Bait N' Witch (Brimstone Inc. #3) - Abigail Owen Page 0,26

her in close, searing her with the heat of his body. Desire throbbed through every part of her, heavy and thudding, leaving her beautifully tingly and on edge as she lost herself in what he was doing with his lips, his tongue, his hands.

She couldn’t have ended it even if she’d wanted to. Gods and goddesses, she’d just discovered what heaven felt like. Taking it away now would be like taking away a child’s birthday toy. The sexy stubble on his jaw rasped against her skin, and she reveled in the sensation wanting to press against him, rub her cheek to his. Grey was all man, and she wanted more.

With another groan, he pulled back, then stepped away, breathing hard, and the cool air that hit her in his absence was like being dunked in an ice bath.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he ran his hand through his hair, spiking it up even more than before, making her fingers itch to smooth it down for him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Pride and a fierce self-protective instinct kicked in. She tipped her chin up and gave him her best nothing big has happened here smile. Hopefully she managed to look amused and bored at the same time. “You didn’t. I did. Now that we got it out of the way, we can move on.”

His thick brows slammed low over his eyes, but the kitchen lay in darkness, illuminated only by moonlight and the light on the stairway behind her, so she couldn’t catch his expression. “I guess you’re right,” he said slowly.

He sounded as though he believed her as much as she believed herself. In other words, not at all. But she ignored that, as well as the fire branding her wrist even as the rest of her body cooled. She wasn’t even going to sneak a peek at those lines to see if they’d changed. It didn’t matter. Whatever those lines meant, and whatever this thing was between her and Grey, it had absolutely no future. Not with who she was and with who he was.

Sometimes the only way to stop a freight train was to blow up the bridge in front of it. “I could never have an affair with an employer. I care about the girls too much.”

Grey jerked back as if she’d slapped him. And verbally she just had, because she’d implied that if he continued to pursue her, he didn’t care about his kids. An undeniably smart man, he caught her message.

“Of course.” The frost in his tone told her everything she needed to know. He’d leave her alone now. “Good night, Rowan.”

“Good night, Mr. Masters.”

And there went that clenching spasm inside her again as she watched him walk away, each step echoing in the hollow that was her heart.

Damn.

Chapter Nine

“Dad?”

Greyson turned his head to Lachlyn as they all crunched through the snow to the spot from which they teleported. Something in his daughter’s voice caught his attention more than normal. “Yes?”

“Some kids at school were talking—”

“Lachlyn,” Chloe hissed. “Don’t.”

Uh-oh.

“I want to know,” Lachlyn snapped at Chloe. She turned back to him. “They said our mother was killed by a warlock. Is it true?”

Aw, hell. He had known this conversation would come along someday, but he was hoping for a little more time. Greyson stopped walking. “On the way to school is not a good time to talk about this.”

“But—”

He held up a hand, halting Atleigh’s protest. “I’ll tell you, but tonight when I have time to answer any questions you might have. Okay?”

“So it’s true?” The warble in Chloe’s voice twisted his gut.

He pulled all three into his arms and kissed the tops of their heads. “Don’t worry about it until we talk tonight. Okay?”

He was afraid they’d push it, but all three looked at one another, silently communicating in the way they had, and nodded.

The rest of the morning went as usual as he teleported them to school and returned home. He had eight hours to figure out how much and what to tell his daughters about how their mother had died.

After letting himself into the house, he walked through to the kitchen without really thinking about his direction. There he found Rowan hovering over a pot at the stove. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, she had the apron he wore when he grilled wrapped around her frame, the material swamping her slim form. Barefooted, she danced and hummed along to the radio, which was tuned to a