Wicked Magic Page 2

  Even though she’d be twenty-one in a few days—more than legal—he wasn’t about to risk his alpha status for a rough and tumble bout of sex—no matter how badly he wanted to feel her beneath him. Sam moved gracefully behind the bar and he couldn’t look away from her. She’d pulled her long brown hair up, leaving her bared neck vulnerable. The bruising imprint of his teeth would look good against her pale skin.

  Beads of sweat dampened the fine hairs at her nape and he had more than a passing urge to lick her dry. Dark lashes framed her sultry green eyes, casting shadows over her brow. The tight black tank she wore accentuated her creamy, smooth-as-silk skin. Her tits were small, perky and made his mouth water. Her lips—full, berry-red and made for sin—were what signed his death warrant.

  He traced her every move as she worked to fill drinks, flash smiles and pause every so often to laugh at one of the men she’d charmed. As if she’d somehow felt the heat of his gaze over the sweltering, humid air that hung heavy in the bar, she turned and looked at him. His cock swelled uncomfortably in his jeans. She flashed a sexy grin that had a single dimple denting her right cheek. His heart kicked up a notch at the mere thought of her lips and how they’d feel wrapped around his dick.

  Fuck. He wasn’t going there.

  Why was Sam working anyway? She shouldn’t have been there, not on a Sunday. To make room for his rock-hard erection, he adjusted his legs and misjudged how much clearance he had. His knee slammed into the corner of the table and sent starbursts of prickling pain down to his toes.

  “Fuck me,” he growled.

  The table rocked, teetering on uneven legs. Beer sloshed from his frosted mug and landed on the scuffed wood surface. Gravity took over. The spilled brew raced to the edge of the table, its intended target, his crotch. Shit. Dulled reflexes kicked in and he shot back as if his ass were on fire. The drops intended for his jeans splattered to the ground, kicking up to speckle the thick black soles of his boots. The continuous splat, splat, splat of dripping beer sounded like BBs bouncing off a tin roof.

  He rubbed his sore knee and drew in a deep breath to help rein in his temper.

  Sam’s birthday was in three days, November first. Five years ago, around this time of year, he’d stumbled home drunk as a fucking skunk after his fiancée had dumped him for his best friend to find Sam—the sexy little witch who’d been about two years too young—naked in his bedroom. He closed his eyes and chugged the rest of his thick, frothy beer, trying to banish the sight of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the dark thatch of her curls covering her pussy. Her smell—sweet, innocent and mixed with honey—had affected him as no other woman’s had. But she’d been a girl, a virgin and most importantly, a damn witch, something his dad had made sure to warn him about.

  They look pretty, smell nice, but unless you want to wind up owned and castrated, find another pussy to dip your dick into. You’ve got a duty, son. You want to keep that Monroe girl safe, do it from afar. Let ’Miah have her.

  Trent slammed his empty glass back to the table and the lingering liquid on the surface splattered his face, waking him up some.

  Yeah. He was going to need something stronger tonight.

  Though the sun had set hours ago, the heat of the day was only starting to submit to the darkness. Even the fan above didn’t stop the trickle of sweat trailing along his spine. The trapped air inside the tavern was humid and stale—almost like a coffin. He wished someone would open the damn door.

  It seemed as if every shifter in town was celebrating the pain-in-the-ass, soon-to-be holiday, Samhain for some, Halloween for others, at the Watering Hole. This time of year brought out the crazies and made his job ten times harder than it needed to be. His ears ached from the drunken hum of conversation. With each empty glass returned to the various tables, the overall volume rose. The jukebox had long ago spun to life and cranked out a drift of country rock that made everything more jumbled. Being a shape shifter was good for many things. Crowded, enclosed spaces weren’t one of them.

  Trying to adopt an indifferent pose, he lounged back in his seat and tuned out the sounds around him. One elbow lay on the back of his chair while the other rested on the table, fingering the handle of his empty mug. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, this time to the side. He glanced around the bar, forcing his gaze not to stray to the counter or the woman behind it.

  Beside him, he sized up a raucous group of bikers at the adjacent table. His cop senses told him they were nothing but trouble. They were dressed in studded leather, their jackets sporting wolf insignias silhouetted in a full moon. The crackling energy of their beasts stirred his jaguar to life. He listened in disgust as they bragged about their latest conquest. Laughter rang out, followed by a chorus of cheers and a toast that forced liquid from their glasses and doused the table.

  Despite the faded signs hanging all over the walls that read “No Shifting on the Premises”, he was ready to say fuck it. He had the law on his side. Even though the full moon was days away, he wouldn’t have a problem changing forms. It took someone with a lot of power to shift outside of the full moon. The strength inside him surged, and he flexed his fingers in an attempt to control himself. The more they boasted, the more annoyed he became. Did it really matter which one of them had fucked the Tallahassee pack master’s daughter? Whoever in the hell that was. This was Missouri, his domain, and they were all assholes. Though he’d be outnumbered six to one, the fight he was spoiling for would almost have been worth it. Almost.

  Pushing the feline back inside hurt more than he would have liked to admit. His eyes burned from the combination of smoke, lack of sleep and one too many beers. He tried to blink the pain away. It didn’t help. Sweet, feminine laughter penetrated over the noise of the room and moved straight through him. As if someone twisted his intestines, his stomach tightened in a knot. He lost the battle with his self-control and looked to the bar positioned at the back of the long, rectangular room packed to capacity with too-full tables taking up every available inch of space.

  Jeremiah had his elbows resting on the bar and his back slouched so his shoulders stuck up in the air. Even when he was sitting, his younger brother towered over everyone else. ’Miah had inherited thin, long legs and golden-brown hair that mopped across his forehead from their mother. His hair matched the shade of his eyes almost perfectly.

  Him? He’d gotten an unruly flock of dark curls. It wasn’t his hair or height that made him and his brother so different. It was the traits his father passed to him—blue eyes, a stubborn streak two miles wide and a territory of bloodthirsty animals to keep in line. It was a crappy job, but someone had to do it. Humans, while tolerant of the two-natured, had no business policing them.

  His brother flashed an innocent, boyish grin at Sam, something he’d been doing since the asshole could smile. He said something—God only knew what—that made Sam still the rag in her hand on the cup she was drying. Her eyes brightened and the corners of her lips curved. An ache moved through Trent’s chest, down his stomach and grabbed hold of his balls. His palm sweated against the table. When she smiled like she was right then, it did wicked-fierce things to his libido.

  A flickering orange light flashed in his peripheral view. Curling smoke added to the haze. He had no problem seeing through the fog. Sam bit her lower lip. The action might have stifled her laughter but it didn’t stop the sparkle of repressed humor in her eyes. It was all he could do to keep distance between them.

  Fucking hell she was sexy. Apparently, his brother—who swore he and Sam were just friends—thought so too. Jeremiah drew his elbows across the counter and leaned close to whisper something in her ear. He used one long finger to push a strand of hair behind her ear, tickling her skin as he went. Bastard.

  Trent leaned forward, as if getting closer would help him eavesdrop. Jeremiah’s lips moved, but the room was too loud, even with enhanced hearing, for him to know what his brother whispered.

  Sam narrowed her eyes and a crease appeared along her f
orehead. She shook her head twice in quick succession. The hand she’d been using to bring the chain of her silver necklace back and forth across her neck stilled. She dropped the round, quarter-sized pentagram and the medallion settled between her breasts. Now that her hands were free, she pressed against Jeremiah’s shoulder and pushed him across the bar and back into his chair.

  Through the myriad sounds of the room, the beat of her tapping her foot rang clear, a sign he was entirely too in tune with her. A sharp crack of magic whipped through the room with her irritation. He looked around, waiting for the crowd’s reaction. No one stopped to look. Some days he thought he was the only one who could feel what made her so damn special. The room’s sounds muffled, muted by her magic, and her next words reached him as if she’d spoken directly to him.

  “You tell him, ’Miah,” she growled, “and I swear to God I’ll find some way to kill you myself. I don’t care what you shift into.”

  In tandem, Sam and Jeremiah turned to look in his direction. What in the hell were they up to? Thick as thieves, those two had been friends since diapers. The thought, good or bad, made his jaw tight. Eyes still focused on the pair, he brought the mug to his lips and tilted it up. Nothing happened. He pulled the glass away with a frown and looked into the thin ring of foam lining the bottom of the cup. Empty. Damn, he needed a refill.

  Halfheartedly, he peered through the throngs of tables in search of Brenda. Tall, with bright red hair and gigantic tits, the waitress normally wasn’t too hard to find. Tonight she’d donned a pussy cat costume—ironic as hell. When he didn’t spot her, he glanced back to the bar. Watching Jeremiah flirt was painful—when he did it with Sam, it was torture. The bastard knew Trent had a thing for her. His brother also knew he had no intention of doing anything about it. Being Area Enforcer—a suped-up cop—wasn’t a crappy job, it was a death sentence.

  Sam cupped the edge of the bar and leaned into it with her shoulders. She pushed her back out in a languid stretch. Light danced off the delicate tanned curve of her shoulder and the graceful line of her neck. She meant nothing provocative by it, but his swelling cock disagreed. She looked up and met his eyes. The heat of her gaze sent another trickle of sweat down the line of his spine.

  Soft and caressing, the magic deeply rooted in her veins moved along his cheek. It felt as if her fingers were rasping through the stubble covering his jaw. It was cool, seductive and a little bit frightening.

  Sam’s eyes softened, crinkling ever so slightly at the corners when they met his. On anyone else, that look would have said, “It’s nice to see you”. On her, it translated to, “Where the hell have you been?”

  He’d been avoiding her altogether ever since he’d watched her suck face with a loser—the same dickhead who’d slapped her—she’d called her boyfriend. Trent had broken the guy’s jaw before carting him off and throwing him in a jail cell. Whoops. Luckily for him, there was no such thing as excessive force when it came to other shifters. He had two rules, if they were in human form they got cuffed and detained. In shifter form, well, there were no regulations.

  Today was Sam’s day off, coming here was supposed to be safe. It was the only reason he’d let his brother drag him away from their house cluttered with empty takeout boxes and beer bottles. By the grace of God, he’d managed twenty-three days without seeing her, hearing her voice echoing in his head or feeling her magic gyrate against him.

  It was too hard to sit in a bar, watching the woman he was in lust with flirt with every asshole who took a seat in her domain. As fast as his metabolism was, the buzz he worked so hard at drowning himself in faded too fast for him to pretend lust was the only thing he felt for her. His intent to keep his balls intact was fading fast.

  The crackling, soul-splitting energy the other shifters gave off didn’t fade as easily. Drunk or sober, the energy buzzed around his head like a hive of bees. This close to the full moon his cat paced restlessly inside him, desperate to show its dominance, anxious to break free from the cage he kept it locked in.

  Through the haze of alcohol and shifters, the press of Sam’s magic was as unmistakable as the pentagram she always wore. He didn’t think she realized she was projecting. If he ever let himself get close enough, he’d ask her. A glass shattered against the floor, drawing him out of his thoughts and he looked around. It wasn’t often the full moon corresponded with Halloween, every nineteen years to be exact, and all the wackos were out. The bar was definitely fuller than usual, a sign he should probably stop drinking in case trouble broke out—that was what the police department paid him for.

  Passed down through her family, Sam’s bar was what he called a neutral zone—a place where different packs and species could intermingle. Humans who weren’t sensitive to the supernatural didn’t understand shifters, nor did they want to. Some shifters got off on the buzz he was feeling. Trent wished it would go away. He wished Sam and his sappy-as-hell feelings would go away too.

  He must have been staring too long, because Sam flashed him a half-tilted grin. His heart melted at the flush coloring her cheeks. It made him wonder if her skin got that same rosy hue when she climaxed. Too bad he was never going to get to find out—maybe he’d ask Jeremiah if he knew.

  Jesus. Was he that desperate?

  Sam clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rolled her eyes at him, as if she’d read his mind. Hell, for all he knew, she could. It was a scary thought. There was a lot he didn’t know about witches. Something was brewing. He felt it. He’d never seen her eyes look darker or more inviting. He’d bet his money it had something to do with Samhain, the witches’ new year. The jaguar prowled to the surface, anxious to be close to her, to feel her magic stroking through his fur. He might have been an alpha male, but his feline had a soft spot for the twenty-something brunette. He was damn near helpless to deny her anything.

  A tight, uncomfortable sensation moved through his stomach. His heart raced. It was annoying Sam had this effect on him. She’d done something different to her hair. Bangs that didn’t used to be there slanted off to the side, long enough so they brushed the arch of her eyebrows.

  Almost her exact opposite in both personality and looks, Brenda sauntered in through the back door, wearing a skirt short enough to flash whoever was looking when she bent over. The stench of sex that rolled off her was more potent than the booze or the cigarettes. She pressed against the bar and pushed her back out to draw attention to the curve of her ass. Brenda brought a finger to the corner of her swollen ruby lips and delicately dabbed, as if she were wiping something away. A second later, one of the bikers, who belonged to the table of assholes next to him, entered from the same door and walked past her.

  Brenda turned her head to the side and caught his gaze. He winked, grabbed his crotch and then thanked her. Classy. Well, at least the pack could check off banging the pack master’s daughter in Missouri. Sam made a rude sound in the back of her throat that, for some reason, he could still hear despite the background noise. The natural pout to Brenda’s mouth curved into a smirk.

  “I see you’re still giving rim jobs in the back.” Sam grinned and threw a dishrag over her shoulder. “You know I’m not paying you extra for that, right?”

  Trent crossed his arms over his chest and nestled into his chair. No matter how piss-poor a mood he was in, their banter was always entertaining. If they weren’t roommates and best friends, he might have worried one of them would push it too far.

  “Please, honey, you wouldn’t know what a rim job was if one bit you on the ass. You’ve got no idea what a real man wants.” Brenda wiggled her chest.

  Sam poured a series of shots and uncorked half a dozen longnecks in a matter of seconds. As soon as they touched the bar, Brenda scooped them up and put them on a tray. They worked well together.

  “Hmm.” Sam paused, pressed a finger against her lips and leaned her hip against the bar. Back and forth, she drew her necklace against her neck. “What’s that saying? No one’s going to buy the milk when the
y can get the cow for free.”

  Brenda shook her head. Her lips twitched and it was obvious how much effort it was taking not to smile. Balancing the tray high above her head, she turned and gave Sam a faux glare. The waitress moved through the bar and did everything from dropping off drinks to flashing her breasts as she bent. The only thing she didn’t do was drop off a refill at his table.

  Plan B. Trent held his empty mug in the air, then caught Sam’s gaze and pointed. The slow, devious smirk she gave him made his cock, which had deflated some, instantly hard. She mouthed, Get it your damn self, you lazy drunk.

  When she turned and went for the bottle of whiskey on the top shelf, he tried to suppress the lovesick feelings he was experiencing. Easier said than done. As she extended her arm, her tight tank top crept up. Inch by inch, the delicious curve of her hip and the small of her back were revealed. Out from the bottom of her shirt peeked a curved blue line. He’d never realized she had a tattoo there before.

  When someone mentioned Sam’s name, his ears twitched. He narrowed in on the table next to him. It was obvious he wasn’t the only one enjoying the view. The bikers’ lewd conversation had shifted from Brenda to Sam and how her itty-bitty-titties would fit in their mouths. They were actually taking bets on how long she’d last if they screwed her in the midst of a change.

  A low, feral growl vibrated his chest. She was his.

  He rose from his chair, the legs of the table scraping the floor as he pushed it out of his way. He let a fraction of his power leak out into the room. The noise around him stopped. As enforcer, he had a reputation that wasn’t just handed down to him. No, he’d earned his respect and he had the scars to prove it. He had a nagging feeling he was about to add a few more to the list.

  Slamming his palms against the bikers’ table, he leaned forward enough so the shiny badge attached to his jeans would be visible. He bared human teeth. The table teetered, knocking a longneck to the ground with a crash.