Curse of the Fae (PA #3)

Chapter Three

Romeo (Lust)

Kian complains worse than an old man with joint pain. He's gotten lucky so far—Ari's only Slothed him like twice—so he has no grounds to grumble as much as he is.

"Hold still so I can get these pants off," I joke.

He doesn't laugh.

I tug them a little harder, silently vowing to find a half-giant that can lend him some clothes. Jeans might as well be leather for how easy they are to peel off of his thunder thighs.

"We need to stop feeding you. Remind me at breakfast that you're not allowed to eat. If Low's there, I'll forget. She's just too beautiful and she makes my brain stupid."

Lust has given me a somewhat unfair advantage in life. I've never had to try to fuck someone, and I've never cared to do more than that.

I'm not suave or even very smart, so I'm lucky Willow is cosmically tied to me. Otherwise, she would've dumped my ass seven times over already.

Shit, we're officially together, right? Should I give her my class ring and ask her to go steady?

Or those jackets the high school jocks wear. Letterman? Leatherman? Who is the man made out of leather, and is he responsible for Kian's impossibly tight jeans?

"You are staring at my cock."

Am I?

I guess I am.

"It's not my fault you refuse to wear underwear."

Of course, I respect the decision to go commando, but he's one boner away from punching through his zipper and taking someone's eye out. His dick could stretch me out, so there's no telling how long it'll take to prep Willow for it.

Fuck.

Not a good time to be thinking about my fingers pumping in and out of Willow's pretty pussy. My dick hasn't had any non-solo action since Willow wrapped her pouty mouth around it.

She's been too preoccupied with worry about Cassie, Anne, and Albert's trials to concern herself with the state of my arousal, and I can't exactly blame her. I'm always horny. Her friends aren't always missing.

Instead of celebrating their safe arrival, we've dealt with Michael's murder and clean up-slash-cover up. I got stuck refilling the soap-buckets since no one trusted me with an important job.

Willow finding a new mate is less noteworthy. We've already done that song and dance six times before.

Oh, this one likes to mass murder people?

Meet Ragnar and Kian. Galileo on a good day—or a bad one if you're lame and care about the sanctity of life.

Darragh has to bring something unique to the table if he wants me to be impressed. Otherwise, I'll distract Willow long enough for Kian to eat him.

The cannibal grunts, reminding me of his presence.

I have to raise Kian's ankles to get the fabric past his feet, but he's finally freed from the confines of his denim prison.

"There, there, soldier," I say, standing to my full height.

He glares at me as I force his arms through the holes of his shirt, but the expression is lost once his head disappears in the cotton.

"You are extra vexing today," he informs me.

Vexing.

Like hexing.

I wonder what villainous spells the Westfall witches are cooking up with my sperm. Are they creating the magical version of Viagra for the thousand-year-old warlocks they haven't killed off yet?