Wicked Magic Read Free

girl.” His voice had rumbled
low with rage even though his cock had been hard against her tummy. “Go home
and play with your dolls.”The final insult, the fear, had driven her
away in tears. If he’d wanted her, why be an ass about it?
    Ugh. Damn him for making her remember. As the years
had ticked by and she’d searched for a different familiar, her thoughts always
strayed back to Trent and the heated looks he gave her when he thought she
wasn’t looking. She hadn’t approached him again though. He’d gone back to
mostly ignoring her, policing the county and notching up his bedpost while she
watched from afar, wanting what she couldn’t have.
    This was the night she had to try again. One more time
because apparently she was a masochist. No more stalling. In two days, the
stars would align, the Samhain festivities would begin and she’d have
everything she needed to inherit the magic of her ancestors. Assuming, that
was, Trent didn’t hammer the final nail in her coffin. God, would she survive
it if he told her no again?

Chapter Two
     
    Trenton Gregory stared across the crowded, smoky bar and
glared at the woman he’d vowed never to touch. Witches—rumor had it—stole your
independence with some crazy voodoo shit that left you neutered. As a man, he
valued his freedom almost as much as he did his balls. Too bad she was the same
woman he craved with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He’d known Sam
her entire life. From birth, to childhood, through her awkward teen years and
then later in life, when she’d become the woman half the men and all the boys
in town jacked off to—including him.
    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