Darius could only stare while she rushed through the rest of the spell. He barely heard her, his full attention locked on her face. Her sharp, wild, adorably pink face. Georgia Clare—biker, black witch, all-around badass—was blushing at a little skin-to-skin contact.
The urge to touch her back crashed over him with shocking intensity. His hand flexed at his side.
“Sickness flee, and strength return. So mote it be.” Georgia blew out the candle and set it down on the couch. Hot blue wax spilled over the sides and onto the cushion. She seemed unusually winded as she clapped shut her grimoire. Her fingers danced—no, trembled—over the cover. Darius tightened his jaw. His vision narrowed.
She took a deep breath and finally straightened. “Okay. How does it—”
He leaned forward, and caught her lips under his.
It was more experiment than kiss. He broke contact almost immediately. She let him go, but the hitch in her breath nearly ended him. Darius took one look at her damp lips, at the glazed heat in her brilliant eyes.
And kissed her again.
This time, there was nothing experimental about it. He had the taste of her on his tongue. There was no question about going back for more. It was just like he’d suspected: the leather and metal and denim were all just smokescreens. But unlike he’d suspected, underneath the smoke, she wasn’t soft.
She was fire.