The Accidental Genie

by Dakota Cassidy

  Sloan’s low moan of pleasure was all she needed to encourage her. She ran her hands over his shoulders before tugging at his sweater, lifting it over his head and throwing it to the floor. With trembling fingers, she yanked at his belt, unbuckling it and finding the button to his jeans. She flipped it open, then reached for his zipper. The sound of metal against fabric was harsh to her ears, making what she planned to do next very real.

  Her hands pushed at his jeans before she lost her nerve, shoving them to his hips and over the thick muscles of his thighs down to his feet. Sloan kicked his shoes off, shoving them away along with his jeans before grasping her by her shoulders and lifting her to meet his eyes.

  She gazed back into his. Sure. Unafraid.

  The groan he let go was thick and husky, turning her limbs to butter. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in close for a long kiss. The delicious slide of his mouth meeting hers made her shiver as she allowed her body to mold to his.

  The connection of flesh meeting flesh, hot and sweet, now had her groaning, too. His cock brushed the cleft of her sex, spearing her clit, swollen and aching.

  She dragged her mouth from his, allowing him one last lick of her lips before sliding down his body to settle between his legs.

  Sloan’s hand reached for the top of her head. The hiss of sound he made when her breath grazed his cock spurred her on.

  Her eyes admired the strength of his thighs, the dark sprinkle of hair covering them. She curved her arms around each one and leaned forward against his strong frame.

  Sloan moaned in response, and when her tongue flicked out to taste the head of his cock, he bucked forward. Resting her head against his lower abdomen, Jeannie took one long pass over his entire length, savoring the silken flesh against her tongue, reveling in the veins, which pulsed hot with life.

  Jeannie massaged his thighs, running her hands over the rigid planes of muscle as her tongue flitted over his shaft. She let her fingers explore his crisp pubic hair, running her nails through it, teasing him.

  Sloan’s legs trembled against her hands when she enveloped his cock fully, drawing him deep into her mouth. She wrapped her hands around his shaft then, twisting her way along the length, chasing her hands with her lips. That white-hot heat in her belly began to grow, spiraling upward and leaving her almost dizzy.

  Sloan drove his hips against her face. He pulled her flush to him, rocking forward until he choked out, “No more!” and tore himself from her mouth.

  Sloan yanked her upward, letting their flesh meet and scrape one another’s. His skin was hot and slick with sweat. His eyes met hers once more, sultry and dark with passion. “I need you now, Jeannie, but I don’t want to frighten you.”

  Her heart crashed against her ribs. His words were so urgent and thick with desire. But she wasn’t afraid—only hot with need. In response, Jeannie kissed him hard, driving her tongue into his mouth, luxuriating in the ability to turn a man this beautiful on.

  His harsh intake of breath was followed by a blur of his large hands turning her around and pushing her forward to the bed.

  Her cheek met the comforter, cool and crisp. Her pulse raced with what was to come.

  Leaning over her, Sloan kneaded her spine, ran his hands along the curves of her hips, dipped between her legs to slide between the fold of her flesh. His breath was hot on her skin. His lips were silken as they trailed a path along her lower back, making her shiver with anticipation.

  When his tongue slid into her, teasing her clit, bolts of heat sliced through her, making her cling to the comforter, twisting the fabric in her hands. She fought not to cry out. The sweet sharp feel of his tongue was so delicious. His hair brushed against her inner thighs, soft and silky, making her nipples bead into tight buds.

  He retreated quickly, replacing his tongue with his fingers, stroking her to madness as he rose and positioned himself between her legs.

  The thrust of his cock was swift and hard, almost forceful in its intensity. She was slick with need. Wickedly, she raised her hips to meet his first drive into her, humming her pleasure.

  Sloan placed his hands on her hips, gripping them, pulling back, then pushing forward, withdrawing, retreating until her hips rolled with his rhythm. He reached around her body, cupping her breasts. He toyed with the nipples until small explosions began to erupt in her.

  The slap of their flesh, moving in unison, drove her desperate need for fulfillment to a new height. It was sticky and dirty and all the things Sloan had described and more.

  Sloan’s breathing grew quick, mingling with hers until she thought her lungs would explode. Desperate for release, Jeannie hiked her ass up, taunted him—dared him to make her come.

  Sloan took the challenge, rolling his hips against hers, driving upward into her until she had to jam her knuckles into her mouth to keep from screaming.

  Her orgasm was a hard jolt to her gut, wending its way from the tips of her toes to the top of her head in a wave of sweet heat. She came hard, choking out a cry of gratitude.

  Sloan responded in kind, taking one last driven thrust into her before tensing, gripping her flesh with hard hands, hissing her name, and then collapsing on top of her.

  They fell together on the bed, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing.

  Sloan was the first to stir. He rolled her boneless body over and pressed a kiss to her lips as he enveloped her in his arms. She inhaled a shuddering breath against the smooth skin of his chest.

  “So, good morning,” he teased, rumbling and husky.

  “You really are magical with delicates,” she responded, her cheeks flushing hot with color.

  “Wait until you see the magic that is my whites.”

  Jeannie giggled, burrowing next to him and letting her eyes slide shut.

  The shrill ringtone of her phone had them both groaning. Jeannie reached for it. It was the first time it had rung in three days, and she’d been so caught up in her genie-ness, she’d forgotten to even touch base with Charlene and Betzi. Guilt stabbed at her when she saw it was Betzi’s number.

  “Betzi! Oh, God, I’m sorry, but you know these past few days have been nuts.”

  Betzi’s breathing rang in her ear for only a moment before she said, “It’s okay, Jeannie. No worries. Charlene and I have it handled. But we’re having a problem with a vendor down here at his warehouse. You remember Mr. Mitzenkowski, right? Can you come give us a hand? Swear I wouldn’t have called you, but this guy’s a real shizwad. He said he’ll only deal with you.” She ran off an unfamiliar address to Jeannie, who grabbed a pen and wrote it down while Sloan kissed his way up her spine, making her nipples tight with need.

  She cocked her head, shooing Sloan away and muffling a giggle. “Maybe I could just talk to him? Is it for the Warsham wedding? I thought all systems were a go?”

  Betzi cleared her throat. She sounded like she was coming down with a cold, her voice was so hoarse and raspy when she replied. “Yeah. It’s about the Warsham wedding. So come, please?”

  In the past three days, she’d realized, she’d never once taken any time off since she’d been thrown into the Witness Protection Program. Although these three days had been anything but a vacation, they’d definitely shown her that some personal time was in order. Still, the guilt she felt for neglecting Charlene and Betzi, leaving them alone to virtually handle everything, ate at her. “I’m on it. Be right there.”

  Betzi didn’t say good-bye. Instead, she hung up abruptly.

  Jeannie stared at the phone for a minute, her head cocked. They had every right to be angry with her for not touching base.

  “Work trouble?” Sloan asked, cupping her breasts.

  She fought a moan at his delicious fingers tugging her nipple. “Sounds like it. So I have to go make nice. Which means you have to come with. Put on some pants, werewolf,” she te
ased, letting him take one last sip of her lips before heading to the bathroom to give her hair a quick comb-through and her teeth a good brushing.

  Catching the first glimpse of herself in the mirror since her miraculous return to the world of the naughty, Jeannie giggled like a schoolgirl. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. She ran her fingers through her chin-length hair. She brushed her bangs over her forehead instead of pushing them back with some hair gel into the severe style she’d grown accustomed to.

  All of these new revelations made her yearn for the old Charlie. She wanted to touch base with this new version of herself—the happier-than-she’d-been-in-almost-half-her-life self. She wanted to discover how she could breathe new life into a Charlie that was intentionally without color. She wanted to match her exterior with her more hopeful interior.

  But that would have to wait. For now it was enough that she felt the inner changes.

  “Jeannie?”

  She slipped on her jeans. She noted the sag in them and promised herself she’d buy a pair that fit her once they had this all straightened out. Poking her head out of the bathroom, she smiled at Sloan, dressed in a deep navy blue sweater that highlighted his hair, and tight jeans. He pulled a black knit cap over his head. “Ready?”

  “Let’s do it,” she chimed, taking his hand in hers, filling her with hot-gooeyness all over again.

  * * *

  JEANNIE peered out of the window of her passenger seat at her unfamiliar surroundings. She’d let Sloan drive her car so she could get her head together about where they stood for the Warsham wedding. She took one last glance at her phone and shook her head. She’d sewn this all up two weeks ago. What could possibly be the problem?

  “Pretty deserted,” Sloan commented, popping open the door and rounding the car to her side to let her out. He smiled at her, his raven hair shining under the sunlight in streaks of chocolate.

  God. Every time she looked at him, her heart stopped. She slid from her passenger seat and nodded, taking his hand when he offered it. “Yeah. Funny thing, I don’t remember a vendor named Mitzenkowski that I use having a warehouse in this area or even having a vendor with the name Mitzenkowski. But vendors move for bigger spaces all the time.” She squinted in the sunlight. “It’s very Footloose, huh?”

  “Kick off your Sunday shoes,” he replied on a wide grin.

  “Look,” she pointed. “That’s Betzi’s car.”

  Betzi’s cute, red VW Beetle was parked in one of the many empty parking spaces.

  Sloan looked up at the large stack of gray and green buildings, his nostrils flaring. “They’re here. I can smell them, among a thousand other scents. Most of which are unpleasant.”

  Jeannie frowned and cocked her head. “You can smell them?”

  “Werewolf here. I don’t just smell scents. I remember scents, and I remember Betzi’s and Charlene’s.” He began to walk toward where his nose apparently led him.

  As they entered a dark cavernous opening, Jeannie asked, “You mean like you recognize the scent of their perfume?”

  He shook his head, his dark hair brushing the collar of his leather jacket. “No. I mean each human has a scent, and once you’ve smelled it, you almost always remember it. I smell another one I recognize, I just can’t get a grasp on where I recognize it from.”

  “Okay, Sloan Flaherty. I can’t even wrap my brain around identifying humans by their smells. I think I need more time to absorb. In the meantime, where the heck is Betzi?” She wondered this out loud as, hand in hand, they made their way past stacks of wood pallets and aluminum barrels.

  “Jeannie?” Betzi called her name. It sounded like it was coming from far away, deep into the darkness of the building.

  Sloan’s head cocked. “Hold on,” he said, grabbing Jeannie’s arm and pushing her behind him.

  A whistling noise from over her left shoulder made them both turn.

  Out of the darkness came the sick thud of a bat crashing against Sloan’s head. He dropped to the ground at her feet so suddenly she barely had time to fall to her knees, her hands reaching for him before she got the big picture.

  That’s when it hit her—probably as hard as the baseball bat that had knocked Sloan out cold.

  She didn’t have a vendor named Mitzenkowski. Her memory sucked, but she remembered every name of every single vendor she dealt with.

  Mitzenkowski had been Betzi’s code word for, “Hey, dummy. We got trouble.” But she’d been so busy relocating her libido, she’d missed the signal.

  Oh.

  And surely, when she turned around to find out whose hand was attached to that bat, things were gonna go all kaplooey.

  CHAPTER

  14

  An apt description of kaplooey could surely be described as facing the barrel of a gun, no?

  Jeannie stared at the black hole of Victor’s pistol, remembering vaguely what Marty had said about finding her kryptonite. Unwilling to find out if her personal kryptonite was bullets, she instead fought the swarm of bubbling fear in her gut and remained still.

  Victor jammed a needle, most likely filled with a sedative, into Sloan’s neck with a grunt while he held her at gunpoint.

  He wasn’t the man he had once been, and it wasn’t just age that had changed him. No longer lean and well muscled, now he was simply gaunt and lacked definition. His movements were jerky and stuttered. His once beautiful raven hair now hung in greasy strands around his face and straggled down to his shoulders.

  Strangely, her temper flared.

  Here we are again, Jeannie. You helpless. Him with a big, big gun.

  Fuck, fuck, and bigger fuck.

  “Move,” he snarled, jamming the gun in the direction of the dark void she’d just peered into before ramming it into her back. The barrel drove between her shoulder blades and right through her thick winter coat. As they walked, she noted her surroundings. The stench of booze. Fast-food wrappers littering the path they took. A picture of her pasted to the cement wall. A picture of the old Charlie before plastic surgery and the unwilling abortion of her baby.

  He’d been living here. Waiting.

  Before she had the chance to let that sink in, her ear cocked to the tune of whimpers and a low growl.

  Betzi. It was Betzi, and she was pissed.

  That was the growl she used when a client had complained her corn bread biscuits were too dry. It was the sound she’d used when Jeannie had told her she’d have to learn to love making hot dogs for children’s events because foie gras in a foot-long bun glazed with a garlic butter wash wasn’t just messy, but wasn’t going to cut it with the kiddies. It was the growl she used when Jeannie had told her she couldn’t have the day off so she could scope couples yoga for men who wanted a little some-some on the side.

  It had never occurred to her that Betzi would be in any danger. Jesus, why hadn’t that occurred to her? Of all the people she thought Victor would go after, they were all people who’d been in his organization—or the family members of the victims who were shot. They might not have talked back then, but he was going to ensure they never even considered it.

  But taking out those people wouldn’t hurt her the way it would if she lost the only people who were even a little involved in her new life.

  And he wanted her to hurt. She’d taken down his whole operation in one fell swoop and sent him into hiding for twelve years. That he was this dedicated to finding her said something about the kind of sick rage Victor harbored.

  Victor dragged Sloan’s big body behind him, limp and heavy, his leather jacket scraping against the hard cement floor.

  She stole a breath, forcing air into her lungs. Sloan wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. She knew that. He’d said it would take a silver bullet. So whatever Victor had jammed into his veins, it wouldn’t kill him. Because he had eternal life.

 
; And if Victor were to turn that gun on her, she also had eternal life. So all she had to do was get him away from Betzi. Nekaar had said so.

  Right?

  Oh, God, her memory was so bad. Please, please be right.

  When they arrived at their destination, a huge room that had probably once been used as storage, with only the sway of a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, Jeannie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming her horror.

  He didn’t just have Betzi. He had Charlene, too.

  Go big or go home, motherfucker.

  Charlene sat back-to-back with Betzi in a huddle in the corner. They were tied together in a mass of duct tape and rope, bound at the ankles and wrists. Their mouths were taped shut, too. The silver gag on Betzi’s mouth flapped at the edges, and an angry patch of red had formed just above her upper lip where Victor had probably yanked it off in order to force Betzi to call Jeannie’s name.

  Charlene’s mouth puffed outward with the need for air. Her brown tweed skirt was torn, her shirt dark with blood. Her sleek blonde hair, usually smooth and capping her head, was mussed and sticking up at odd angles. Her fashionable, yet practical, glasses hung off her nose crookedly. But her eyes . . . Oh, her eyes were filled with defiance. She was angry, and that was good. Jeannie was going to need to harness some of that if they were going to survive.

  Betzi, as dark as Charlene was light, arms bound behind her, clenched her fists so tightly the veins in her hands bulged. Her fair skin held a faint red tint to it at the cheeks, almost matching her sweatshirt. A thin line of blood dripped from the corner of her eye where Victor had clearly hit her.

  Probably with his big, bad gun. Victor was nothing without his gun, and he loved a good pistol-whipping. A flash of light, followed by a startlingly clear vision ricocheted in her mind’s eye, one of Victor bringing the butt of the gun down on her face over and over.

  It was as clear as if it was happening to her right now. So stunningly real she had to close her eyes and shake her head.

  The sound of Victor dumping Sloan in the corner, letting his head fall unprotected against the wall, drove her from her recollection with a jolt. Her instant reaction was to run to him, cradle his head in her hands. But she knew if she showed even a little sympathy for Sloan, if Victor were to see her feelings in her eyes, he’d do something drastic.