Page 105 of Which Witch Is Wicked?
“No,” she panted. Perspiration rose on her brow, dampening the rich burgundy of her hair to spilled wine on his gray pillows.
“Three little words, Moira.” He brought two fingers to his lips and licked them, returning them to her slick and sudden. Her gasp echoed among the masks and armaments. “I. Want. You.” For a brief moment, Nick Kingswood wished the water witch beneath him shared his age, his knowledge, so he could make her utter these words in every language spoken by the tongues of men. He would make her come over and over, one descent into paradise for each admission.
How the delicate muscles in her jaw worked then, her teeth grinding beneath them against her will, treacherous as the sea. “Fuck you!” She bucked her hips away from him, but could not escape her bonds.
“No? Perhaps you require more direct methods of convincing.” Nick moved between her thighs, running his hands up the firm flesh to pull her panties down to her calves. He brushed his lips on the inner flesh of her knee, and sudden pain shot through his head. Terrific pressure digging into his temples. Bright white blinding his vision. After a stunned moment, he reached up to feel his head and found that Moira had clamped him between her knees and was squeezing with enough pressure to crush a brick.
His fingers grasped her knees, expecting to pry her legs apart as easy as tearing fresh-baked bread. Not an inch could he move them, his biceps bulging with the effort.
A new sensation tightened in Nick’s chest.Panic?Surely not. Not he, who made potholders from the bears killed with his own hands.
“Eight time watermelon bustin’ champion of Terrebonne Parish,” Moira grunted. “You happen to know how much of the human body is made of water, Punkin?”
Nick searched for the number, wanting at least the satisfaction of knowledge to combat the sickening feeling of helplessness churning like a blade in his gut.
“Sixty percent,” Moira provided for him. “Only I’d say you’re at about a 52 on account of all the booze you swill. Alcohol is awful dehydrating, you know. Might want to lay off the martinis, Honeybuns.”
“I. Am. Immortal.” Exactly whom was he saying these words for?
“An immortal wearing a skin suit, in case you’d forgotten. Which means, 52 percent of that body is undermycontrol now, Sugarbritches. And unless you back the fuck off, I’m like to splatter your immortal brains all over these here fancy sheets.”
“Damn you, woman,” Nick growled between clenched teeth and lips artificially pooched out, fish-like by the compression between her thighs. “You will surrender to me.”
“When Hell freezes over. But hey,” she shrugged as much as her restraints would allow, “maybe you can talk to that blond bitch, Satan who’s leading you around by the dick. Maybe, if you begged her good and hard, she might do you a little favor. Throw you a table scrap.”
“She doesn’t own me,” Nick insisted, the words somewhat garbled as they worked through puckered lips. Not at all the authority he had hoped to conjure.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” a silky female voice interjected.
Nick didn’t have to turn his head—not that he could have—to know Lucifer had arrived. The sudden infusion of her cloying, exotic perfume along with the gooseflesh riding the length of his spine and the sudden wilting of his cock was as reliable a predictor as an atomic clock.
Lucy slithered into his peripheral vision, clad head to toe in black leather and a boned bustier, looking every inch the dominatrix. Her blond hair brushed the tops of her mounded breasts in silky waves, her plump lips painted the color of drying blood.
“If it ain’t Old Funbags McPeroxide,” Moira said. Nick squeezed her ankle, trying in vain to signal the folly of this course. “I figured you’d show up at some point.”
“Of course you did,” Lucy said, a dangerous smile revealing even white teeth. “You’re smarter than people give you credit for, that hideous mudbug-eating accent notwithstanding. And since you’re smart,
I’ll give you a little piece of advice.”
Lucy approached the side of the bed, petting Nick’s head as if it were a puppy pinned between Moira’s thighs.
“You really ought to let him go down on you, love. It’s just about the only thing that mouth of his is good for.”
The Devil strolled over to the chair next to the bed and seated herself with a squeak of leather and the regal posture of a queen.
“Mind if I watch?”
3
Moira jerked her knees to the left, sending Nick Kingswood sprawling off the edge of the bed. He landed naked on the floor at Ol’ Scratch’s leather platform spiked heels. “He’s all yours, Beelzeboobs.”
“You couldn’t be more correct,” Lucy said, reaching down to drag a long, red nail down the length of Nick’s chin. “He has been for ages, haven’t you,Conquest? Speaking of, have you told Little Miss Moira who was your first?”
Nick shoved himself to his feet and retrieved his towel as Lucy settled further into the armchair, suggestively dropping one long leg over the arm.
“I don’t recall asking.” Moira yawned. “In fact, I don’t recall giving a furry rat’s ass where he chooses to dip his wick.”
“Taking Conquest’s virginity.” Lucy sighed, her ice-blue eyes rolling skyward in fond recollection. “Now there’s a night worth remembering.” She let her head loll to the side and slid Moira a slitty-eyed wink. “He was a quick study. And hung? I keep a bronze replica of Conquest’s cock in my boudoir for special occasions. It’s not often thatIhave trouble walking the morning after.”
