Chapter Nine
Ryder
Maybe it was the outfit. Maybe it was all the physical sensations that came along with being in such close quarters with a Witch. Maybe it was the long days of tension building up between us. Maybe it’s just been a while—a long while, and I’ve gotten a little pent-up over the past couple of months.
But that was some of the best sex I’ve ever had, and we weren’t even naked.
Hell, maybe it really was that good. I don’t really care what the reason is, I just want more. Problem is, the Witch clearly likes being chased.
I don’t mind it, usually. In fact, I like being able to put a little (or a lot of) effort into pursuing someone.
But I’m already more than halfway through my time here at the resort, and since I’m apparently officially obsessed with the Irish Witch I dry-humped in a bathroom, I can’t relax until I find him again.
The Witch doesn’t come back to the pool that day.
He doesn’t stop by my room, even though he clearly knows where it is.
He doesn’t show up at the breakfast buffet the next morning, or the lobby, or the bar, and once a full twenty-four hours has passed since we saw each other last, I decide it’s time to actively hunt him down. Just to talk, of course.
I check the sauna, the rose garden, and the tennis courts.
I walk the hallways of rooms, staying tuned in to my body, looking for that buzzing feeling that will tell me when the Witch is nearby.
I’m beginning to wonder if he’s left the resort entirely when I feel the barest tingling in my fingers as I pass an archway, over which hangs a sign in an elaborately scripted font:
Rainfall Luxury Spa
Massage, Skincare, you’re getting government services and protection for your—”
“Sixty percent.”
“Sixty what?”
“Oh, so you didn’t know. Yes, Sir, sixty percent of every penny I make in Magickal arts and sciences goes straight to Auntie Sam.
As I understand it, our taxes cover most of the funding for your entire department.
A necessary expenditure, of course, but sixty percent seems a bit steep given that we don’t even qualify for social security, don’t you think? ”
I uncross my arms and shift my hands into my pockets.
It’s true, Witches don’t qualify for social security—some of them are immortal, so it made perfect sense to me when I was told in training that they shouldn’t be able to milk the government for monthly checks for a literal eternity.
But it does make a sixty percent income tax rate pretty hard to justify.
“So I’m sure you’ll understand,” she went on in response to my silence, “why I might want to make a few extra dollars under the table in order to fund the first holiday I’ve had in half a decade.”
I think back to my field training, to the one-day psychology course when we learned what signs to look for when we wanted to know if someone was lying.
Her body language is defensive, but her posture is straight-forward.
Her obstinate expression shows no sign of wavering.
And, maybe most telling of all, she’s just admitted to tax evasion.
All things considered, she’s probably telling the truth, and I’m not going to waste my vacation time busting a Witch for her unsanctioned side hustle any more than I’d call the Better Business Bureau on a single mom’s Etsy store.
“What kind of service are you performing, exactly?” I ask, still feeling like I can’t quite end the interrogation.
“Energy field manipulation,” she answers as she returns to sanitizing her workspace. “The spa lists the service as a ‘reiki treatment,’ but what I do here is a bit more… specialized.”
Something about that emphasis gives me pause. “What do you mean, ‘specialized?’”
The Witch stops her cleaning and looks up at me through her lashes, the sort of dark, coy eyes that’ll be picturing nightly for the foreseeable future.
“Married women come to me,” she says sweetly, “and I give them something their rich husbands haven’t given them in years.
Maybe ever. And I’m able to do it without even touching them.
I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a valuable social service I’m providing here. ”
I stare at her, running her words over in my mind. Circuitous phrasing, suggestive intonations… I shouldn’t make assumptions, right? I need to make sure she means what I think she means, but I also have to tread very carefully in how I ask about it.
“And when you say, ‘something their husbands don’t give them,’” I begin slowly, “you’re talking about—”
“Orgasms.”
“Right, okay. Got it.”
The room goes silent, the kind of silence that would be awkward if the Witch didn’t seem so damned comfortable with it.
She smiles at me as though she’s just told me she grows prize-winning tulips for a living.
“You can close your mouth, love,” she says, “I haven’t got anything to put in it at the moment. ”