Page 82 of Hopelessly Teavoted
Or, rather, Az could touch her, but it would be his last living act. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. Even if she did still want to pretend when he wanted to go all in.
Azrael pulled open the heavy door, and there stood Vickie, an anchor in the cold early October night, trepidation on her face, eyes wide with concern as they flicked from him to the door. She had to be doing the same mental calculations about how safe it would be to walk close to him. It had been two weeks since they had reaped the soul of Tina Rosehill, and it was already October, but Priscilla had finally bullied him into inviting her for dinner.
He was tempted to pull her in for a hug, to risk it all in the hopes that fabric could save them from fate. Instead, he stepped back. “Come on in, Victoria.”
Vickie flinched a little at her full name. It had been a devotion earlier, but it was a wall between them now.
It was also a confession, an explosion of syllables admitting his ardent affection. He wanted to fist his fingers in her hair and pull her mouth close to him in greeting.
But he also wanted not to die, so instead he raised his hand awkwardly. The motion was painfully familiar.
“It’s good to see you, Az,” she said weakly. “Prissy insisted that I needed to come early to keep you company while she and Evelyn cooked.”
“I know,” he said, his gut twisting at the thought that she would be reluctant to come tonight. Even after his efforts toward friendship. Goddess, he understood, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. He paused, hesitating. It hurt him, but he didn’t want to cut her with his pain. “I’m glad you’re here, Vickie.” He snapped his fingers, pushing the strand of hair caught on her cheek back behind her ear. Her hand flew to her face, as though she might hold the magic there, to touch him without ever making contact.
“I’ve been thinking, Azrael. You have magic. We are both creative. Flexible. Willing to try new things.” She picked at her cuticles for a moment, hesitating. “Maybe we could try this without touching? Have you thought about it?”
“I have considered it in depth, yes.” In enough depth to yearn for her, pitifully.
He swallowed and cleared his throat. Was it tempting fate? Asking for too much? The curve of her neck was so tempting, and he was a snap away from touching it, if not with his fingers on her, then indirectly, with his magic.
A yowl at his feet broke the tension, and Emily Lickinson protested loudly until he petted her, and she prowled back over to Vickie, purring against her legs.
“Great timing, Emily,” Vickie said. “Give him time topawsand think it over.”
Dammit. She was perfection.
Az sneezed a little—he’d forgotten his allergy medicine again—but the cat was worth it. A snap of his fingers put a pill and a cup of water in his hands.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“Yes, but something stronger than water, please.”
He winked at her, determined to focus on the fact that shewas here. Tossing the allergy medicine back with the water, he snapped his fingers, and the glass disappeared back to the kitchen. The bar cart had been set up for exactly such things, and three snaps later, a dark and stormy for each of them appeared directly on the end table on either side of the lamp shaped like a warrior mermaid, her trident pulled back in defiance.
“You remembered,” she said, reaching for the glass. His arm itched to reach for her, but instead he snapped his fingers again, and a pair of leather driving gloves appeared on his hands. It felt formal in a way that reminded him of his father, and she smiled, stepping toward him.
“I know your favorites. It’s either that or margaritas, and the night is too young for vomiting or nudity.” His tone was jesting, but his jaw twitched at the last one.
“Az,” Vickie breathed, so quietly that he blinked, unsure if it was a real syllable spoken or simply the product of his wishful imagination.
He stepped back, carefully unrolling the sleeves of his crewneck sweater so there was no exposed skin.
Her eyes flashed with hurt. Dammit, he was an asshole, making the woman he loved think he didn’t feel safe enough to know she would not accidentally immolate him.
“I trust you, Vickie. I just feel fucking awkward. Fancy gloves and then what, a merino wool sweater? I’m a mixture of Target casual and old Hollywood glam.”
“I know,” she said softly. “It doesn’t have to be weird. I have an idea. Prissy did say that we should dress up for dinner. Do you have a suit?”
“You think the son of Benedict Hart doesn’t have many, many suits?”
“Magic one on. The nicest one you have. Put those clever fingers to good use.”
Devil damn him, there were other good uses he wanted to put them to, but this was the option he had, so he slid one glove off his hand, trying not to lose his mind at the slight bite of her lower lip as his fingers rubbed together, and the exhale, barelyaudible, which reminded him so much of the soft, whispery sounds he wanted to pull from her.
He wanted her, and the suit he had just magicked himself into was cut snugly enough in the legs that he knew it would be apparent. A flush crept up his cheeks despite his best attempts to play it cool.
“Now do me,” she said, voice breathy. Eyes caught low enough on him that he wondered how bad it would be, really, to burn for her in earnest.
