Page 24 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

She curled her legs beneath her and burrowed into her favorite reading chair. The boot jewels pressed through the fabric of her favorite bohemian skirt, heating her skin, and Elara frowned. Shouldn’t the amethyst stones be cool to the touch?

“What is it?” Tripp asked.

“You could stand to be a little less observant,” she grumbled. “And it’s nothing. Say what you’re going to say, then go.”

His dark brows shot up, and his lips twitched, drawing her undivided attention.

Barely suppressing a groan, she reached for his glass, downed the remaining water, and pressed the cool exterior to her feverish forehead. “Is it warm in here? It feels hot.”

“It’s the power of those boots, Elara. It’s too strong for your body to contain.” He shifted from his seat, knelt before her, and touched her thigh. “I’m begging you. Take them off.”

“You keep saying that, but they’re just boots, Tripp. There’s nothing magical about them other than how gorgeous they are.”

“Yesterday, you effortlessly cast a spell in the alleyway. Whether you choose to believe it or not, you set fire to that box in the bookstore.” His fingers tightened when she would’ve protested. “You asked me how old I am. Old enough to have seen what these things can do. To recognize their signature in any room I walk into.”

“I didn’t start that fire, Tripp. I wasn’t there and wouldn’t do that to Florence.”

“I’m not saying you would, but are you sure you weren’t in the store’s proximity in the minutes before the blaze?”

“Positive.”

The pressure of his fingers wasn’t great, yet it was all she could feel through the skirt’s fabric. Like the jewels, his touch created a heat verging on burning, and Elara squirmed.

She focused on his mouth, recalling how incredible their kisses were and the passion they stirred. The temptation to experience more was mighty, as was her desire to discover if he always tasted of brownies and espresso. The air filled with the scent of baked chocolate delicacies, and Elara leaned forward, eager to find the source.

Her face connected with his palm, and she sputtered her indignation. His dimples flashed, irritating her further.

“What’s so freaking funny?” she snapped.

“Your face when you don’t get what you want,” he said, chuckling.

She toyed with the idea of rearranging his.

Tripp dropped a kiss on her nose, which Elara immediately scrubbed away.

“Don’t be mad, flitter-mouse. If or when we make love, I can promise you won’t be wearing those fucking boots.”

“Or maybe I will because I love them, and you still haven’t told me why you believe they’re the worst thing since raisins in cookies.” She crossed her arms and sat back. “Let’s hear it.”

“You don’t like raisins in cookies?” he asked, distracted.

“No. Hate them. I always mistake them for chocolate chip and wind up disappointed.” Yes, she was grouchy, but nothing was worse than having an itch for one man who refused to scratch it. “Your reason for hating my boots. Go.”

CHAPTER NINE

Elara was infuriating!

But Tripp would be damned if he let his annoyance show. Teasing her had been a surefire way to rile her and remove the too-tempting desire from her eyes. And thank the ancestors, she’d missed the reference to making love. How such romantic drivel had poured out of his mouth, he’d never know. Sex was sex, and he ran from entanglements. In the future, should he consider a long-term liaison, it couldn’t be with a mortal. That way lay death for said mortal. The Gods enjoyed throwing hurdles in lovers’ paths, and many never survived the trials heaped on them.

Tripp made the mistake of locking eyes with Elara.

She possessed a rare vulnerability. Insecurity and the need to be taken seriously were paramount for her. But beneath those, she desired to be wild and wicked, as she believed her sister was. Payton wasn’t. Oh, she put on a decent act, and it seemed the ignorant people in Witchmere fell for it. Yet Payton Hawthorne was steadfast and equally messed up in her beliefs as Elara. It came down to absentee parents and a grandmother who refused to tell them about their connection.

“Come here, flitter-mouse,” Tripp urged softly. Surprised that she complied, he tucked her against his chest and rested his cheek on her glossy ash-blonde hair. Those shiny locks were as silky as they looked, and he luxuriated in the feel. “Let me tell you the story of the boots.”

“They first showed up as a pair of ankle-tie sandals. I believe you would call them gladiator sandals today,” he said. “They appeared right before the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in the ancient city of Pompeii.”

“Wait, what?” She drew away and frowned up at him. “There’s no way they can magically transform, but even if theycould, they can’t be that old.Youcan’t be that old.”

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