Page 13 of Cursed By the Love Witch

“High Warlock,” I breathe. “What are you?—”

“Call me, Bael,” he whispers. “Please.”

“I don’t?—”

“Don’t make me beg. I will.”

My mouth goes dry at his words. What is happening? I’ve never seen him like this. He’s typically so aloof and cold. Being near him had always put me on edge, and now I watch his hands slide closer to me on the desk. When they reach me, what will he do? Our bodies are so close that my chest will brush him if I breathe too deeply.

Licking his lips, his voice drips like warm honey all over my skin.

“Please, little witch. Say my name. I need to hear it from your perfect mouth.”

“I—” Speechlessness is not something I’ve ever been afflicted with.

However, as his hands go to the curve of my waist and mine rise to his strong shoulders, I find nothing to say. I’m on fire. His touch is burning me alive. He may as well be feeling my naked skin. Part of me wants to rub all over him like a kitten—purring and preening for his attention.

It’s like we are two puppets, and the universe is pulling our strings. If I were an objective third party, like I usually am in these situations, I could see how something like this could happen. After spending weeks together, we would find unbridled passion buried beneath the disdain and annoyance.

Hate and love are two sides of the same coin.

His hands grip me tighter, and I feel his warm breath against my lips. It feels nice—more than pleasant. It feels as if he stops touching me, I’ll die. I’ve been lonely for so long. However, I can’t remember ever feeling this alight by being touched by another. Even in our headiest days, Marius didn’t have this sort of effect on me. It’s confusing and wrong.

Wrong.

Yes, this is very wrong. He is my teacher—my teacher who is letting me fail his course, my teacher whom I feel nothing but hatred for—yes, I hate him. Don’t I? Maybe hate is too strong. Regardless, we have to stop this. Now.

Beyond him being my teacher, he’s decades older than me. He isn’t human. Yet, that knowledge sends a delicious thrill down my spine. His lips are so close. Tempting me to meet them with my own. What would they feel like? Would they be warm? Would they part and?—

His thumbs drag along my ribs, and the sensation rocks me back into my body.

“What are you doing?” I demand. My hands fall from his shoulders and give a shove to his chest.

The High Warlock—Bael—stumbles back. His chest rises and falls as if he’s been running. Long, gray fingers grip the table behind him, turning white. Blinking several times, he shakes his head.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Darcee—Miss Thistle.”

Licking my lips, I swallow against my dry throat, trying to forget how much I enjoyed his touch.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “Things happen.”

That’s putting it mildly. He’s just come on to me. My teacher—Bael, and I liked it. I more than liked it. There must be something wrong with me. Has my loneliness made me this desperate for any sort of attention? I slipped him a sleeping potion, and then, not even twelve hours later, I was considering kissing him.

I rub my hand against my forehead.

“No,” he says, locking our gazes once more. “I’m sorry for being so awful to you all this time. I also wish to apologize for coming on strong just now—it wasn’t my intention—it’s just….I’ve made a few realizations recently.”

“About what?” I ask.

“You.” The breath freezes in my lungs.

“Me? I thought you hated me?”

His eyes widen.

“Hated you? No, I hold you in the highest esteem.”

I let out a humorless chuckle.

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