Page 84 of De-Witched

“Leah,” he murmured. “You are the good stuff.”

Romance flickered inside her. It made her feel weak. “You’re too good at saying the right thing.”

One eyebrow tilted. “I’ve never been accused of that before.”

She had to laugh. She smoothed her free hand over his jaw, his cheek so she cupped it. “Maybe you don’t show this side of you enough.”

“This side?”

“Gabe.”

He looked at her. “I’ll never be just Gabe.”

She knew what he was saying. “One night,” she confirmed, pushing aside the sneaking want that craved more. “If you ever get on with it.”

“You’re impossible.” With an intensity to his face, he pushed her so her spine hit the wall. Abruptly, her arms were above her head, locked together. And he wasn’t touching her.

When her startled eyes flew to his, he only said, “Okay?”

Was he kidding? “More.” It was breathless, a moan, and she squirmed in place. Reality intruded long enough for her to add, “But doesn’t this hurt you?”

“It’s worth it,” he said, in a voice made for dark deeds done in dark rooms. His eyes roved over her. “This dress has tormented me all night. But not as much as this has.”

He stepped in, nudged the pink fabric to the side and exposed her tattoo. An ampersand, smaller than her thumbprint and just below her left collarbone.

His finger traced the design. Everywhere he touched, fire spread. “What does it mean?”

She swallowed against the lust choking her throat. “It’s a reminder that there’s always a next. That nothing ever really ends, and to stay open to people, possibilities.” Like him.

But this would end. She accepted it, didn’t want to linger. Instead, she tilted back her head and gave him a sly smile. “It’s not my only one.”

His finger paused. “Where?”

“You’ll have to find it yourself.”

“Hmm.” He put his mouth to her ampersand, nipped. She jumped.

“You ever consider getting inked?”

She didn’t realize it was a dual-edged question until he frowned. She knew in the witch community, the main reason for tattoos was an engagement, for what they called “the Divining.” Different traits would show up on their wrists in the weeks following the engagement, showing what each individual would bring to the marriage. Apparently, the majority of witch marriages were magically motivated, purely political.

Was there a political marriage in Gabriel’s future? A wife who would ignore him until they had to show a united front to society? Who wouldn’t tease him, make him play, make him talk? One who had strong magical bloodlines perfect for his legacy genes?

He hesitated. And she found she didn’t want to hear his answer.

So, she didn’t let him. “I think you’d look sexy.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “All proper on the outside, a little edgy underneath.”

“Sexy?”

He sounded like he’d never heard the word before.

“I could show you.” She strained forward from where she was chained. Why did she find it so hot he was restraining her with magic?

“Later. I have plans. A list.”

“A list?”

“I’ve wanted to touch you for weeks, Leah.” His lips curved, small but edged with sin. “I’m a man who thinks everything through. I’ve thought this through a lot.”

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