Jane Davey’s Locket by Eve Langlais Page 0,10

granite face and the tight curls on his head.

A tug at my chest kept me going. The giant lion chased the pirate onto a deck lit with fancy lanterns providing illumination for those who’d chosen to go for a late-night dip. Sans clothes. Not as sexy as you’d think since that included ogres with back hair long and thick enough to form the bristles on a hairbrush. For reference, I preferred synthetic.

The pirate ended up tripping over a mooning vampire—because that super white glow didn’t come naturally—and landed with a splash in the pool.

But the yodeling from the guests in the water didn’t arise because of that. Someone screamed, “There’s a floater!” As in a turd bobbing along in the shallow end, resulting in a mass exodus, with everyone exclaiming over the grossness. Except for the goblins, who remained behind, expressions smug.

As for the drowning pirate? He’d flipped to his back and slept.

The kitty sat down on the edge of the pool, whiskers twitching.

“Pussy afraid to get his paws wet?” I mocked. I shouldn’t tease too hard, given I wasn’t about to enter the shit-infested waters. I waggled my fingers—rather than my ass as Mother had advised me—and brought Mr. Pirate to the deck.

He snored. Loudly. I knelt by his side and began rummaging for the necklace.

“What are you doing?” asked Oz, who’d obviously traded his lion shape for man.

“Looking for something.” Which I wasn’t finding. Tearing open the shirt showed only the pirate’s bare chest.

“A witch and a thief?” Oz said. “No wonder he attacked you. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have interfered.”

“I wish you had stayed out of it. He has something of mine,” I grumbled. My irritation grew as I realized that the locket was gone. No longer around the neck of the pirate, and not in any of his pockets.

Standing, I took a peek at the pool, already turning into a rancid green miasma. Despite the scum spreading over the top, I could tell my necklace hadn’t sunk into its depths either.

The tug in my chest was gone, along with my jewelry. Probably looking for a new victim since the pirate hadn’t worked out.

I turned away from the pool, ready to leave, only to come face-to-chest with a very naked Oz. He was ridiculously muscled and impressive.

Oh, my. Forget the good witch Glinda, I suddenly became the scarecrow without a brain.

5

Oz: Lions don’t purr. But you can still pet me. Lower.

The moment the witch took note of my current state of undress, her eyes widened, her lips parted, and her temperature spiked. Yet, I was sure she would have protested if I’d called her on the fact that she liked what she saw. It didn’t take an educated guess to know she’d probably lie, yet my nose clearly scented arousal. Sweet, sweet arousal.

For me.

Being a man, I liked it. Wanted to explore exactly what kind of passion lurked under that prickly exterior. But I did have a sense of self-preservation, and a big chunk of curiosity that was still intrigued by her actions.

“What did the pirate steal?” I asked.

“Something personal of mine.”

“Are you sure he took it?”

She cast me a glance that rebuked me for even questioning the fact.

“Had to ask.” I shrugged, which drew her gaze to my body. The scent of her arousal intensified. Was it any wonder a certain part of my anatomy reacted?

Given she’d returned to stare me in the face, she might not have realized it if someone hadn’t whisper-shouted, “Fuck me, he’s hung almost as good as a centaur.”

Followed by, “No, let him fuck me. I like a man with girth.”

Which led to the witch dropping her gaze. Her cheeks turned red and, despite her sweet interest, she straightened, and her expression turned stony. “You should see someone about getting that fixed.”

“Are you offering?”

Her lips parted. “Why, I never!”

“Obviously, or it wouldn’t be so hard.” I winked.

She couldn’t handle it. Without another word, she left.

I couldn’t help but turn around to watch her go, the ass on her as fine as the front. Off she stomped, obviously angry. I couldn’t care less. Let her assault another passenger. My bottle of tequila beckoned.

Once more, my feet betrayed me. Me, who never chased a woman, who let them come to me for petting, followed the grouchy witch.

Or I would have if a bevy of nymphs didn’t block my path. By the time I’d extricated myself, saving my virtue from their greedy hands, the witch was gone.

And I still didn’t have a