Page 18 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

Hell, he’d already caught her, but the reveal required finesse and those leather menaces to be off her feet. Maybe he could seduce her out of themwithoutit culminating in a sexual act. In no way was he adding sex to the mix until she had bare feet.

His dick twitched, already taking the news badly.

He could hear it now…

Good luck with that, buddy! You have no restraint around her.

Ignoring his internal dialogue, he focused on the situation at hand.

“I’m going to put the fire out, Elara,” he said, pitching his voice toward seduction. “Will you give me a kiss for luck?”

With her desires heightened by the enchantment, she didn’t even question him or his motives, and her gaze zeroed in on his mouth. Nodding, she licked her lips. Sure, he should’ve felt bad for conning her, but one did whatever it took in the pursuit of saving a townful of people, right?

Dipping his head, he captured the eager mouth she offered.

Although he’d been prepared for the elemental display, the lightning strike still startled him, as did the ground rumble. Their proximity to Mount Rainier was nerve-wracking. It would take nothing to wake that great beast if their earthshaking exchanges continued in this vein. Yet her curvy body pressed against his shorted out the hardwiring of his brain. His need toget closer, to feel her fully against him, overrode his common sense and the urgency to put out the fire.

Someone with balls of steel dumped an icy drink down Tripp’s neck, and he turned with a snarl.

Florence, solemn but unrepentant, nodded toward the fire. “If you please.”

“Fuck.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair, absently noticing the local rubberneckers watching him with expressions akin to shock. Public displays of affection weren’t his usual M.O. He avoided showing anyone favor. Kissing Elara, in what equated to a town gathering, was garnering attention he’d rather not have.

“Wait here,” he said to Flo and the Hawthorne sisters.

Striding past the firefighters and emergency responders, Tripp entered the inferno. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he sensed another presence behind him.

A powerful one.

The sound of stone scraping against stone told him who was present and that Archer had shifted into his gargoyle form. Likely, he was there to protect Tripp from falling beams. The man had earned himself a demigod’s undying appreciation and a case of expensive whisky.

Moving into the center of the room, Tripp raised his arms and tilted his palms to the ceiling, centering himself. Next, he considered the elements he was dealing with: fire and air. Good thing the rock man didn’t need to breathe and that Tripp was able to hold his breath as long as necessary because the next step was to suck all the oxygen from the room with one consuming inhale.

Denied its fuel, the blazing elemental turned angry and licked at his legs. Its goal was to claim a victim. Anyone would do.

Simple visualization pushed the flames away from him and Archer. Concentrating on the heat, Tripp folded it in on itself like a paper napkin, making it smaller and smaller until only a tiny section remained. One box held the blaze in check, but the trade-off was the toxic fumes released by melting dildos.

Surprised at seeing Elara’s accidental purchase, he almost lost control of the fire.

Standing over the box, arms extended—similar to a person warming their hands at a bonfire—he shook his head. Any doubt he might’ve had about this mishap being the result of those fucking boots was gone. The truth was, if the witch wearing them weren’t skilled, like Elara, disasters would happen.

They were, after all, designed by a Trickster.

Mother had said they granted wishes, but Tricksters, like Djinn, always exacted a price for providing that which wasn’t fated or freely given.

Angry on behalf of Elara, who was the innocent in his mother’s schemes, Tripp used more force than necessary to subdue the flames. Deformed pleasure plungers flew in every direction, slamming into and sticking against walls, cabinets, burnt books, and, worst of all, Archer Roche. Other than a narrow-eyed glare, the human boulder remained mute.

As the gargoyle shifted to leave, one of a dozen hot-pink vibrators plastered to the ceiling dropped and stuck on what constituted Archer’s ass, creating a colorful misshapen tail.

Tripp’s horrified bark of laughter rang out and unleashed a minor shockwave.

“Run!” he shouted, bolting for the exit.

Melting vibrators and charred paperbacks pelted them as they ran the gauntlet of the romance book aisle. Believing he was home free, he slowed at the door to look back. A foot-long dong smacked him right between the eyes, eliciting a curse. He should’ve remembered Lot’s wife.

And fuck all, because if that wasn’t a portent of the dreadful things to come, Tripp didn’t know what was.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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