Sex and the Psychic Witch (24 page)

Turn the page for a preview of
Annette Blair’s next novel featuring

Storm Cartwright.

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

BENEATH a rare blue moon in June, Storm Cartwright, bridesmaid, her black hair streaked blue to match her gown, accepted the arm of Aiden McCloud, the stud man she planned to kidnap after her sister’s wedding—unless he decided to cooperate, in which case, hell was bound to freeze over by midnight.

“Are you sure you won’t come with me to find the baby I hear crying in my mind when I’m near you?” she asked one last time, just to be fair.

Aiden shook his head, his long dark hair shifting in the breeze, the sexy quirk of his lips was beguiling “ ‘In your mind,’ being the operative phrase,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure. Strong instincts of self-preservation compel me to say no. Chasing the voices in
your
head scares even this tough outlaw biker.”

Storm gave him a flirty wink. “I’m so proud.” Since meeting Aiden—a case of electromagnetic attraction at first sight—her clairaudience had kicked into overdrive. Audible only to her and only when she was near him, that crying baby’s telekinetic plea put all her instincts on high alert. And her plan to follow the sound and find the child—his child, she believed, but he denied—meant taking him on a journey with no destination, a concept he found understandably ludicrous.

He stroked the soft flesh of her wrist with his thumb, demonstrating his ability to turn her to jelly, which did not come as a surprise. “Drop the agenda,” he said, “and it’s a hot-date road trip in a luxury motor home that could pamper you prissy.”

“Hah! Me, prissy?” She bit her lip. Could she accept the hot date and let the sound in her mind direct the trip without him realizing? She’d planned to take his motor home, anyway.

“Forget it,” Aiden said, reclaiming his hand. “No road trip, and no wands or spells to get your witchy way. Your body language alone is beginning to make me twitch. We’ll stay in Salem. You can give me a”—he leaned close—“
personal
tour.” He eyed the triquetra tattoo revealed by her gown, low on her right breast, then he forcefully shifted his hungry gaze to her lips. “I could make a meal of those blackberry lips,” he whispered.

Good. The stage for her plan was set: A horny hunk, a wedding beneath the stars, soft music wafting over Paxton Island, waves breaking against the shore, fairy lights in the trees, and rose-scented air. A scene teeming with allure.

For weeks, they’d been playing a sexual version of chicken, a bit like juggling fireballs, but almost hoping to get burned. As far as she was concerned, tonight was more than her sister’s wedding. It was an opportunity for some preforeplay foreplay that pointed to a premeditated coed inferno, which might—or might not—take the top spot on her agenda at the end of the day.

She’d make it work and she didn’t need magic to pull it off. She had a plan going for her, a choreographed seduction . . . and celibacy, three weeks’ worth. Abstinence, as in the lack of, as in they’d never had sex—with each other—a rather mystically mutual state of affairs that fit her scheme so well, she hadn’t questioned it, though perhaps she should have.

After the reception, if she and her sisters played their parts right, she and Aiden would drive off alone together on a psychic quest that just happened to include sex as a bonus. Multiple bonuses, and multiple multiples, she hoped. It was a matter of fate, providence, and a spiritual directive of discovery and rescue.

Storm beamed, and judging by Aiden’s quick physical reaction, her anticipation hit him square in the libido. Oh yeah, they were on the same wave length, all right, both hot as a lightning bolt. They had sexual chemistry stockpiled in gigawatts.

“Cut that out,” Aiden snapped in a whisper as he faced her, turning his back on the wedding guests. “We’re standing, literally, in the spotlight. People are watching.”

“Hah,” she whispered, glancing down. “
You’re
certainly giving them something to see. You cut it out. This is the bride’s day. Don’t go shortchanging my sister.” On the outside, her scowl matched Aiden’s. On the inside, she rubbed her hands together in glee with tingly, warm sexberry gel. Judging by her mark’s insta-boner, the role of seducer was “up” for grabs.

Aiden leaned in, his nearness tickling her skin and invading her senses like whipped cream and rose petals. “I’m gonna get you for this,” he promised.

Dragon’s blood, he looked hot in a tux. “Finally,” she quipped, tossing down the proverbial gauntlet to speed her plan on its merry way. “You’ll excuse me if I have my doubts about your libido going the distance?”

“Are you kidding me?” He straightened, forgetting to whisper.

“Shh!” Storm faced forward as the musicians began to play “By the Light of the Silvery Moon,” in lieu of the wedding march, and she and Aiden began their trek down the garden path toward the gazebo. There they separated as Aiden went to his side, and she went to hers to witness the marriage of her sister Harmony to Aiden’s best friend, King.

In the center of the gazebo, wearing the beautifully restored gold linen day gown that led her sister to King Paxton in the first place, the bride as high priestess cast a ritual circle that encompassed the bridal couple, the wedding party, the justice of the peace, and four cats.

Harmony—with her clone attendants, triplets extraordinaire—had also chosen her future step-daughter as a bridesmaid, and their pregnant half sister, Vickie, who positively bloomed.

Beside King stood his three-year-old grandson, as ring bearer, his two best friends, and the Scot who’d knocked up the bride’s half sister and married her shortly afterward.

After a romantic and emotional ceremony, utilizing portions of both Celtic and traditional weddings, Harmony and King kissed as husband and wife for the first time. Applause and a hearty rendition of “Blue Moon” followed them into Paxton Castle for the wedding reception.

The constellations winked, and the moon smiled wide as Storm imagined taking Badass McMagic prisoner, likely in shackles. And later—once he willingly joined the quest—she anticipated having her very wicked way with him.

For
Annette Blair
, writing comedy started with a root canal and a reluctant trip to Salem, Massachusetts. Though she had once said she’d never write a contemporary, she stumbled into the serendipitous role of “Accidental Witch Writer” on that trip. Funny how she managed to eat her words, even with an aching jaw. After she turned to writing bewitching romantic comedies, a magic new world opened up to her. She loves her new home at Berkley Sensation.