Chapter Seven
Ryder
It isn’t easy ignoring the Witch. I have to give him that much credit, at least.
He was a glaring blip on my radar when he had no more skin showing than his hands and face, so the bare arms and collarbone did make me sweat a bit.
And I would normally never call myself the jealous type, but maybe I am, actually, because the Witch’s unabashed flirtation with the twenty-something waiter jabbed at me more than I’d like to admit.
The gymnastics showcase on the lawn outside my window was cringey, but not unappealing. Pretty hard to look away from, really.
But I did look away. Every time. And it’s working even quicker than I imagined it would—the Witch is already visibly put out, which means I just have to hold out for another day or two before I’m rewarded with another confrontation. Maybe I’ll even get pinned up against a wall again, if I’m lucky.
It definitely isn’t even a little bit easy ignoring the Witch… but fucking A, does it feel good.
When I stroll out to the pool area a week into my vacation and the Witch is nowhere to be seen, I feel my chest swell with pride and maybe just a little relief.
The Witch has moved on to the “hard to get” phase, but I’m not going to bite.
I sprawl out on my favorite lounge chair, order a daiquiri, and open my book to finally get some actual reading done.
I’ve managed two pages when a flash of black fabric crosses my field of vision, and I remind myself not to look. But, then again, I am wearing sunglasses, and a tiny glance—just to see what unsuccessful tactic the Witch is employing today—couldn’t hurt.
I glance up.
Bad idea.
The glance quickly turns into a double take, which turns into a downright embarrassing stare when I see the outfit the Witch had decided to grace everyone with.
“Outfit” is, maybe, not the right word. He’s in his usual black lace robe, wide-brimmed hat, and round sunglasses…
beyond that, he’s dressed in little more than underwear.
Black swim shorts, to be exact, and small ones.
His chest is completely bare, and for the first time I can see the full map of black tattoos on the newly-exposed expanse of skin.
Celtic knots and skulls and pentagrams, and what looks like flower vines winding across his waist, over his hip bones, leading underneath the waistband of a very low-cut pair of swim shorts.
I clear my throat and look at my book again. I’ve managed to resist his ploys for days now, I can last a few more hours. But a flash of skin catches my attention, and before I can stop myself, my eyes have left the page.
The Witch is removing his lace robe, his back to me so that even more of his tattoos are revealed, stretching over his shoulder blades and spine. He drapes his robe over a chair and reaches into the large black tote he brought with him, pulling out a bottle of lotion…
I force my transgressive eyes back to the pages in my hands.
Ridiculous. I’m a grown man. I’ve been through FBI field training.
I can hold my breath underwater for six minutes.
I am disciplined. I am in full fucking control of myself, mind and body.
Just because I haven’t gotten laid in—Jesus, has it been a year already?
—doesn’t mean I have to lose my mind over the first inked-up tart that waltzes into my line of sight.
The Witch is putting on a show, he’s trying to drive me crazy.
I refuse to give that arrogant brat the gratification of letting him see that it’s working.
I am definitely not watching while the Witch rubs tanning lotion over his arms and legs, massaging it into the skin of his chest and stomach.
I’m also not watching when the Witch asks a group of young women in matching “Bridesmaid” t-shirts to help apply sunscreen to his back, which means I’m still not watching when they giggle and comply.
And I am really totally 100% not watching even a little bit as the Witch slides into the swimming pool, sinking under the surface of the water and coming back up soaking wet.
I clench my jaw and grip my book like it’s keeping me from falling off the face of the earth, well aware that I haven’t read a word of the page I’ve been open to for the past ten minutes.
Don’t look, I tell myself. This is his last act of desperation.
If you can resist him now, he’ll give up and you’ll win, just don’t look, don’t look, don’t—
“Sir?”
I jump, startled, and look up at the middle-aged waitress holding a frosty strawberry daiquiri on a serving tray. I swallow dryly and reach out to take the glass from her. Great, okay, this is what I need: a cold beverage and a little liquor to calm my nerves. The drink will help.
As I grip the cocktail in my sweaty hands, I begin to feel the familiar tingling in my fingers and toes, running warm and electric along every nerve and pooling at the base of my spine.
I’ve felt it a thousand times before with a hundred other Witches, but never quite like this.
I’ve never felt the Witch Sense hit me while I’m…
well, horny. It’s never occurred to me that the Sense could be a turn-on, but at this moment it’s making my entire body feel like one big erogenous zone with some brilliant maniac dragging feathers over it.
Overwhelmed by sensation, I don’t think about where I should be looking—or not looking, and I subconsciously track the movement at the edge of my vision to where the Witch is climbing out of the nearest corner of the swimming pool.
Water runs in rivulets down his torso, goosebumps rise underneath the tapestry of ink, his mouth open as he draws in the humid summer air and so much skin—
Ice-cold liquid shocks me back into reality as my drink slips out of my hand and spills all over me.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” says the waitress hurriedly.
“No, not your fault,” I say (because it really isn’t) as I pull off my wet cotton camp shirt and try not to sound irritated.
She tries to use the towel she has hanging over one arm to dab at the red stain on my undershirt. “Here, let me—”
“It’s fine, really.” I urge her. Even after being doused in blended ice, my shorts feel noticeably snug, and I don’t need any of the hotel staff to know that I’m sporting an unplanned poolside semi.
“It’s no trouble, really,” she insists, continuing to fuss. I grab the towel out of her hands.
“It’s fine, I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about it.”
“If you get up I can—”
“No, I’ll stay here, thanks.”
“You can move to another lawn chair and I’ll—”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap.
The waitress wavers for a second before muttering another apology and scurrying back to the bar with the empty daiquiri glass.
I squeeze my eyes shut and look down at myself, covered in sticky pink booze and still uncomfortably turned on.
This isn’t the waitress’s fault at all. It isn’t my fault, either.
I look up at the bar and see the Witch grinning at me like he’s just carried out the heist of a lifetime.
I glare back as hard as I can. The Witch wiggles his fingers in a wave.
I curse under my breath, grab the drink-soaked towel, and hide my near-erection behind it as I storm into the poolside restrooms.
Hypnosis. Or a love spell, or mind control, or something. This has to be some kind of magic the Witch is using against me, I’m sure of it. That’s the only possible explanation for why my dick is acting like I’m nineteen years old again.
I shove my hands into the sink in the men’s room and splash some cold water on my neck, then throw myself onto the bench staged against the wall next to me.
I scrub my face with my hands in frustration and wonder how long I can sit here to let my hard-on die down before someone notices me loitering in the bathroom like I’m cruising at a roadside rest stop.
Then I wonder how quickly and quietly I can rub one out in a stall.
Both options seem equally degrading and unreasonable, but I can’t think of any other way out of here.
The room is sparkling clean and silent, the cement walls of the building shielding its interior from the noises of the pool area outside. I don’t hear anyone come in, and yet I’m not exactly surprised when the sound of a soft Irish accent echoes off the stalls.
“You forgot your shirt, Mister Witchfinder.”