Mysteria Nights

framed a serious little face. Pert nose, huge hazel eyes that sometimes glowed and were always fringed by the prettiest lashes he’d ever seen.

As usual, she mesmerized him.

Right now, in the dim strobelight of the bar, she appeared lovelier than ever. Her barely-there dress—holy hell, she might as well have been naked. Every muscle in his body (even his favorite) hardened to the point of pain. A pair of black boots stretched up her calves, just past her knees, leaving several inches of delicious thigh visible. Cleavage spilled from the deep V of her top. Come over here and lick me, that cleavage said.

What he would have given to take that cleavage up on its offer.

Every time he saw this woman, he experienced an inexorable urge to strip her and ride her. Hard. Ride her till she screamed his name. Ride her till she spasmed around his cock. Now was no different. Her slender body, with its hide-and-seek curves, would fit perfectly against him. Over him. Under him.

His teeth ground together. He wanted her desperately. He’d always wanted her.

And there was no way in hell he could have her.

Loving Genevieve would destroy him. Literally. Being psychic sucked ass. One touch of Genevieve’s lips at their first meeting and he’d known, known, she would somehow kill him if he let himself get involved with her romantically.

That didn’t stop the cravings, however, didn’t stop her image from constantly haunting his dreams. Hell, in that scrap of black material she now wore, she might very well cause his heart to stop or his dick to explode.

“Hunter, will you get me a sex on the beach?” a high-pitched female voice said in front of him. Fairy laughter erupted, ringing like dainty bells.

He forced his gaze away from Genevieve, forced his lips to edge into a semblance of a smile, and met the impish gaze of one of the fairies. “Sure thing, sugar. Sex on the beach, just for you. I’ll even add Knight’s special ingredient.”

More giggling. The girlish sound grated on his every nerve.

He thought he might have slept with one of these horny pixies (maybe all of them?) at some point last year, but at that moment he couldn’t remember when. Or who. Or if they’d had a good time. He didn’t care anymore. Couldn’t get hard unless he thought of Genevieve.

What was it about her that so obsessed him? She was pretty, but other women were prettier. Maybe it was her amazing smell. No one smelled as sweet and intoxicating as Genevieve. Or maybe it was her eyes, so vulnerable. So determined.

He mixed the requested drink and slid it across the counter. From the corner of his eye he watched Genevieve saunter to the bar, her hips swaying seductively. She eased onto a stool, mere inches from his reach. Every nerve ending inside him leaped to instant life, clamoring for her. A touch, a press. Something. Anything.

“I’ll have a flaming fairy,” she said. Her voice dipped huskily, soft and alluring. Menacing.

The fairies gasped at the implied threat.

His lips twitched. Genevieve arched her brows—they were two shades darker than her hair, nearly black— silently daring the fairies to comment. They remained silent. He watched the byplay in amusement, admiring Genevieve’s spirit and strength. Fairies were delicate creatures, at times human in size, at others merely flickering pinpricks of light. They adored sex and alcohol, gaiety and games, but they rarely fought. Most resided in the surrounding forest and Colorado mountains, visiting Mysteria when they grew bored.

“Are you refusing to serve me?” Genevieve asked him.

“Of course not,” he said, realizing he hadn’t moved an inch since she’d requested her drink. He grabbed a glass. He didn’t allow himself to look at her and the tempting cleavage she displayed. Lately it was becoming harder and harder (literally!) to send her away.

Maybe he should not have cultivated a friendship with her, but he’d been unable to completely push her out of his life. He just, well, he wanted to spend time with her. She amused and exhilarated him.

At least she hadn’t killed him. Yet.

Every time he saw her, he asked himself a single question: is she worth dying for? Always the answer was the same. No. No, she wasn’t. Not then, not now. He might crave her, he might enjoy her, but he would not die for her. He lifted a bottle of rum.

“Sooo . . . how are you, Hunter?” she asked him.

Stay strong, he mentally chanted. Fight her appeal. But damn it all to hell, the urge to wrap her in his arms and give them both what they wanted was stronger tonight than ever before. “I’m good. Busy, though. I really need to see to my other customers. You’ll have to excuse me.”

He turned his back on her.

Silence.

Horrible, guilty silence where everything faded from his mind except the look of pain that passed over Genevieve’s face. He wished he could take back the words and say something else. Something innocent like, You look nice. Something honest like, It’s great to see you. As it was, hurt radiated from her and that hurt sliced through him sharper than any knife.

“Genevieve,” he said, then pressed his lips together. If he told her he was sorry, he’d only be encouraging her.

“I still need my drink.”

“Of course.” Well, hell. He didn’t know how to handle her anymore. Always his resolve teetered on the brink of total destruction—now even more so. He needed to send her away, but he wanted her to stay so badly. She’s not worth dying for, remember?

He inhaled deeply, meaning to relax himself, but her scent filled him. More decadent than ever before. Pure temptation. Forbidden desire. Total seduction. Hot and wild. His eyelids closed of their own accord, and his hands ceased all movement, her drink once again forgotten.

“Hunter?”

His cock jumped, hardening further. Again, his name coming from her lush made-for-sin lips was torture. Too easily could he imagine her screaming his name while he pounded in and out of her.

Snap out of it, asshole, and fix her drink.

Hunter pried his eyes open and mixed vodka, peach schnapps, and cranberry, orange, and pineapple juices into the rum. Without ever glancing in her direction, he struck a match and lit the top on fire. Yellow-gold flames licked the rim of the glass before dying a hasty death. He slid the drink to Genevieve and turned away.

“What do I owe you?” she said in that breathy voice.

“You’re my friend.” They both needed the reminder. “It’s on the house.” If her fingertips brushed his while she handed him money, he’d come right then, right there. And he’d be willing to bet it would be the best orgasm of his life, no penetration required.

“Falon,” Hunter called. Falon, his employee and best friend, was busy cleaning tables, but the tall, muscled male sauntered to the bar.

“Yeah?” Falon smiled a mysterious smile.

The three fairies trembled in reverence, bowing their heads in acknowledgment.

Falon had uptilted violet eyes, perfect white teeth, tanned skin that sometimes shimmered like it had been sprinkled with glitter, and shoulder-length blond hair with a slight wave. While human women lusted for him, fairy females were awed by him. They treated him as if he were a king, a god. Hunter had no idea why. Every time he asked, Falon shrugged and changed the subject.

Falon wasn’t human, Hunter knew that, but he didn’t know exactly what type of creature Falon was. There was an unspoken rule in Mysteria: if you can’t tell, don’t ask.

“Do you mind taking over?” Hunter asked him. “I’ve, uh, decided to call it a night.”

“I don’t mind at all. I like the view from the bar.” Falon’s gaze strayed meaningfully to Genevieve. “I’ve been meaning to call Genevieve, anyway. So this works out perfectly.”

Falon and Genevieve? Hunter froze in place, lances of possessiveness and jealousy blending together and spearing him. Nothing you can do about it, man. Leave. Now. Muscles clenched tightly, he strode toward the storeroom. His home was above the bar, and the only door to the staircase was there. He’d go upstairs and seduce a few bottles of Jack Daniels. Maybe then he could wipe Genevieve’s image from his mind. Not to mention the hated image of Genevieve and Falon.