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it. The slats pushing against her
breasts helped alleviate some of the pressure. With a grin, she grabbed the
whiskey. The weight of the bottle felt as familiar as the stickiness of the
floor beneath her shoes. Three generations of witches had grown up in this bar.
If everything went well, someday there would be a fourth.
    She topped off two shot glasses already on the table, the
potent aroma of the whiskey blurring her vision. It smelled like oak.
    “When’d you get your hair cut?” Trent rolled the shot she
gave him back and forth between his hands.
    After a second, he threw it back and hissed at the bite.
Taking his cue, she poured the liquor into her mouth. Warmth moved down her
throat and settled in her stomach. She sucked in a deep breath and the rich
wood-and-fire taste watered her palate. She loved the sting of fine whiskey.
    “I didn’t think you’d notice,” she stammered, still trying
to catch her breath.
    He drew his arms across the table until he was close enough
that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Trent reached up and pushed her
bangs to the side, uncovering her eyes.
    His caress trailed over the curve of her cheek, slow enough
to make her think he tried to memorize the feel of her skin. He thumbed the
moisture on her bottom lip.
    “I’d notice if you cut one hair, let alone a bunch of ’em.
It looks nice.” His hand fell to the table.
    The act of filling another round covered how much the
compliment meant to her. The spot where she kept rubbing her necklace back and
forth stung and only then did she realize she’d been messing with it. Damn. She
wasn’t normally this fidgety. Then again, she didn’t normally ask a man—one
who’d already told her no—to take her virginity either. The whiskey burned her
stomach, and she shook her head to get rid of the sting. She poured another.
    Trent raised his eyebrow. “You’re trying to get me drunk,
aren’t you?”
    “No.” She downed another and drew in another breath. More
than she was accustomed to, this particular whiskey packed quite a punch. “I’m
trying to get myself drunk.”
    Before she could pour a fourth, he snatched the bottle away
from her.
    “Hey!” she shrieked. He had quicker reflexes, a higher
tolerance for liquor and the bottle was safely out of her reach before she
could grab it.
    “I’ve seen you drag grown men out of the bar by their hair.
You aren’t the shy type. What do you need liquid courage for?”
    She gave one last lingering look at the bottle before she
sighed and rested her chin on the top of the chair. Why was this so hard? “I
feel stupid.”
    Trent leaned back in his chair as if he needed a better
position so he could study her from afar. He brought the bottle to his lips and
licked the rim. Tease. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the way his tongue
trailed over the opening and she parted her legs. She pressed her hips against
the chair and stifled a moan. How would his tongue feel trailing along her
pussy?
    “I’ve only seen you this—” He swigged and then wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand. In the dim light of the bar, the moisture
trailing over the ridge of his knuckles shimmered. There was another scar
there, one she’d never noticed before. Before she could stop it, magic trailed
from her fingers. Like an extension of her hand, she used it to caress the old
wound. When he finished his sentence, his voice cracked. “Nervous once before.
Damn it, Sam, will you stop doing that?”
    Heat rushed to her face. She’d secretly hoped he’d been too
drunk to remember that night all those years ago. He’d never brought it up and
neither had she. “Maybe I should come back later,” she blurted, standing and
holding out her hand for the bottle.
    “Sit down.” He pointed to the chair.
    The rude sound she made seemed to force a rich, deep chuckle
from his throat.
    “I’m sitting only because I want to, not because you so
rudely told me to. I wish you’d stop that.”
    “I