In the Company of Witches

It was a ridiculous reaction. They’d likely all seen Raina naked. Hell, maybe they had sex demon orgies on slow days. He wasn’t an overly possessive male. While he was fucking a woman, no one else was, but when he was done, he was done, and she was free to do whatever with whomever. So this was a unique feeling.



Having other males around her—excessively sexually motivated ones—goaded some primitive instincts he was unable to quell, even by mocking himself. Doesn’t matter. You’re still thinking of tearing the dick off the next one who walks through that garden.



She didn’t take new clients, but she had a small, exclusive group for whom she was available when they requested her. He’d heard that from her staff. She damn well better not have one while he was here, because he was going to be inside of her every night. Probably mornings and afternoons as well.



He shook himself out of it. Lord and Lady, in a minute he was going to swing from her clematis vine and beat his chest. She was giving him an odd look, so he slouched down in the chair, stretched out his legs even farther to the right of the table, rehooking his ankles. With a smile oddly more shy than coquettish, she slid her feet out of her heels. He’d noticed she didn’t much care for wearing shoes, but then, witches could be like that. She was wearing stockings today, but he knew her feet were soft and silky smooth. Last night, he’d put his lips on them more than once, teasing the arches and the tips of the painted toes, caressing the ankles with hands and mouth.



Now she put those soft feet on his thighs, and he found it easy to rest his arm on her ankles, hooking his fingers under her arch as he stared at the cards, only half seeing them. He’d had easy moments with his one-night lovers, because casual sex came with casual day-after behavior. This was unique, though, this comfortable silence, no hurry to be anywhere or do anything other than be in her company. It didn’t even have anything to do with the pending arrival of Isaac’s demon.



She won the next hand, probably because of his lack of attention. “The shoes,” she said.



He toed off the Italian loafers. Next hand, he gained back ground. He wanted the shirt completely open, framing her breasts. He brushed her hands aside, did it himself, making her keep her hands on the chair arms while he did it. Her breath on his forehead was enough to make him want to lift his attention to the luscious mouth, but instead, once he’d opened the cashmere, arranged it around the sumptuous offering of her naked breasts, he made himself sit back, recross his ankles without indulging a single touch, though he could feel her yearning as sharp and potent as his own. He really should have worn slacks, because the denim was starting to cut like a son of a bitch.



“I seem to be winning so far,” he noted. “But I think you’re holding back.”



“Could be. Scared?”



“Petrified,” he said, deadpan. “Can’t you tell?”



Those full lips curved, and he could vividly imagine them wrapped around his cock, particularly when she moistened them with the tip of her tongue and blinked those mink lashes at him. “Your stoic routine isn’t fooling me,” she said in that bedroom voice. “You’re shaking in your custom-tailored one hundred percent cotton boxer shorts. Which, by the way, I’m looking forward to seeing you strip off.”



HE DIDN’T GAIN AS MUCH GROUND OVER THE NEXT hour as he expected. She was a damn deft player, in judgment, bluffing, losing, recouping. However, at last he had her stripped down to stockings. He had his reasons for holding off on the bondage options he’d insisted on integrating. For one thing, her anticipation and trepidation about it just intensified the perfume of that succubus energy. For another, before he started tying her up, he wanted her in just those stockings. It tested the hell out of his control, however.



She had her legs crossed, not in modesty, but to display her legs and titillate the imagination as to the treasure between them. Clothed in her stockings and long hair, she carried off being naked with grace and beauty, not vulgar commonality. It made her touchable and untouchable at once. Had she lived centuries before, she would have been a mistress to kings, a geisha in demand by the emperor himself.



He was well aware he lost the next couple hands—and his socks—because of it. Now she was considering her next option, drawing out the tension in her own unique way. Since she was eyeing the straining denim like a cat contemplating cream, he’d bet he was about to get some relief. At least from the jeans.



“All I want this round is…this.” Touching his bare abdomen, she slid her fingers down to the waistband of the jeans. When she hooked beneath it, he held his position, leaned back in the chair, watching those deft fingers slip the top button. She stopped there, though, letting her sharp nails glide over the fly, following his erect length on the outside before she sat back. She opened another chocolate now, sucking on the sweet as she regarded his still-confined cock. He imagined spilling the whiskey over her breasts and sucking the bitter taste off her flesh.



“I don’t think we talked about touching,” he noted.



“It was just along the way.”



“You keep staring, you’ll be on your back on these cards, and I’ll be buried inside that sweet pussy of yours.”



“Not likely. It’s a challenge to you now. Seeing how crazy we can drive one another.”



“How am I doing?”



Those green-gold eyes glittered. “You know exactly how aroused I am, Mikhael.”



He tapped his losing hand. “Why the socks?” he asked.



She tilted her head, those lips curving. “The sexiest man in the world still looks ridiculous in only a pair of socks. I’d rather have the socks go first, and leave the jeans on until the last possible moment, because jeans on the right body”—her eyes coursed over him—“can be as stimulating as the man beneath, and both should be savored.” She arched a brow. “I expect you understand that, as much care as you’ve taken to slowly unwrap me.”



She was right, but there was another reason. He had an end goal, and it relied on precise timing. Despite the feminine power she was demonstrating, he was facing a wild, beautiful creature who’d been damaged when it came to this particular vital treasure in her makeup. He was going to be the first male who enjoyed it the way it was meant to be enjoyed, treating her as she should be treated.



It sharpened his resolve. He won the next hand, and when he did, he left his cards on the table. “Left wrist, tied to the chair.”



She was left-handed. He’d chosen the dominant hand deliberately. “I assume you keep restraints, somewhere?”



He saw the brief flash of uncertainty, quickly schooled to that same indifferent look. “In the cabinet, over there. Not conjuring silver chain this time?”



“No. Not this time.” Rising, he found nylon rope that would satisfy his purposes. Normally, he would have ordered her to go get the restraints, bring them back and place them in his hands. Her Master’s hands. But he knew what was going on beneath the surface of that practiced faint smile she still had glued to her face. She knew he saw through it, but still she kept her shields in place. That touched him, made him do what he did next.



As he’d been searching for the rope, in the corner of his eye he’d seen her move her hand to the chair arm, a little bit of a hesitant jerk to the motion, the fingers tight on the wood. When he returned she’d forced it to relax, forced her body to relax. Meeting her gaze briefly, he wound the rope around her wrist, three, four turns. Then he dropped to one knee, pressed his lips to her knuckles. Her fingers flexed, another sign of uncertainty, and he glanced up at her, his lips still on her hand. There was something raw in her expression, so he turned his cheek, rubbed his five o’clock shadow against her fair skin, tickling her and making her smile, though that bright, unstable look was still there.



“Easy,” he murmured.



She took a breath. “This is going to make it difficult to deal.”



“You’ve done all the dealing until now. I can share some of the load.”



She pursed her lips. “About time you did something useful.”



“I’ll see if I can’t improve my value to you.”



On his next winning hand, he chose a touch, payback for her caress when she’d unbuttoned his jeans. He slid a knuckle down her sternum, the pleasurable valley between those generous breasts. He watched them heave on a quick, shuddering breath. If she’d still worn the bra, one that was front-closing, he would have flicked that fastener, watched the cups ease their hold, the breasts swell outward. He traced the curve, but didn’t touch the nipple, no matter how much a temptation the stimulated jut of it was.



“Still want to keep playing?” he asked in a low tone. “Want to quit?”



“Not on your life,” she said, though she had to clear her throat first. “I think you’re taking more liberties with your touch than I did.”



“Damn right.”



She sniffed, but a tiny smile bloomed, something almost girlish. He’d like to see that one more often. Though he put 110 percent into every effort, because that was how to be effective, this was immersion for the sake of the moment, instead of the end goal, and that was unique for him.



As he sat back and began to deal again, he was already anticipating having her fully tied, fully helpless. Hearing her scream out multiple climaxes. When he finally thrust into her, he was going to explode. He’d never been so hard in his life.



10



PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL. THE BIBLICAL REMINDER should have been tattooed across her ass. He hadn’t gotten on a winning streak since that last, tempting touch.



She was an expert card hustler, giving her opponent the idea he was winning, giving him confidence—before she basically cleaned his clock. What was more, he knew she wasn’t cheating. She was just that damn good. Obviously, she’d played games of chance for quite a while. On her very first winning hand, she chose to have her hand freed.



He was carrying two knives on his person. To underscore how soundly she was beating him, she counted each one as an additional item of clothing, removing those and still leaving the jeans in place. Then she chose the option of winning back her clothing, one frustrating piece at a time, though seeing her don it was almost as provocative as seeing her take it off. Watching her put on the bra in the same order she’d taken it off, working it under the thin shirt, could make a man’s mouth water, that lift of curves, the adjustment, the slide of her fingers over herself, visible through the fabric.