preoccupied with thoughts of Clarissa every damn waking and sleeping second to pay much attention to anything lately.

  “She’s the fifth mysterious coma case that’s hit in the past couple of days. The doctors can’t figure out what’s going on.”

  Willa shivered suddenly, drawing both his and Marabella’s attention. She glanced at them, a shadowy specter of fear creeping into her eyes. “There’s something…wrong…in the air. I can feel it.”

  Dropping her fork, Marabella reached across the table and squeezed Willa’s hand. “What do you think it could be?”

  “I’m not sure. But it’s not good, whatever it is.”

  Tully chose that moment to arrive with Logan’s beer and two refills on Willa and Marabella’s glasses of sweet tea. “Surprised to see your ugly mug around. Thought for sure you’d be getting that new bike broke in for the poker run.”

  The reminder of the charity event he’d bowed out of because of his stupid, misguided notion of loyalty rubbed like salt in a festering wound. “Not goin’ this year.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  He offered Tully a stiff shrug. “Somethin’ else came up. Maybe next time.”

  “Oh, that’s right. It’s your and Clarissa’s anniversary.” Marabella dunked the wedge of lemon into her tea. “I was planning to stop by the coven house and get her opinion on the web store I’ve been thinking of setting up, but tomorrow night’s probably not good, is it?”

  Renewed bitterness anchored in his chest. “Accordin’ to her, she’s busy.”

  Marabella blinked. “Um…I know. With you.”

  “Nope. Not me.” Unable to endure another second of Marabella, Willa and Tully’s bemused stares, Logan hefted to his feet and dug his wallet from his rear pocket. He flipped a wrinkled ten dollar bill onto the table and swiveled.

  “Whoa, you didn’t even drink your beer.”

  Ignoring Tully’s astounded observation, Logan strode for the exit. Outside, the glare of the sun threatened to blind him, and he tugged his shades down over his eyes before crossing to his bike. Straddling the seat, he stared off into space. He’d known from the very first second he’d set eyes on Clarissa seven years ago that she would likely change his life forever. Possibly in a way that he wasn’t prepared for, much less would welcome. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from signing the familiar contract with her. No force on earth would have prevented him from putting his Hancock on that paper. Because he’d felt it, even then. An electrical charge of chemistry that was off the charts. Every day since then, his need for her had imbedded itself deeper and deeper into his skin.

  Almost as if it were taunting him, the barbed-wire tattoo ringing his upper arm started itching. He dug his fingers into the sleeve of his T-shirt, but the stinging didn’t stop. Course not. The damn tat was a fucking symbol of his downfall. It wasn’t about to let him forget it.

  Cursing his apparent propensity for self-flagellation, he gunned the throttle and shot out of the parking lot. Less than twenty minutes later, he was cruising toward Tybee Island’s north beach.

  The earthy brine of fresh salt air filled his nostrils. Usually the familiar sensation acted as an instant stress reliever. Not today. He coasted into the driveway of the tiny oceanfront cottage that he still considered a work in progress. The vacationers occupying the two rentals on either side of his property were noticeably absent. Either they were visiting the more touristy section of the south beach, or they’d already packed up and headed home. Either way, he planned to take advantage of his unexpected solitude and go for a skinny dip.

  What he really longed to do was shift into his wolf and run along the shore, just the salty breeze and the rustling of sea oats for company. But that would have to wait for later, after the good citizens of Tybee were tucked into their beds.

  Stepping into the cottage’s small entry, he plunked his helmet onto the front end table and tugged his T-shirt over his head. Bending, he shucked his boots and dropped his shirt near his bare feet. Half a second later, his jeans and boxer briefs joined the pile. He padded across the room, the tile cool beneath his toes, and unlocked the sliding doors. Beyond the low rise of the dunes he could make out the white-capped waves of the Atlantic. The surf was strong today, alive with an energy that called to him. Mother sea would no doubt enjoy battering the hell out of his hide.

  He’d welcome it, compared to the battering his heart was taking.

  Releasing a howl that came from the very depths of his soul, he bounded across the gray, weathered planks of the back deck and easily cleared the railing. He landed on the sugary sand with the barest thud and continued sprinting toward the waves cresting in the distance, unmindful of the gathering of purple sandpipers that scurried out of his path. The brisk, foaming tide lapped over his feet and calves. He plowed deeper into the wave until water crashed into his shoulders. The tide reversed, hauling him away from shore, and he effortlessly rode the current. No wimpy dogpaddling for him. Six years ago, when he’d purchased the cottage and begun his extensive remodel on it, he’d learned the best way to burn off excess energy was to pummel his body in a nightly swim.

  Course, there were other enjoyable ways for burning off excess energy. Sexy ways that coincidentally enough also entailed sweating his ass off and getting his cock wet. Whether that last part came about from a woman’s mouth or her pussy, it was all better than fine by him.

  As always happened whenever his thoughts turned toward sex—and face it, when the fuck didn’t he think about sex?—Clarissa popped into his mind’s eye. The vision of her seemed so real, he could practically feel the wet glide of her soft curves beneath his palms. Without thinking, he moaned, and his mouth filled with seawater. He surfaced, sputtering. The relentless waves dragged him under again, and for several minutes he fought to escape the sucking grasp of the deep swells. Finally he pulled free and began the long swim to shore.

  The tide spat him onto the sand as if he were a toy it’d grown bored with, and he flopped onto his back with a weak groan. He took a few seconds to regain his breath before staggering to the concealment of his palm-shaded deck. Exhausted or not, the last thing he needed was a beachcomber tripping over his buck-naked body.

  His muscles screaming over their rough treatment, he sprawled onto the lounger, ignoring the dusting of sand that instantly scattered into every nook and cranny of the padded cushion. The sun beat against him, its persistent heat easing his aches, even while it fed the flames of an entirely different ache that burned at a constant simmer. He closed his eyes, the residual white glare from the sun leaving spots behind his lids.

  Once again, Clarissa’s image superimposed itself on his mental big screen like a taunting mirage. Only this time she was as naked as he, straddling his bike. And his cock. The fantasy was familiar—one he’d replayed and jacked off to at least ten thousand times since that day her arousal teased his senses while his Harley rumbled beneath them. Judging from the rising state of his erection, the grand tally for masturbatory titillation was about to hit ten thousand and one.

  In his present fantasy, he gunned the throttle, triggering fierce vibrations that traveled through his balls. Clarissa gasped, her pussy fluttering around his shaft.

  Though it was a poor substitute for the vivid scene playing out in his head, he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and dragged his fist up along the shaft, his strokes slow and indulgent. He battled with the opposing need to make it last and the equally powerful need to come. When fantasy Clarissa began riding him harder, the silky walls of her pussy providing a tormenting friction, he pumped his dick faster, his hips arching into each downstroke. He was strung tight, panting, the promise of a blinding release pounding down on him. In his mind, Clarissa bucked against him, the sweet sound of his
name tumbling from her lips as her slick channel milked the come right out of him.

  It was enough to push him over the edge, and the orgasm slammed into him, tearing a strangled moan from his throat. Like it’d been propelled by a damn rocket booster, his semen splashed over his fist and tensed abdomen. His heartbeat slowly returning to normal, he slumped into the cushion. Despite feeling like every bone in his body had liquefied, a heavy weariness washed over him. Good as his orgasm was, it still left him hollow, aching and hungry for the real thing. But for the first time in his life, the idea of sex with just any available and horny woman held zero appeal.

  The only one he wanted was Clarissa. As if on cue, the damn tattoo began tingling, and he ground his teeth together.

  He couldn’t keep going on like this, playing these stupid games that got neither of them anywhere. Which left him with only one option.

  He had to turn up the heat and burn down Clarissa’s defenses. The stubborn witch would have no choice but to finally admit she wanted him too.

  Chapter Three

  Momentarily switching focus from the notes she’d been transcribing for the past hour and a half, Clarissa peeked at the brass clock ticking near the corner of her desk. Exactly five minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked the stupid thing. Grumbling beneath her breath, she tossed her pen aside and rubbed the nape of her neck. In addition to the crick there, a knot of nerves close to the size of a damn baseball was giving her a major fit. It’d be a miracle if she didn’t psyche herself out by the time she had to leave for Tatum’s.

  Not good. She needed to be clearheaded and calm during her dealings with Seven. She knew all too well that revealing the slightest weakness could lead to dangerous consequences.

  Life-altering consequences.