Magic was life and life was made by making love and feeling good and our bodies constantly tried to remind us to live. I’d spent the last several weeks consumed by death and destruction—I needed balance. I deserved it. As above, so below.

He stopped before me, his expression wary. “Time to go, witch.”

Hardly. I twirled away, but he grabbed my hand, spinning me back until I crashed against his body. Heat poured off him, enveloped me. I had the strangest feeling I should hate it. “Hello, demon. Let’s dance.”

“You need to get out of here. Immediately.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re tearing your clothes off and looking at me like mine are next.”

I glanced down and laughed in surprise. I was trying to undo the stays of my bodice, but he thwarted my efforts. His tattooed hand covered mine. I looked up at him, my brow crinkled. “Don’t you want to see me naked?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“If you still want to rip your clothes off when we get home, we can discuss it then.”

A blast of ice on my arm doused flames of desire. Then they were back with a vengeance. I gave up trying to remove my dress and focused on him. I went for the button on his trousers, and he deftly moved back. He was a difficult creature. I placed my hands on his chest and dragged them down instead. Power thrummed beneath my touch. Responded to me. It was intoxicating.

“For the living embodiment of sin, you aren’t very sinful.”

I tugged him close. Drums beat. Passion stirred. He closed his eyes. I pressed closer, and he didn’t stop me this time. The music grew sultry. I swayed automatically against him. I wanted him to swing me up into his arms, and dance us across the sky.

The stubborn demon didn’t move.

“Why won’t you touch me?” I ran my thumb across the seam of his lips and he gently bit down, holding my finger in place. If he meant it as a deterrent, it wasn’t working. He opened his eyes and I was struck by the beauty of them. “Is it because I’m a witch?”

He trailed big hands down my arms. I leaned in, waiting for him to crush his lips against mine. In the far reaches of my mind, I recalled him saying one day I’d beg him to kiss me. That I’d love it or loathe it, but still crave it. He hadn’t been wrong. I hated him . . . for denying me. The anticipation was building to a point that was almost painful. When he finally dragged his hands to my wrists, instead of pulling me closer, he gently pushed me back, holding me at arm’s length.

“There are many reasons. One of which is because you’re under my brother’s influence.” He glanced over my shoulder, his expression forbidding. “Lust.”