She stared at Griff, the puzzle pieces starting to click together. “You were sent to me as his replacement.”
He nodded. “Normally a witch chooses her own familiar, but since you had no knowledge of the ritual, one needed to be assigned to you. So just like George was gifted to you from your mother’s best friend, I was gifted to you from Clarissa.”
“She didn’t mind giving you away to me?”
A humorless laugh huffed from Griff. “She was probably ecstatic about it.” He gave a sardonic twist of his lips. “In case you didn’t notice, Clarissa and I often don’t see eye to eye.”
His admission prompted her thoughts to shift to the tense scene on the porch, when Clarissa berated Griff for not keeping his cock in his pants. “Did you know that sleeping with me would unlock my magic? Is that why you didn’t make a move on me before last night?”
He appeared dumbstruck by her question. “No, not at all. Jesus, do you honestly think I would have risked your life just to get some sex if I’d known?”
Just to get some sex? Her stomach cramped at the almost off-hand way he’d said those words, as if he considered the incredible night they’d shared to be less memorable than watching paint dry.
“I never attempted to make love to you because it’s forbidden, Jemma. Familiars can’t have sex with their witches. It’s written in our contracts.”
His announcement managed to shake her from her glum musings. “You guys have contracts? You’re kidding me.”
“It’s a necessary evil. A long time ago a familiar attempted to steal his witch’s powers after gaining her love and trust. The contracts were devised as a safeguard to protect against something like that happening again.”
“You and I don’t have a contract.”
His shoulders hitched in a half-shrug. “Our situation is unusual. And technically Clarissa is still my main boss. Her contract holds precedence.”
She leaned back on the chaise and folded her arms. “Hmm, I never thought of it in terms of either of us being your boss. Does this mean if I tell you to do something, you have to do it?”
“Depends on what you want.”
She ran her fingers over the smooth fabric of the chaise, recalling how the rippling contours of Griff’s abdomen had a similar silky texture. Much like his cock. She licked her lips. Cat or not, Griff definitely was the proud owner of a body that begged to be touched. Maybe this whole boss thing had its advantages. “What if I want you to strip for me?”
He blinked. Twice. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Jemma—”
“Or maybe I want you to crawl over here and give me a bath…” she tiptoed her fingers along the front of the T-shirt he’d loaned her and grazed her suddenly stiff nipples, “…with your tongue.”
Griff shuddered so hard he nearly toppled over. She bit her bottom lip, hiding her grin of victory. If he thought all they had between them was some meaningless sex he could easily forget, she’d happily prove him wrong.
A deep, masculine chuckle floated into the room. Whipping her head around, Jemma stared at the man standing in the doorway. She took in his snug, faded jeans and black T-shirt. I’m the guy your mama warned you about was emblazoned dead center on his chest, the convenient disclaimer drawing attention to his sculpted pecs and the barbed-wire tattoo encircling his upper arm. Add all that to the rumpled midnight-black hair and neatly trimmed goatee, and her suspicions were sealed that he routinely had women dropping their panties every time he crooked a finger.
Lowering his mirrored Ray-Bans, the stranger revealed eyes in an unusual shade of amber. A predatory smile stretched his full lips. “Now that’s an offer too good to pass up, sugar.”
Chapter Five
If Logan Scott continued visually undressing Jemma, Griffin was going to ram his fist down the son of a bitch’s throat. Barely restraining his snarl, he stomped to the chaise and tugged Jemma close. “The offer isn’t open to you, dickhead.”
Logan sauntered into the room, his annoying-as-shit smirk widening. “Pity, because you’re not the only one with an oral fixation, Catman.”
Griffin’s hand clenched in anticipation of punching through the cartilage of Logan’s nose. As if she’d foreseen the knockdown-dragout on the brink of eruption, Clarissa strode through the doorway and glanced at Logan. “I thought I heard your bike outside.”
Logan’s gaze drifted down Clarissa’s length. He made no bones over the fact he was visually devouring the curve of her thigh like it was a tasty T-bone. “Decided the hog needed some fresh air.”
Jemma scooted forward on the chaise. “What do you ride? My dad has a vintage Indian that’s practically a member of our family.”
Logan chuckled. “A man after my own heart. Mine’s a Harley Fat Boy. Nothin’ like 3000 rpms of horsepower between your legs.” He winked. “Just say the word and I’ll give you a ride like you’ve never experienced, sugar.”
A low growl rumbled from Griffin. Jemma frowned at him. Hell, whatever it took to get her to stop smiling at Logan. Didn’t take much to encourage the bastard.
Clarissa issued a silent warning with her eyes. “Why don’t we all go downstairs? Gloria’s got just about everything set for supper on the veranda.” Clearly expecting her suggestion to be obeyed, she exited into the hall. After pinning Logan with an I’ll-kick-your-ass-later glare, Griffin stood and offered Jemma his arm.
Downstairs, they piled around the large folding table that’d been set up for the occasion. Griffin noticed the bemusement stamped on Jemma’s face as she took in the array of food. He squeezed her hand beneath the table. “You okay?”
“I have zombies after me and Clarissa’s throwing a smorgasbord. Don’t you find that a little…weird?”
“It’s a southern thing. You’ll get used to it. Now how about a biscuit?” He reached for the platter holding the bread assortment just as a flea-bitten bloodhound came hurtling out of nowhere. The mutt knocked into the table, sending food flying. Paying no heed to the shouts and curses aimed at him, the dog chomped onto a piece of fried chicken and dashed off.
Clarissa scrambled for the wobbling pitcher of lemonade and swore a blue streak when it toppled, spilling the beverage all over. “Damn it, Peach, how many times do I have to tell you to quit feeding that mutt? He’s never going to leave with all the free handouts you keep sneaking him.”
“But I like Floyd. He reminds me of my poor departed Linus.”
Griffin caught Jemma’s questioning look and leaned close to her ear. “Mr. Peach.”
Jemma nodded. “Ah.”
Still grumbling, Clarissa tried mopping up the mess with her napkin. Giving up, she wadded the soaked paper in her hand and scraped back her chair. “I’m going to have to replace the lemonade.”
“Make mine a brewski, shug.” Logan cupped his hand toward his mouth in the universal symbol for tipping back a cold one.
Shooting her pet a hard glare, Clarissa stalked into the mansion.
“So, Jemma…” The way her name rolled off Logan’s honeyed tongue made Griffin’s hackles rise. “Clarissa mentioned you had one hell of a scare this mornin’.”
Jemma dropped her uneaten biscuit onto her plate, leaving Griffin with the strong temptation to chop Logan’s balls off for bringing up the damn zombie attack. Apparently realizing his stupid blunder, Logan leaned sideways and patted Jemma’s knee. Griffin stared at the offensive hand, imagining each of Logan’s fingers broken and bloodied.
“Don’t you worry on it any, darlin’. I’m here now and completely at your service.”