Page 18 of It's In His Hiss

“Great,” I mutter to the empty room, “Now I’m a witch with boyfriend troubles. Typical.”

Chapter 8

Gordy

The next day, I pace the bookshop like a man possessed. Or cursed. Or both.

Because last night I kissed Alice like she was the antidote to every venom coursing through my veins—and then I left like a coward. Like some tragic mythological cliché. The gorgon who fell for the girl but couldn’t risk letting her see him burn.

I want to be with Alice, to touch her silky skin, smell her hair, and know every delectable inch of her, but then my snakes freak out. The hissing and wiggling remind me that I’m a danger to her, but… I can’t stop wanting to be near her.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and swipe to her number. “Hey, Alice, would you like to come to my place for dinner tonight?” I ask as soon as she answers, trying to sound casual while my heart practices sprints. “I can make that chicken casserole from the restaurant you like so much.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Alice says warmly. “Should I bring a couple of bottles of white wine? That cheap one you like?”

I can picture her dazzling smile through the phone. At least she hasn’t decided I’m too much of a risk. If she’s comfortable being alone with me, why shouldn’t I accept that?

I chuckle at her question as I hear the laughter in her voice. “That sounds perfect. If you want to come around six, that would be great.”

We hang up, and I look around the bookshop. It’s after three in the afternoon, sunny and warm outside. I doubt anyone will stop in, so I close the shop, run to the market, and get the ingredients for the casserole I promised her.

Alice arrives five minutes early, always punctual. Her blue eyes are bright, her hair swept up like asun-kissed goddess of chaos, and I’m the gorgon lucky enough to worship her.

We head up to my apartment above the bookstore, which is more sanctum than snake pit. It's quiet, more like a retreat than a residence—a place designed to keep the world at arm’s length.

The space is neat and intentional, with books lining the walls in floor-to-ceiling shelves, soft golden lamplight spilling over well-worn armchairs, and thick rugs that hush every step. It smells faintly of old paper, cedar, and the tea I drink far too often. The furniture is sturdy and lived-in, like the place has learned how to exhale. A haven carved out of the ordinary—attached to the charming chaos of the shop but worlds away in its stillness.

I’ve sweated over the casserole, something tasty and hearty because I want to impress Alice without sending us into a food coma. The sweet aroma of herbs fills the kitchen, and I hope it’s weaving the same spellbinding effect on her as it has on me.

“Smells amazing, Gordy,” Alice’s compliment isaccompanied by a hungry little moan that makes my cock jerk to attention.

“Thanks,” I say gruffly. “Hope it tastes half as good as it smells.” I serve her with a flourish that might be slightly over the top. But hey, who’s judging?

We settle on the couch after dinner, scrolling through Netflix. The “chill” part of “Netflix and chill” is a bit of a misnomer, considering how hot under the collar I am. Every so often, I sneak a whiff of her hair—orange blossoms and vanilla? My hand finds hers, fingers intertwining. I can’t help but marvel at the softness of her skin, the gentle way her fingers stroke mine.

“Find anything interesting?” she asks, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I mumble, not having read a single title. Who can focus on words when her every touch sends electricity up my arm?

In an unguarded moment, as our laughter subsides from some joke I made about a B-list horror flick, I lean in, and before I know it, our lips meet. It’s a soft collision, hesitant at first, then becomes confident as her responsestirs something deep within me. Her lips are everything I imagined: sweet, inviting, perfect.

“Sorry, I…” I pull away, apologizing for the impulsive act.

Alice stops me with a finger to my lips. “Don’t ever be sorry for kissing me,” she whispers. Her blue eyes burn into mine for a second which seems to freeze time. “I need you, Gordy. Please.”

Ah, shit.How can I deny her anything? Especially when I want—noneed—her more than my next breath.

My mouth crashes into hers again, this one longer, deeper, obliterating any coherent thought.

This woman has become my everything. I amsofucked.

And when she says, “Are you going to kiss me again, or do I have to knock over another bookshelf to make it happen?”—I do something even more reckless than kissing her.

I take her upstairs.

We’re barely through the bedroom door before she’s on me—her hands caressing my head,snakes be damned, her lips crashing into mine with a hunger that makes my knees buckle.

The snakes hiss, startled, then… settle. Curling, watching. Like even they know this is different.

---