it had led to them looking harder at her, delving deeper to see if she was involved in the practice of black magic.
He picked it up. The whispering stopped. Or mostly stopped. He had to really listen, concentrate hard to experience the insanity.
“This is fucking not happening.”
Mental placebo effect, that’s all.
But his heart said otherwise. It threatened to pound its way out of his chest and make its escape.
His hand closed around the charm, fisting it when his mind said put it down and see .
He compromised, telling himself just carrying it should be enough to keep the placebo effect going. He jammed his fist into his pocket, held it there for several long seconds before forcing it open and releasing the charm.
The whispers returned like someone had turned the dial up.
Sweat broke out on his skin, icy cold instead of sunshine warm.
He retrieved the phone from his pocket, scrolled to Seraphine’s number. Keeping it after they’d put the Vorhaus and Harper murders to bed was another one of those things he didn’t want to look closely at, especially since consulting witches wasn’t standard operating procedure for solving homicides.
Survival instinct kicked in. He grasped the charm again.
What would it hurt to call the witch? Hear what she had to say about this shit?
His thumb hovered over her name and number.
Retreated.
Call her and he’d only get sucked into this shit even deeper.
Coward .
That was the little head doing the talking. Because the only thing that’d kept him from slamming his mouth down on hers and taking her to the floor for a good hard fuck that day he’d been at her place had been Trace’s presence.
He set the phone on the dresser, trying to ignore the way he was using his nondominant hand to collect the stuff he usually carried and get it stashed in the correct pockets—the last item the twenty-five dollar chip he’d won in Vegas at the Luxor and that’d brought him good luck in Atlantic City.
“Don’t go there,” he muttered, stuffing it in his pocket. But it was too late, because what was the difference between believing in the power of the chip and the charm he didn’t want to let go of?
My sanity . But a glance at the bloodstained mattress had him retrieving the phone, thumb hovering over Seraphine’s number. Retreating. Hovering until he slammed the phone into his shirt pocket.
He couldn’t do it like this. He’d do the breakfast thing. Immerse himself in normal and then…
Only as soon as he pulled away from his apartment, he blew off that plan like his body was on autopilot and didn’t give a fuck what his mind said and didn’t care the sun wasn’t up or that the lights weren’t on at her house, or even that a knock on the door this late, or early depending on viewpoint, usually meant trouble.
He did it anyway, relief washing through him as the porch light went on. Desire slamming into him when Seraphine opened the door.
Fuck. What had taken him so long to come back here?
He released the charm, leaving it in his pocket because now he needed his hands free. There was a second to notice the absence of sound in his head, and then there was only heat, blazing lust as skin met skin, his palms and fingers on her upper arms, jerking her to him.
He slammed his mouth down on hers, both of them moaning at the contact. Her nipples stabbed into his chest, her cunt pressed hard and tight to his screaming dick.
Oh yeah, this was what he needed. This would cure what ailed him.
Nothing worked better than sex. There was no better way to block out all the weirdness than to lose himself in a woman’s body, in this woman’s body. He was so fucking tired of fighting this.
He plunged his tongue into her mouth. Kicked the door shut behind him before maneuvering her backward, trapping her against it though she was a willing prisoner.
She met lust with lust. Her nails scraped down his back and his hips bucked in response.
The need to get out of his shirt went
He picked it up. The whispering stopped. Or mostly stopped. He had to really listen, concentrate hard to experience the insanity.
“This is fucking not happening.”
Mental placebo effect, that’s all.
But his heart said otherwise. It threatened to pound its way out of his chest and make its escape.
His hand closed around the charm, fisting it when his mind said put it down and see .
He compromised, telling himself just carrying it should be enough to keep the placebo effect going. He jammed his fist into his pocket, held it there for several long seconds before forcing it open and releasing the charm.
The whispers returned like someone had turned the dial up.
Sweat broke out on his skin, icy cold instead of sunshine warm.
He retrieved the phone from his pocket, scrolled to Seraphine’s number. Keeping it after they’d put the Vorhaus and Harper murders to bed was another one of those things he didn’t want to look closely at, especially since consulting witches wasn’t standard operating procedure for solving homicides.
Survival instinct kicked in. He grasped the charm again.
What would it hurt to call the witch? Hear what she had to say about this shit?
His thumb hovered over her name and number.
Retreated.
Call her and he’d only get sucked into this shit even deeper.
Coward .
That was the little head doing the talking. Because the only thing that’d kept him from slamming his mouth down on hers and taking her to the floor for a good hard fuck that day he’d been at her place had been Trace’s presence.
He set the phone on the dresser, trying to ignore the way he was using his nondominant hand to collect the stuff he usually carried and get it stashed in the correct pockets—the last item the twenty-five dollar chip he’d won in Vegas at the Luxor and that’d brought him good luck in Atlantic City.
“Don’t go there,” he muttered, stuffing it in his pocket. But it was too late, because what was the difference between believing in the power of the chip and the charm he didn’t want to let go of?
My sanity . But a glance at the bloodstained mattress had him retrieving the phone, thumb hovering over Seraphine’s number. Retreating. Hovering until he slammed the phone into his shirt pocket.
He couldn’t do it like this. He’d do the breakfast thing. Immerse himself in normal and then…
Only as soon as he pulled away from his apartment, he blew off that plan like his body was on autopilot and didn’t give a fuck what his mind said and didn’t care the sun wasn’t up or that the lights weren’t on at her house, or even that a knock on the door this late, or early depending on viewpoint, usually meant trouble.
He did it anyway, relief washing through him as the porch light went on. Desire slamming into him when Seraphine opened the door.
Fuck. What had taken him so long to come back here?
He released the charm, leaving it in his pocket because now he needed his hands free. There was a second to notice the absence of sound in his head, and then there was only heat, blazing lust as skin met skin, his palms and fingers on her upper arms, jerking her to him.
He slammed his mouth down on hers, both of them moaning at the contact. Her nipples stabbed into his chest, her cunt pressed hard and tight to his screaming dick.
Oh yeah, this was what he needed. This would cure what ailed him.
Nothing worked better than sex. There was no better way to block out all the weirdness than to lose himself in a woman’s body, in this woman’s body. He was so fucking tired of fighting this.
He plunged his tongue into her mouth. Kicked the door shut behind him before maneuvering her backward, trapping her against it though she was a willing prisoner.
She met lust with lust. Her nails scraped down his back and his hips bucked in response.
The need to get out of his shirt went
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