Page 31 of The Royal Street Witch
“Let’s go,” I say as I grab Chantal’s hand, my face warning Bastian to just let us leave. And he does, his face void of emotion, yet his hands ball into fists.
“Why does he think he can just touch you like that? You can’t touch her!” Rage is billowing up inside of my cousin, but thankfully Bastian turns and walks away.
“I should beat his ass,” Chantal yells because Bastian just crossed a major line, and I can’t take it back.
“Next time.” I feign a laugh, pulling her into a hug, and pray she’s drunk enough to drop it.
“Yeah, you know I could—” and she punches an opened palm and then pulls her head back with a wide-mouthed laugh. My laugh echoes; I’m relieved she’s going to move on and hopefully forget the whole encounter.
I order her an Uber, kiss her drunk ass goodbye, and listen to her yell my name as the car takes off down the road. I open my phone and text Bastian.
No more tests. This was a mistake.
“YOU REALLY BELIEVE THIS WASa mistake?”
I only texted him minutes ago and now I turn to see him on my street, in front of my building, stepping softly toward me.
The street is rather quiet, with a few people walking on the other side, gazing in the art galleries, window shopping.
I cross my arms and stare at him. “There’s no right answer to that question.”
“Let’s go with how you feel, then. Because I want my hands on you. All over you. And that doesn’t feel like a mistake.”
I look up to the sky, the stars twinkling above us, a light breeze causing the hairs around my face to dance.
He keeps moving closer and my stomach spins because I can’t tell him the truth, that yes—I want his hands all over me. Any surface that has skin, that’s where I want his hands.
“Is it Tim McGraw? Are you in love?”
I breathe out as he stops in front of me. “Tim McGraw isn’t my type.” I pull a hair from the corner of my mouth.
“Thank God. I just can’t compete with cowboys.”
He’s so endearing, and a piece of my heart cracks and I step back because he’s chokingly close.
“It’s not Tim McGraw and you know that. Chantal is a prime example. We can never BE.” Heat rises to my cheeks, the anger building inside me.
“We’re two adults. We can do as we please.”
“You know that’s not true.” I’m exasperated, my chest rising and falling.
His eyes scan the street as if he’s contemplating a move, possibly a kiss.
“Come inside,” I huff, opening my front door, moving us away from any wandering eyes of the French Quarter, especially vampires.
Once in my hallway, my back leans against the wall, my arms crossing. My heart palpitates from the energy between us, the look in his eyes.
“We can just quench this thirst, for now. We see what happens.” He whispers it, an effort to calm me, but it only enrages me more, probably because it’s all I want to do. Quench the thirst. Kiss him again. Feel him against me.
His hand reaches up, index finger running along my waistband and then slowly dipping into my jean pocket. He pulls out Tim McGraw’s napkin and rips it to pieces, his face serious, his eyes boring into mine. “Just a taste. Just to see.”
“That’s the problem with a taste. I might not be able to stop.”
“Then don’t.” And it’s like a magnetic force, his lips slamming onto mine, his hand pulling the back of my neck closer. Chest against chest and I pull him into me, grabbing his waist, feeling him against me.
His tongue dips in my mouth and I take it like I wanted to ever since Lafitte’s and every goddamn minute since. A groan escapes his lips, and his fingers dig into my hips and I want them to dig deeper, dig deep into my flesh.
We pull apart with heaving breaths, and that’s when I see his canines elongate and he presses his eyes closed as if there’s pain and pleasure. It makes me hot, the danger, the glimmer of sharp enamel, and I only want him more.
