Page 24 of Waltzing With Witches

Morgan’s already there, examining the balls as she curses me under her breath.

I can hear her. And she knows I can hear her. Which means she’s either that distracted, or she wants me to know precisely what she thinks of me at this moment. Sneaking across the floor, I stop right behind her, watching goose bumps rise along the surface of her pale skin. She whirls in place, squeaking when she discovers me standing right there. Her arms windmill, and she leaps backward but hits the ball rack and teeters.

The scents of fury and fear bloom in the air, spiking my senses and forcing my teeth from my gums. I surge forward, wrapping one hand around her pretty neck and the other around her waist. When I return her to a standing position, I expect her to claw at my fingers or spit venom. I expect her to fight.

But instead, her black pupils eat up the gunmetal gray of her irises. Her pulse flutters wildly under my fingers, her muscles trembling. All prey signals, technically. Also indicative of arousal. Her fingers tighten around my forearms.

I squeeze her throat tighter, the breath rasping from between plump crimson lips.

Her heart rate accelerates until it’s pounding hard against her chest, which rises and falls to brush mine. I let my gaze drop to high, full breasts. Would her nipples be the same dark color as her lips? A sudden ache takes residence in my gut, my cock hardening, lengthening within the confines of my slacks.

I pull Morgan closer, my hungry gaze roving over her breasts, her neck, her shoulders, her chin—all places I’d like to tease and taste.

This is not logical, nor is it useful. This is—

Reality crashes over me like a bucketful of cold water. I just told her we couldn’t be more than friends. What the fuck am I doing?

Stepping back, I release her throat and run both hands through my hair. “Sorry,” I mutter.

One of Morgan’s dark brows travels up. She doesn’t believe me.

Of course she doesn’t. I’m sending mixed signals, and it’s highly inappropriate. I’ll call Catherine in the morning. Morgan can’t stay here. She’s shredding my control, and I can’t have it.

Ignoring me, she turns and grabs a dark green ball, testing it by lifting and swinging slightly.

“Not that one,” I bark. “That one’s mine.”

She turns slowly, gray eyes narrowed. “Aren’t they all yours, technically?”

“Of course,” I huff. “But that one’s…special,” I finish lamely.

She snorts. “This is your special ball? So I need to pick another one because you’re sensitive about your balls?”

I clear my throat. “I always bowl with that one.”

“Well,” she says, lifting the ball to her shoulder and holding it tight. “You got down here second, so you get to pick second. Or else you’ll have to take it from me.” There’s a challenge in her tone that matches the wicked gleam in her eyes.

I’m not rising to it. Because if I have to chase her for that ball, it’ll unleash something that’s been desperate to escape me. Something dark and primal. Something I’ve worked hard to control.

“I’ll be equally good with another,” I say casually, grabbing the next ball off the rack. I hate it the moment I slip my fingers into the holes. I want my green ball.

The castle creaks and groans in warning.

“I know!” I grit out.

“Aww, don’t be a sore loser,” Morgan taunts. “You’re worried I’ll kick your ass if you don’t have your special ball.” She bats her eyelashes and laughs as I round her and step to the command module to punch in our names. I have half a mind to nickname her “Unwelcome Houseguest,” but I think she’d take it very literally, and we’d fight.

I don’t want to fight. Fighting brings out surges of emotion, and mine are already a rollercoaster without Moira’s dulling potion.

Once the game is set, our names flashing bright above the lane, I turn to her. “You first.”

She gives me a superior look and steps to the end of the lane. We’ve bowled before. I know she was in a club in high school. But I was once the champion of the interhaven league. I’m really fucking good at this.

She watches the pinsetter drop the bowling pins into place, then swings and stalks gracefully forward. My green ball flies down the alley, knocking down nine of the ten pins. Triumph snakes through me. Morgan doesn’t turn to look at me, but waits for the ball to return. She grabs it and tosses it again, but it goes wide and misses the tenth pin.

“Tough break,” I say as I pass her and take my place at the head of the lane.

She doesn’t bother to answer, but the tart scent of anger fills the space between us.

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