Free A Witch In Time: Magic and Mayhem Book Three by Robyn Peterman Page A

stay four to six feet away from me it will work fine,” he explained as he adjusted his jeans and quickly placed his napkin in his lap.
     
    “Maybe all we have together is sex,” I said watching for his reaction.
     
    The thought was depressing, but what if it was true?
     
    “I disagree,” he growled, clearly unhappy that I’d even suggested such a thing. “Even though I’d give my left arm for you to ride me like a cowboy, I want way more than that from you. I want everything, heart, soul and body—preferably naked.”
     
    “I said blind, not a cowboy.”
     
    “Same thing,” he replied, again readjusting himself.
     
    “Nope,” I argued. “If I were to ride you like a cowboy, I’d get naked except for boots and a Stetson. Blind means I’d just be totally naked. However, I’m wearing a fabu sheer mocha bra today so I might leave that on. So, cowboy—hat and boots. Blind—naked except for bra. Got it?”
     
    Mac’s head dropped to the table with a thud and the sound he made went right to my underused girly parts. I was being so mean, but he was such an easy target.
     
    “I’m sorry,” I told him and I meant it. “I’m not playing fair. How about I conjure up a long winter coat and one of those hats where just my eyes show? You should probably stop showering and maybe wear some preppy clothes like madras pants and a pink polo shirt. I hate madras pants—total turn off.”
     
    “Stop showering?” he asked with a pained chuckle.
     
    He was jack-knifed forward and I was sure his Bon Jovi was killing him. My Little Red Riding Hood was making me squirm in my chair.
     
    “Yep and wear preppy girly-man clothes, but that probably wouldn’t even work,” I admitted. I’d still want him even if he wore a clown suit, a man bun and black socks with sandals.
     
    “Okay, how about this?” Mac proposed as he tried to find a comfortable position for his Bon Jovi. “All clothing stays put. We drop the poison scenario and go for the high school virgin and quarterback situation.”
     
    “Cheerleader,” I added.
     
    “What?”
     
    “I’m a high school virgin cheerleader. I was never a cheerleader and I always wanted to be.”
     
    “Fine,” he said as he stood gingerly and approached.
     
    “Wait,” I yelled making him stop dead in his tracks. “Did you bring condoms?”
     
    “Condoms?” he repeated totally confused.
     
    “Yessssss. Props are an important part of making it really work. Remember the Granny cap when we played Little Red Riding Hood? We have to have condoms. You have to show them to me and then swear on your life if I agree to do the nasty that I won’t get pregnant.”
     
    “You’re serious?”
     
    He was torn trying to figure out if I was for real.
     
    I was.
     
    If I couldn’t get laid, I needed the game to be realistic.
     
    “Is your motorcycle out front?” I asked as I grabbed a jacket and my Birkin bag. “Wait, I might have some condoms.”
     
    “You have condoms?” he hissed through clenched teeth and a little bit of fang popping out.
     
    Dang that was hot.
     
    Shifters didn’t use condoms. They couldn’t carry disease and could only impregnate their mate after they were mated. He was clearly unhappy that I had any kind of sexual aid or block, so to speak, that might include someone other than him.
     
    “They’re not mine,” I hissed. “They’re my dad’s.”
     
    The statement certainly brought the foreplay to an abrupt and very silent end—until we both groaned loudly in pain and started to laugh.
     
    “That’s pretty much a boner killer right there,” Mac choked out with a shudder.
     
    Shitballs, he was correct. I wasn’t even horny anymore. The thought of my dad needing a condom was gag inducing. The thought of my dad needing a condom with Baba Yaga was scarring. It was worse than eating my cooking.
     
    “I am so sorry,” I apologized in a strangled whisper as I slapped my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t get ill. “Not my