Don't Hex and Drive

This was no fly-by fascination. This was hardcore witchery. Oddly, she wasn’t flirting or being overtly friendly or doing anything other women have done to lure me in. She was simply being her lovely self.

“Tell me, what is it you have against cars?”

Her smile morphed into that serious expression, the same one she’d worn when she conjured up lettuce nutrition facts. “Cars are dangerous.”

I laughed, which caused her to frown. “And bicycles are safer?”

“Yes, they are. Did you know that over one million people die every year in car accidents?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Stop laughing at me. It’s over three thousand per day.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to ride with Ruben the other night to the hospital?”

“Yes.” She sipped her drink again, avoiding my gaze. “But I know if anyone’s a safe driver, it’s probably Ruben. I was right. He was a very careful driver.”

“I’m a safe driver.”

She huffed a laugh. “Do I need to remind you that you hit me with your car?”

I leaned forward on the table, not bothered by that little fact at all. “But I had been driving for a day and a half straight. And it was quite dark. And you have to admit, you were wearing dark clothing.”

“You’re right,” she agreed after a moment.

“Though it pains me to have hurt you in any way, I have to admit I’m quite happy that I did hit you that night,” I said, letting my voice drop low. “Not that I hit you, just that I met you.”

Her blush darkened her cheeks again while she stared down, stirring her Bloody Mary. She bit her lip, and I couldn’t help but notice how her lower lip was quite full. Much more than her upper.

“So you don’t drive at all?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I have a passport for travel and identification.”

“You never even got your license?” This was unreal. I’d never heard of an adult not getting a driver’s license.

“No need.” She shrugged.

Our waiter delivered our appetizer, postponing my interrogation. I watched her face when she noticed the lettuce sprinkled around the fried oysters was arugula. She looked at me with an appreciative smile, and there it went again. My pulse tripled just from making her smile. There’d been a lot of things that made my pulse quicken over the ages, but a woman’s smile hadn’t been one of them. Till now.

“Dive in.” I gestured for her to go first.

I enjoyed watching her smearing her oyster in the tomato jam and sugarcane vinegar. I tried not to stare at her mouth, but it was kind of impossible. I decided to move on to a subject that had been nagging at me since the night we went to the hospital.

“So why aren’t you dating? Finding a man to fill certain needs instead of Big John?”

“That’s kind of personal.” She forked another oyster onto her serving plate with a small pile of arugula.

“I don’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you do,” she said with a tilt of the head and a casual smile.

“I can’t help it. I’m naturally curious about you.”

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and took a sip of water, avoiding my gaze for a few seconds. “I don’t know. I don’t date much.”

Very closed off about that. Okay. “Who was the last guy you dated?”

I expected her to shut me down and veer to another conversation, but she surprised me.

“A witch from Metairie. We dated a little while.” She shrugged that same shoulder, bringing my gaze to the curve of exposed skin. It looked so soft. I bet it was.

“He wasn’t a nice guy?”

“No. He was nice. Very nice.”

“Your enthusiasm is so convincing,” I goaded sarcastically.

She smiled. “Honestly? I just got bored.”

“So no sparks in the sack?”

“Devraj,” she hissed under her breath, glancing over her shoulder at the only other couple out here who were far too engrossed in their mimosas and conversation to hear us. “That’s none of your business.”

“I’m just curious. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.” I tried for nonchalance, hoping she’d open up.

Even though a wave of pink splotched her chest and neck, she decided to anyway, much to my delight.

“It’s just that I’m a private person, and I’m very particular about who I date and who I allow in my bed.” She couldn’t look me in the eye, but she went on. “Sometimes it’s just easier to rely on myself.” She sipped her Bloody Mary again before adding matter-of-factly, “I can take care of myself just fine.”

She meant take care of her own pleasure just fine. My pants grew tighter while I imagined taking care of her in my own way.

“I’m sure you can.” The waiter cleared the table and set down her house salad. While she busied herself mixing the greens and dressing, I leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “But I’d like to apply for the job.”

She laughed before taking a bite, then looked across the table, her smile slipping when she realized I wasn’t kidding around. Damn. I really needed to adjust my crotch, but I didn’t want her to know quite how arousing I found this conversation.

She examined me while she chewed, then arched a brow. “I imagine you think you could do better than Big John,” she teased, trying to lighten the heaviness hovering between us. But I wasn’t ready to let this go. Not even close.

“Maybe not. He could join the party if you like.” I licked my lips before whispering intimately, “Actually, I think that would be a fantastic idea.”

For a split second, a flash of both surprise and excitement crossed her features. The tell-tale blush coloring her cheeks, neck, and chest proved she was definitely thinking about my offer.

She sipped her water and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “You’re being serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly.” I held her gaze, green eyes swamping with heat. “Give me one night, and I’ll prove it to you.

She busied herself with her salad, and I let her eat in peace. I wanted her to mull over our conversation, hoping she might come to the conclusion I truly was being serious. She had that skeptical look in her eye, glancing at me between bites, both of us watching the passersby below in between watching each other.

When the waiter cleared away the plates for the appetizers and set our main course down, she hummed in appreciation. She truly was a sensual creature. The delight in her eyes and widening of her smile expressed her pleasure before she’d even taken a bite. Yet again, I wondered what it might be like to be the cause of her pleasure.

“Would you like a bite?” she asked, as I watched her eat like a starving man. Little did she know, I wasn’t starving for her food.

“Sure.”

She pushed her plate across the table for me to reach. Lifting my untouched fork, I took a bite of her shrimp and grits.

“Very good. Would you like to try mine?”

“Even Jules’s fancy French toast doesn’t look that good.”

I cut a bite with my fork. “It’s the blueberry Bourbon syrup. Prepare to be wowed.” I held the bite across the table for her to take.

She frowned at my attempt to share a bite from my fork. I wiggled my fork and raised my eyebrows. Honestly, I was one hundred percent positive she was going to refuse to eat from my own hand, but I liked pushing her buttons. I prepared for a snappy protest, but then she leaned forward and opened her mouth.

Bloody hell.

I slid the bite inside and watched as she chewed and licked the syrup off her lips.

That was a really bad idea. I could barely breathe, wanting to lean across and taste the syrup from her mouth.

“You’re right. I’m wowed.” Then she continued eating her meal like she hadn’t just punched me in the gut with an explosion of lust.

We were quiet a little while. Her enjoying her meal. Me wanting to pull her across the table into my lap and eat her for my next meal.

Oh, fuck.

My tongue licked over my extended canines. I sure as hell didn’t need her to notice that lapse of control. And I didn’t need to be imagining what she tasted like because I was positive she wasn’t up for being my next blood host.

To be fair to myself, I hadn’t taken a new blood host since I’d arrived. As an older vampire, I could go a month or more without drinking blood to rejuvenate my magic and supernatural strength. It had been only two weeks, but that didn’t seem to matter. I craved the woman sitting across the table like mad.

“That’s a very unique bracelet,” she said, gazing at the gold cuff embedded with gold and black beads that I rarely ever took off.

“Thank you.” Wiping my mouth, I took a sip of water and pushed away my plate. It took a moment for me to force my canines to recede, but my control was something every Stygorn prided themselves on. Still, I was no longer hungry for food, my stomach tight with an unfamiliar knot of tension. “I made it from my mother’s mangalsutra.”

She finished eating and sat back in her chair, eyeing me curiously before studying the bracelet. “What is that?”

My heart clenched at the sudden flash of memory. My sweet mother and her sad eyes.

“A mangalsutra is a sacred wedding necklace in our tradition. A groom gives it to his bride.” Interesting that I’d had others admire this particular piece of jewelry and ask me about it, but I’d never bothered explaining to them what it meant. Perhaps I didn’t think they’d understand its importance or I didn’t care to open up this particular pain. But for some reason, I found myself explaining everything to Isadora. “It was my father’s promise to my mother that they would always be together. That they’d be protected from evil. In our tradition, a wife wears it until her husband’s death.”

She must’ve seen something in my expression because her own softened with sympathy. “And how long did your mother wear the necklace?”