Sugar spice and spellcra.., p.1
Sugar, Spice, and Spellcraft, page 1
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Keep Reading for an Excerpt from Shortbread and Shadows by Amy Lane
About the Author
By D. E. Paulson
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Sugar, Spice, and Spellcraft
By D. E. Paulson
Jakob Kuratowski is a lot of things—a witch, a baker… and a lightweight. Which is how, after a rare night of drinking and dancing, he becomes the mate of an alpha werewolf.
Jakob doesn’t trust his new mate, Erik Lindstrom, any farther than he can throw him, and he’s not about to give up the life he’s built and the job he loves and go live with a bunch of werewolves just because his accidental husband wants him to. Werewolves might have a mystical instinct about their mates, but Jakob needs time.
That doesn’t stop him from helping their pack, as Erik insists on calling it, when they have magic trouble. He even lets Erik woo him a little. But when the deadly threat of the unlife—ravenous abominations who dwell in the dark place between the living and the dead—set their sights on Erik, Jakob has to step up and into his role in the pack to save the man he’s coming to love.
To Bug, my constant companion in the writing of this work. You are missed.
Acknowledgments
IT IS rightly quoted that nobody writes alone. Sugar, Spice, and Spellcraft received a lot of help from many different hands throughout its drafts to become the book you are about to read. While not a complete list, the following are some of the many people who helped my story along its way, and I owe them all (and you my readers) more than is easily put into words—Kit Haggard and Jules Hucke, who helped edit this book, gave me feedback I needed to hear, and made sure I told a story worth reading; Tyson J, who was an early beta reader and helped shape some key elements of my story; Audrey B, who sat with me through many rounds of cider as I worked on my solo edits; the staff of Waldschänke ciders, who wanted to know just what sort of romance I was writing; Annie S and Laura S, who encouraged me to submit the story to publishers over delicious Afghani food in Cambridge; everyone at Dreamspinner who helped Sugar, Spice, and Spellcraft reach publication; and lastly, Leo, for putting up with hearing Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre and Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead at all hours of the morning while I worked. Thank you all for helping this book become what it is.
Chapter 1
“YOU’RE GOING out? What’s the occasion? Purim’s in March, right?” Rashid asked.
“I do go out, Rash,” I said.
“The only time I got you out of the apartment when we lived together was when you were apprenticed at Schwa. What’s going on, Kuratowski?” Rashid asked. Despite a time zone and some four hundred miles, it was all too easy to picture the look on my former roommate’s face.
“I got a house,” I gushed.
“You got a house?” The stud in Rashid’s eyebrow would have been sky high if I were looking at it.
“I got a house,” I confirmed.
“Fucking hell, Jakob! That’s a great reason to celebrate. Is Cara giving you the day off tomorrow?”
“You know I set my own schedule.”
“Shit. You’re telling me this now, Kuratowski? Why didn’t you bother… no, wait. Fuck it, I’ll start driving and—”
“Don’t worry, Ibrahim. You can come out after I finish all the renovations.”
“Kuratowski, that’ll take you years.”
“All right, you can come after I’ve at least got hot water consistently.”
“Sounds like a plan. Go out and make bad choices,” Rashid said. He hung up before I had the chance to say anything else or object, and I rolled my eyes. Rashid knew I was the sort of guy who would, at most, have a single beer during the course of a night—sipped slowly, savored, and enjoyed at leisure. For once, as I tapped my foot waiting for the Lyft, I would listen to my former roommate.
I would go out and get whiteboy wasted.
This would turn out to be a Poor Life Choice.
As the rideshare pulled up to a relatively nondescript brick façade with pride flags (LGBTQ, leather, and bear) hanging from the windows, the muggy May air washed over me, promising all sorts of things. It was easy to imagine the waters of Lake Erie, the faintest hint of a breeze, and a late night under the stars. Not that I would get that lucky, but it was nice to imagine it anyway.
I was celebrating my “first real adult endeavor.” After over four years of saving, I wasn’t renting anymore. I had a house—a place that would become a home of my own. My parents had been over the moon when I called them with the news, and my father’s family in Pittsburgh was already threatening to visit. I wasn’t engaged (as Rashid was), nor was I a parent (as my elder sister had been at twenty-eight), but being a homeowner at twenty-eight was something I could be proud of. As I strode across the floor to sit at the bar and stare at shelf upon shelf of bottles against the lavender wall, I made my second Poor Life Choice of the night.
I ordered a shot of well tequila.
It was cheap, it went down like water, and when the bartender asked me if there was an occasion for the shot, I told him, and he gave me three more shots on the house. This led me to order yet two more shots, and by the time I finished the sixth shot, I was really feeling the liquor. I was intoxicated, in an unfamiliar space, and I didn’t have any talismans, charms, or even a packet of salt. My grandmother would have been ashamed of me. I was a witch unprepared and thus a dead witch.
After that sixth shot, my sense of time blurred. At some point the bar pumped the Village People’s classic anthem and I decided to dance. While this was not a Poor Life Choice in and of itself, it was certainly not advisable. I remember heading to the dance floor and flailing through the motions. Instead of retreating to the bar as I should have when the song ended, I stayed out and continued to dance.
Rashid, the last person who saw my attempt at dance, was kind when he said I looked like someone suffering a seizure. I likely wouldn’t attract anyone based on the alleged correlation between skills on the dance floor and those in the bedroom, but I followed the old expression and danced as if no one were watching. And who would want to watch me? I was intoxicated, and I allowed the music and alcohol to take me where they needed. When a broad palm ghosted over my rail-thin chest and then moved down to my hips, I was more than willing to go along for the ride.
My partner didn’t share my obvious lack of rhythm, and I was happy to let him lead. I knew he was male without looking over my shoulder. The unsubtle semi-erection digging into my back was more than clue enough. There was also the rich scent of cedarwood, bay rum, leather, and the faintest hint of tobacco. I was far from knowledgeable about perfumes, but I couldn’t see many women choosing such a combination for themselves. Finally, chin stubble dragged along my throat, then came to rest against my jaw as teeth worked over my earlobe. My knees almost went out from under me, and it wasn’t the tequila.
He kept me upright, pulled me closer, and held me possessively. We moved sensuously, following his silent direction. I looped an arm up and ran fingers through his hair. Alcohol can work wonders with inhibitions, and it had been too long since I had been touched like this—too long since I had felt lust, yearning, and the rich bourbon of desire. I was drunk on all of it, not just the bottom-shelf tequila.
How long we remained on the dance floor, I’m not certain. One song bled into the next, and he kept me on my feet, his muscular forearm wrapped tentacle-like around my waist—as though I would have been anywhere else, even with all of my grandmother’s warnings. All that mattered was being held like that, being his, even if only for those songs.
“Do you want to get out of here?” His voice was deep, low, unmistakably rich and full—next to a growl. It took me a moment to gather myself. Tequila, sweat, the booming bassline, the sea of dancers around me… it was all too much. I was surprised I could hear him at all, but I inhaled and nodded, still not having seen his face. I felt his lips twist into a grin against my ear before he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to a pulse point on my neck. Groaning, I tilted my head back. It was then that I saw him for the first time, though not clearly through the darkness of the club. I made out a jaw that could cut glass, cheekbones any sculptor would have been proud to mold, and a predator’s smile.
“Good,” he said and he pulled from me and turned. The world shifted on its axis for the moment when I was not in contact with him. Then his hand found mine and I stumbled after him. It felt like half the patrons watched us as he led me from the dance floor. Above the streetlamps and the neon glow of the club’s sign, the moon hung full and strong. Had I not been overwhelmed by lust and liquor, I might have put two and two together. The heat of his body, the quirk of his lips when he smiled, and most of all, the brilliant moon, would have told me the truth if I had been sober. But I wasn’t sober, and I was content to follow him, my ha nd still in his, as he turned down one street and then another. Before long we were at his well-maintained F-150. Normally I would have joked that his truck must be compensating for something, but I knew there was no truth to it, not with how he had held me, how he had ground against me.
“Where are we going?” I asked as some sense of self-preservation raised its head from a slumber caused by tequila and desire.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Not at first and not unless you ask,” he said, his voice filled with silken sinful promise.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Erik Lindstrom. What’s yours?”
“Jakob Kuratowski,” I said before I could wonder why he had given me his full name and I had responded in kind.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jakob,” he said. There was the faint drag of stubble over my knuckles before the feather light pressure of his lips. Anticipation and want ran down my spine. As he raised his head, I saw lust sparking in his eyes. Had I been a prepared witch in that moment… but I wasn’t. I needed, and I let that overpower what common sense I had left.
Once I was in the cab of his truck, he drove us in silence. I lost track of time and the route we took when he placed one palm on my thigh and traced idle circles with his thumb through the fabric of my jeans. Eventually we reached a two-story redbrick Georgian-style home. I couldn’t make out many details through the darkness, lust, and remaining fog of tequila rampaging in me, but I do remember Erik opening the door for me, unclasping my seat belt, and pulling me into a bridal carry. I nuzzled into his neck and inhaled his cologne and the raw scent of him.
We were across the threshold and up the stairs in seconds. The little I saw showed an inclination toward simple but well-made decorations, with wood furniture predominating. I noticed a fireplace and almost wanted to ask him to stop so he could take me there on what seemed to be a deerskin rug.
Before I could form the words, he carried me up the stairs to his bedroom and laid me on the king-size mattress of a sleigh bed with an intricately carved headboard. He removed my glasses and put them on a bedside table made of a darker wood. Although still fully dressed, I couldn’t imagine being more exposed than I was in that moment. There was this mountain of a man looking down at me, his face impossible to read. I wondered if he regretted taking me to his house, if the fog of lust from the club had evaporated, and he now regretted his choice.
“Please tell me you’re sober enough to consent,” he said. I was slightly shocked, but I nodded, not trusting my tongue. My heart echoed in the cage of my chest, and I both felt and heard the rushing of blood in my ears.
“I need to hear you say it,” he half commanded.
“Say what?” I asked, barely above a whisper. I still didn’t trust myself, didn’t know if I would be strong enough to say what was needed. He chuckled and brushed a kiss against my jaw, then my ear. Overwhelmed by him as I was, I didn’t catch my legs as they wound around his hips. Our erections dragged against each other through the fabric of our pants, and I rolled. I needed to feel more, to take whatever he would give me.
“Say, ‘Erik, I want you to fuck me.’” His voice was even, contained, measured.
“Erik, I need you to take me,” I replied.
“Close enough,” he said, and then he claimed my mouth in a searing, demanding, masterful kiss. I groaned into his mouth, snaked my hand around his neck, and pulled him as close as I could. Our tongues slid against each other, and I allowed him to take control as I writhed against him to reduce the distance between us.
Our bodies were flush against one another. Every inch of his frame was strong, firm, and radiated raw power and heat. If I had been paying attention, I would have known what was up. If I had been thinking with the larger of my two heads, I might have avoided what happened next. Instead, I was awed by the care with which he undressed me and then himself. His cock pulsed against mine—full, flush, and heavy with promise. Our kiss broke and he nibbled at my neck. Then his tongue teased my nipple and soon after, my navel. Eventually he took the tip of my weeping erection between his lips and worked over the slit, his tongue swirling and darting, a calloused palm holding me in place.
My knowledge of the power, the weight of words means that I am given to swearing as little as possible. He was able to draw every invective I knew in English, Spanish, Polish, Yiddish, and Hebrew. None of my words had any real force or power behind them—they wouldn’t become anything truly dangerous—so I swore to make a sailor proud. I was dangerously close to spilling down his throat when he lifted his head. His tongue, that devil’s tool, danced over his lips as he placed both of his hands right above the joints of my knees and pressed my legs to my chest. I was exposed to him.
I generally don’t enjoy rimming, even if I have freshly showered and groomed down there. But when his tongue played over my entrance—swiping, circling, and tracing patterns I had never seen in any of the grimoires I’ve studied—I lost myself for a second. I even lost my words. My hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white.
When Erik’s tongue had finished its wicked work, his fingers came into play. I expected, half hoped, that he would be rough, rushed, and demanding, and leave me sore and aching. Instead, he was coy and playful, fingers as coarse as they were dexterous. He worked my body with maddening precision, finding my prostate easily and crooking his digit just so. It was a minor miracle I didn’t lash out in raw pleasure. In the throes of passion, witches have been known to be incredibly destructive. I should have given in, allowed my magic to do something, anything, to ward him off through a show of power. But the only things that came out of me were precum and my pleas for more. I can’t say which I did more—beg or leak. When he pressed a second finger into me, I saw stars.
Two fingers became three, and I was all but screaming for him to stop with all the foreplay and to get down to the business of fucking me. I heard as well as felt his chuckle echo through both of us. He pulled all three fingers out, flipped me over, and put a pillow beneath my hips in fluid motions. I shivered when more lube was applied. Then I heard the distinct crinkle of a condom packet being ripped open and changed the angle of my neck to watch him pull the latex down his impressive cock. I had begun second-guessing myself when he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to my shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Jakob, I’ll make this as good for you as it is for me,” he promised. Then the head of his prick was against my hole and he pushed forward. I pushed back. When the tip breached me, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I savored the burn that ran through my body. He sank slowly, pausing when he could. It was a struggle, but I managed to resist the impulse to slam myself against him. When he was fully sheathed inside me, he leaned down and kissed my ear.
“So beautiful,” he said. Instinctively, I clenched around him, trying to hold him closer, needing more of him, more of this. I needed motion, friction, a spark with the possibility of becoming inferno. He half growled and complied. Unlike when he had been preparing me, he was all drive and determination—all raw, primal hunger. The time for gentleness had apparently passed. He was ready to rut, to claim, to master, and Hashem forgive me, I wanted it. Was desperate for it. He pulled almost all the way out and then slammed in. I pressed back, trying to take what he could give, trying to show him I wasn’t made of crystal. He kissed me fiercely as he crashed into me again, beginning to fuck as a man possessed. Erik proved to be the merciless lover I had been craving, needing, dreaming of. He set a punishing pace, driving into me, taking me to the edge within moments. He held me there, slamming against me with all the power and force of his body. I was lost to pleasure, offering silent thanks to whatever might be listening, and I was too busy pursuing what I knew would be a mind-melting orgasm to think about what really mattered.
His breath was hot along my neck, and he whispered dark and sinful words into my ear, praising how tight I was, how eager I was, how good I felt around him, and how I had been made for him. Like rimming, dirty talk normally wasn’t my cup of tea, but in that moment, it was the hottest thing I had ever experienced. I was leaking over his bed sheets, both my hands captured above my head by one of his. “I’ll take you there,” he promised as he rested fully inside of me and then rolled his hips—a short, shallow jab, a contrast to the jackhammering I had been subjected to for heaven only knew how long. Time was elusive that night. It might have been seconds or hours. I moaned and he shifted again, hitting a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.
