Page 38 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
“Try me,” Preston seethes.
“You’re trying to run him off?” I ask Kai in astonishment.
He only grins at me and gives me an all too familiar heated possessive look that sends Preston into a new level of pissed off—if his face is an indication. Planting his feet wide and crossing his arms, Preston narrows his eyes in challenge at my naked familiar.
“I’m not running anywhere. Nora and I are likethis,” he taunts, entwining his fingers like he did the first day we met.
“You’ve been getting some this entire time and didn’t tell me?” Gram whines.
“Close—he’s saying that we’reclose, not screwing,” I correct grumpily.
“Not yet, anyway,” Preston adds with a down-right salacious smirk that sends Kai into a fit.
“Your hippie witch is an actual witch and I’m her cat—that she turned human again,” Kai snaps.
“KAI!” Gram-Gram and I yell simultaneously.
“I know Tittie taught you better,” Gram scolds, and Preston side-whispers, “A boob taught him something?”
I eye him askance, shaking my head.
“The guy just told you that I’m a witch—and you ask aboutboobs?!”
“What can I say except that I’m a guy,” he shrugs with a chuckle.
“He doesn’t believe you,” I breathe in relief to Kai.
“Look into my eyes, that’s why I’m familiar to you,” my cat-turned-asshole commands.
Preston squints into the amber orbs and I see a flicker of recognition flare across his face, followed by panic. He takes a healthy step back from the three of us and my heart gives a painful squeeze. Kai smiles triumphantly and I almost elbow him in his junk in retaliation, but Preston surprises me.
“You’re a witch—a real one?”
I swallow, mentally wondering what I should tell him.
“She is,” my gram-gram decides for me.
Witches on a broom—is anyone going to let me speak?!
“Prove it,” Preston challenges.
“NO!” I scream again. “That’s okay—nothing to prove here. We’re just a bunch of loonies who think they are Salem witches.”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, make this man’s clothes combust!” my gram-gram invokes.
Preston’s eyes damn near pop out of his face in alarm, but when he looks down and sees that his clothes are fine, he calms himself—that is, until he notices the smoke billowing out from the bottom of his jeans.
“Ah!” he shouts and hastily unbuckles his belt and shucks off the smoldering denim.
“You lit him on fire!” I accuse.
“I did not! You know how paltry my magic is. I merely singed his pants, forcing him to take them off—you’re welcome!”
Preston is now standing in his boxers and panting like he just ran a marathon. Slowly, he straightens and runs a hand down his face.
“Do you mind if I drink one or ten of these?” he jokes in a strained voice, motioning to the wine coolers he brought. “Actually, on second thought, you got anything stronger. . . and maybe another pair of pants?”
Gram-Gram snorts.
