Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(36)

She shivered in response to his voice. Then hazily said, “For what?”

“For this.”

His hand ghosted up the back of her leg, under her skirt, over her garter . . . and beneath the loose silk of her step-in chemise. He cupped one bare buttock with his palm and gently squeezed.

Desire shot through her. She cried out against his neck, something between a moan and a half-formed encouragement.

He opened his mouth against her neck and ran his teeth across her skin as his palm massaged her backside, rougher now—demanding. She went limp in his arms. She was afraid if his long fingers explored an inch farther, he’d discover how wet she was. Unbelievably wet. Her thighs were slippery with arousal from all the wanton rolling around she’d been doing on his lap.

She was half ashamed over it. Half not.

And she was half a second from telling him—no, demanding he take her, right there, right now. She didn’t care anymore, she just wanted—

A loud, judgmental throat-clearing sounded from the front of the taxi.

The taxicab driver. The car was stopped outside Gris-Gris.

Good grief. They were inside a public taxi, with nothing but a seat between their lewd activities and a stranger’s body. She’d completely forgotten—How could she have forgotten? What is wrong with me? I am an immoral human being. This seemed far more wicked, far more risqué than her previous two brief sexual experiences had ever been.

And she liked it.

It was at that moment she realized that she was, sadly, just as perverted as she’d accused Winter of being that afternoon she’d found the postcards in his study.

“Fifteen cents,” the taxi driver said as she shifted off Winter’s lap. He resisted, holding her in place for a moment before reluctantly sliding his hand out of her underclothes.

“Hey!” Winter snapped at the driver. “I’m paying you to drive, not to ogle. Eyes off her.”

Winter instructed the man to wait. She couldn’t get the door open fast enough, nearly tripping over the curb as her Mary Janes scrambled to find purchase on the wet sidewalk. Her legs were wobbly. She had trouble standing and experienced a flash of panic as she wondered if the pedestrians walking by knew exactly what she’d been up to.

“You okay?” Winter asked behind her as drizzle beaded on her coat.

She let out a breath and turned to face him. He seemed so much bigger out in the open air. And terribly good-looking. She found herself smiling dumbly at him. “Yes.”

He pulled his overcoat closed and smiled back, just as dumbly. “Good.”

“Do you do this kind of thing with all your employees, Mr. Magnusson?”

“Hardly. Then again, Bo isn’t half as tempting as you.”

A prideful pleasure leapt up inside her chest. “No need to butter me up. Your hand’s already been up my skirt.”

“My hand is very happy about that.” He grinned at her, big and wide, tapping the brim of his fedora against his leg.

They stood in the gray drizzle in silence for several moments, just looking at each other, as people passed by on the sidewalk. Raindrops began snaking down the collar of her coat. Her hair was sticking to her cheeks. She’d have to wash it before her show. “I’d better . . .” She pointed behind her, toward the barred entrance to the speakeasy.

“Of course.”

“You’d better . . .”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

She forced herself to turn and walk toward the club, her body still tingling from the heavy petting. As she was reaching for the door buzzer, a hand clamped around her shoulder and spun her around. Winter kissed her firmly on the mouth, just for a moment. He released her and fitted his fedora tightly on his head without saying another word. Just walked backward a couple of steps, then turned on his heel and marched back to the waiting taxi, leaving Aida breathless and swooning with joy.

TWELVE

LATE AFTERNOON SUNSHINE BROKE THROUGH THE DRIZZLE A couple of hours after Winter left Aida at Gris-Gris, happy as a clam. The taxi dropped him off at his house. He returned a couple phone calls, made a couple more, then stepped out onto the side porch and waited for Bo to return. They needed to recalibrate the search for this Black Star sorcerer and focus on fortune-tellers at the Chinatown temples.

The Queen Anne didn’t have much of a yard, but what little grass they had stretched out from the driveway to the tall wooden fence that separated his property from the Victorian on one side and the Italianate on the other. A fragrant bay laurel tree stood in the corner near a wooden swing. Winter used to sit there and watch the boats glide across the bay until the neighbor across the street added a wing to his house last year and blocked the view, the bastard.

He leaned against the spindled porch railing, thinking of Aida. It was hard to keep his mind on anything else, truthfully. The way she looked up at him in the taxi with those big, haunting eyes of hers, the surprise he’d felt when she kissed him. How warm and plump her backside felt in his palm. How she’d lustily rocked against his lap.

Thank you, God.

But what he was thinking about now was the feel of her slender fingers tracing his tender knuckles. They were sore as hell, and though she’d been careful to use a light touch, her explorations had caused jolts of pain to shoot up his arm. He’d refrained from telling her this, because . . . well, because she was touching him, unafraid, and nothing else mattered.