Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

He noticed her moving away. “You afraid of me now?”

“No, I just . . .” What? What did she want from him? One moment she was bragging that she could handle herself, then the next, she was upset that he was short with her. If she was being honest with herself, she wanted him closer, not farther away. She wasn’t frail and timid; she didn’t need to be comforted. And she knew exactly what he was, what he did. Saw proof of it last night in the ghost of the man he’d killed.

The violence didn’t surprise or offend her. It was unsettling how little it offended her, to be honest. She just didn’t like the cold-shoulder treatment. Maybe after spending so much time in nightclubs, she’d come to admire the bruisers who guarded the doors and kept the drunks out of her dressing room. They were tough on the outside, but polite as could be backstage. The big guys were always the kindest to her.

And Winter was the biggest man she’d ever known.

A strong wind blew rain against the window as the taxi’s engine noisily rumbled around a curve and up a steep incline. She allowed gravity to pull her back against the seat and glanced down at Winter’s hand. Knuckles were reddened from the punch, the skin bleeding around one.

Gingerly, she reached out across his lap and touched her bare fingers to his, inspecting the wound. Her own hand was half the size of his. “Does it hurt?”

He shifted the arm between them and laid it across the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. This both relaxed and electrified her. She could smell the rain on his coat, the pomade in his hair. “Yes. But it will hurt more tomorrow. Always does.”

“You need to get some ice on it.”

“Probably.”

“That punch was impressive.”

“Mmm.”

“But I’m not afraid of you.”

“You sure about that?” he said softly near her ear.

His bass-heavy voice resounded through her body, unexpectedly kindling warmth between her legs. She shifted in her seat, but the warmth changed to heat. So she tried clamping her thighs together, which only made things worse.

Maybe she shouldn’t be leaning into him, tracing the red pattern around the edge of his injured knuckles. But her poor reasoning skills were at war with her body, which liked his body quite a bit.

“I’m sure,” she told him.

The arm resting behind her shoulders shifted until she felt its weight against her neck.

This was not business anymore.

Her hand stilled on his. She turned her head, slowly, and glanced up at his face. Lazily blinking eyes looked down at hers. His nostrils were flared. She wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what, exactly.

Maybe that’s why when she opened her mouth to speak, she ended up pressing it against his. He stilled. His lips didn’t move. Had she shocked him? She’d shocked herself. She didn’t go around kissing men, especially not men who punched people in the face. Certainly not men she worked for. She should definitely stop this foolishness right this second and beg his forgiveness.

And she would have, maybe, had he not kissed her back.

His mouth opened to hers. The little noise of triumph she made in response was embarrassing, but not enough to stop. The arm circling her shoulders pulled her closer. His lips were soft and wet and sent legions of tingles down her arms and back. And that was before his clever tongue slipped between her lips and danced with hers.

She lost all thought and kissed him back savagely. She was desperate and wanting, and his big arms were wrapped around her and it was . . . bliss. Their first kiss was unforgettable, but this was a new level of thrill, to be touched, to touch him back. Her hand slid up either side of his chevroned necktie and strayed around his neck, seeking contact with his skin. She pushed her fingers into the back of his dark hair, fingernails lightly grazing his scalp, and he made a pleasurable sound of approval.

Good lord, he was an expert with his mouth. She didn’t know or care where he learned to kiss like this, tongue rolling as he possessively molded his lips to hers. But whatever skills he’d mastered seemed to magically transfer to her, because she was oddly confident he was enjoying what she was doing. She was certainly enjoying doing it. And that confidence changed to certainty when her left leg, which was draped over his lap—and she didn’t know how in God’s name this happened without her realizing it before now—strayed a little higher up his thigh. And a little higher. And just when she was nearly straddling him, like some wanton whore, her leg brushed against something hard.

Winter moaned.

She nearly fainted with excitement.

And yet, some part of her that had been taught to repress urges and feelings warned her that she was doing a Very Bad Thing, and going way too far. That part of her piped up and mumbled, “Sorry,” against Winter’s lips.

Catching her breath, she rested her cheek against his and agonized over either starting up again like she wanted to or pushing away from him like she should do. But he solved the problem without her when his head dipped to her neck. He began trailing wet kisses across the side of her throat, soft ones . . . rougher, pulling ones. She may have possibly made a series of desperate noises. She definitely arched against him, bumping into his erection again. Well, rubbing herself against it, to be truthful.

She didn’t apologize this time.

But Winter did. “I’m sorry, as well,” he said against an intensely sensitive spot on her neck, just beneath her earlobe.

She shivered in response to his voice. Then hazily said, “For what?”

“For this.”

His hand ghosted up the back of her leg, under her skirt, over her garter . . . and beneath the loose silk of her step-in chemise. He cupped one bare buttock with his palm and gently squeezed.

Desire shot through her. She cried out against his neck, something between a moan and a half-formed encouragement.

He opened his mouth against her neck and ran his teeth across her skin as his palm massaged her backside, rougher now—demanding. She went limp in his arms. She was afraid if his long fingers explored an inch farther, he’d discover how wet she was. Unbelievably wet. Her thighs were slippery with arousal from all the wanton rolling around she’d been doing on his lap.

She was half ashamed over it. Half not.

And she was half a second from telling him—no, demanding he take her, right there, right now. She didn’t care anymore, she just wanted—

A loud, judgmental throat-clearing sounded from the front of the taxi.

The taxicab driver. The car was stopped outside Gris-Gris.

Good grief. They were inside a public taxi, with nothing but a seat between their lewd activities and a stranger’s body. She’d completely forgotten—How could she have forgotten? What is wrong with me? I am an immoral human being. This seemed far more wicked, far more risqué than her previous two brief sexual experiences had ever been.

And she liked it.

It was at that moment she realized that she was, sadly, just as perverted as she’d accused Winter of being that afternoon she’d found the postcards in his study.

“Fifteen cents,” the taxi driver said as she shifted off Winter’s lap. He resisted, holding her in place for a moment before reluctantly sliding his hand out of her underclothes.

“Hey!” Winter snapped at the driver. “I’m paying you to drive, not to ogle. Eyes off her.”

Winter instructed the man to wait. She couldn’t get the door open fast enough, nearly tripping over the curb as her Mary Janes scrambled to find purchase on the wet sidewalk. Her legs were wobbly. She had trouble standing and experienced a flash of panic as she wondered if the pedestrians walking by knew exactly what she’d been up to.

“You okay?” Winter asked behind her as drizzle beaded on her coat.

She let out a breath and turned to face him. He seemed so much bigger out in the open air. And terribly good-looking. She found herself smiling dumbly at him. “Yes.”

He pulled his overcoat closed and smiled back, just as dumbly. “Good.”

“Do you do this kind of thing with all your employees, Mr. Magnusson?”

“Hardly. Then again, Bo isn’t half as tempting as you.”

A prideful pleasure leapt up inside her chest. “No need to butter me up. Your hand’s already been up my skirt.”

“My hand is very happy about that.” He grinned at her, big and wide, tapping the brim of his fedora against his leg.

They stood in the gray drizzle in silence for several moments, just looking at each other, as people passed by on the sidewalk. Raindrops began snaking down the collar of her coat. Her hair was sticking to her cheeks. She’d have to wash it before her show. “I’d better . . .” She pointed behind her, toward the barred entrance to the speakeasy.

“Of course.”

“You’d better . . .”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

She forced herself to turn and walk toward the club, her body still tingling from the heavy petting. As she was reaching for the door buzzer, a hand clamped around her shoulder and spun her around. Winter kissed her firmly on the mouth, just for a moment. He released her and fitted his fedora tightly on his head without saying another word. Just walked backward a couple of steps, then turned on his heel and marched back to the waiting taxi, leaving Aida breathless and swooning with joy.

LATE AFTERNOON SUNSHINE BROKE THROUGH THE DRIZZLE A couple of hours after Winter left Aida at Gris-Gris, happy as a clam. The taxi dropped him off at his house. He returned a couple phone calls, made a couple more, then stepped out onto the side porch and waited for Bo to return. They needed to recalibrate the search for this Black Star sorcerer and focus on fortune-tellers at the Chinatown temples.