A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(53)
She shot him a knowing look. “I find the tent perfectly comfortable, but I’m willing to take pity on your delicate constitution. We’ll book a hotel.”
“I’m not delicate,” he objected, despite the relief he felt. “I’m discerning.”
“Definitely delicate,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away, hips swinging. “And a frightful snob, to boot.”
He stifled a chuckle. “Do you know how many people dare disrespect me?” he asked in a mock-stern tone as he caught up to her.
“Not nearly enough, I bet.”
Astaroth couldn’t help it. He laughed, a full, hearty guffaw. “You’re so bloody mean!”
She smirked. “You can take it.”
“And so I shall, gladly,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.
Calladia shook her head. “It’s like you want me to insult you. Are you a masochist or something?”
“Just a demon who likes a challenge. A mortal constantly trying to take the piss out of me is unusual.”
“So you like being called a delicate little purse dog because it’s a novelty?” she asked.
They were passing a bakery with an array of large, colorfully shelled eggs in the window next to the pastries—a sure sign of griffin occupancy, since the creatures used their talons to puncture eggs before slurping up the yolks. On impulse, Astaroth cut Calladia off and backed her toward the window. She went without resistance, and her breath hitched when her shoulder blades met the glass.
Very interesting.
Astaroth planted his hands on either side of her head and leaned in until his mouth was inches from hers. Her eyelashes fluttered. “It is a novelty,” he murmured, reveling in the pleasurable tension strung between them. “But part of the enjoyment comes from imagining all the ways I can prove you wrong.”
“Oh, yeah?” Calladia asked. “How would you prove me wrong?”
She was trying to play tough, but the breathy quality to her voice sent triumph spinning through him. Every sense felt sharpened as he took her in. The unsteady waft of her breath, the pink tinge to her cheeks, her dilated pupils . . . she was far from unaffected by his nearness.
Did she want him as badly as he wanted her?
Astaroth brought his mouth even closer to hers, watching her eyelids sink to half-mast . . . then shifted until his lips brushed her ear. “You wouldn’t call me delicate if you’d seen me in action,” he murmured.
She shivered. “I saw you fight.”
“Not the kind of action I meant.”
Calladia made a shocked noise, then planted her hands on his chest and pushed. He stepped back, grinning at how flustered she looked. “You are incorrigible,” she said, shaking her head.
Not a victory yet, but a tactical advantage. Astaroth slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I think you like it.”
“And I think you have delusions of grandeur.” But as she turned to face the bakery window, Astaroth spied the points of her nipples pressing through her shirt.
Oh, yes, she liked it. Humans were a passionate species, and despite everything he’d done to antagonize her, she still wanted him.
Around her, he felt passionate, too. Had he been younger, he might have made his move right then and there, pressing her to the window and capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. But his witch was complicated. If seduction wasn’t equally her idea, she’d never go along with it. Calladia wasn’t a prize to be won—she was an equal competitor in this battle of wills and wants, and the only way to woo a woman like that was to leave her wanting until she got impatient and seized the prize herself.
Astaroth reached out to tuck back a loose strand of her hair, letting his fingers linger on the rim of her ear. She tipped her head to the side as if inviting him to trail his fingers down her jawline, then quickly straightened, narrowing her eyes.
Patience, he told himself as he withdrew the touch. Play the long game.
It was difficult when everything in him was screaming to seize her, kiss her, pleasure her.
Calladia shook her arms out and cracked her neck like she was shrugging off the carnally charged energy. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find a place to stay.”
Astaroth followed, his pulse tapping a giddy beat. As they headed down the street, he realized something startling. Despite centuries of being a master planner and manipulator who knew all the right buttons to push to influence people . . . Astaroth truly had no idea what Calladia would do next.
And fuck if he didn’t like that.
* * *
Griffin’s Nest proved to be a quirky, eclectic town designed for ease of access. The pavements were wide, and all public buildings had landing pads for winged creatures and ramps for wheelchair users, centaurs, and others who couldn’t navigate stairs with ease. Pride flags fluttered next to flags from around the world, and the windows were filled with signs advertising community events and cross-species sporting leagues and art classes.
Although Astaroth horns garnered a few curious looks, the people here didn’t seem alarmed by his presence. Everyone they passed had a smile and a wave. There was one tense moment when they passed a sweet shop and a gnome in a pointed blue cap came barreling out, but although Astaroth instinctively braced himself for an attack, he ended up confronted by a tray of free caramel apple samples instead.
“Are you a minotaur like Dr. Shepard?” the gnome asked, looking curiously up at Astaroth. He was a teenager, with acne-spotted cheeks and a diminutive letter jacket bearing a gold Honor Roll star. “Or part minotaur? You have the horns, but you don’t have a bull head like him.”