Page 32 of Vengefully Matched

“The secret is that like this, anyone walking by could think we were up to all sorts of romantic endeavors.” She paused. “Also, maybe the secret is that I don’t hate pretending very much at all.”

“Really,” said Agatha, her mouth dry. She hoped Priscilla was not aware of the way her heartbeat sped up, of the rise and fall of her chest, of how she suddenly was aware of every single inch of her exposed skin and its proximity to Priscilla Hart’s painted lips.

“We’ll brainstorm nicknames,” said Hart, lips brushing against the lobe of Agatha’s ear.

Agatha shivered.

“Sunshine.” She moved her mouth lower, lips catching the delicate skin just below her ear. “No, that’s not it,” she mused, holding still for a moment. Agatha thought she might die, trying to hold her breath and move as little as possible, whether to make the moment last forever or expire more quickly, she wasn’t quite sure. Possibly both. “Dearest?”

“No,” Agatha managed. “That sounds like I might stab you through a shower curtain. Or you me.”

That was better. She was more composed when she was making light and cracking jokes.

“Precious,” Hart asked, moving her lips a little bit lower, so they caught the edge of Agatha’s jawline.

“No,” she gasped, hating the way her voice caught on the word.

“Bunny?” Prissy’s lips were on her neck now, just barely brushing against her skin.

“I’m not your pet,” she rasped.

“Honey,” Hart purred, moving her mouth to the spot just above Agatha’s collarbone that made her forget what her actual name was for a moment.

“Mmm,” Agatha mumbled, and the truth was, that one felt right, or maybe it was just the spot of her skin that felt that way under Prissy’s lips.

Either way, Hart pulled back, her smile reaching her eyes. “Honey it is.” She traced her hand softly across Agatha’s ponytail, tugging it gently enough that it wouldn’t muss, but with enough force that Agatha’s rebellious mind tumbled over the possibility there. She’d put her hair up for precisely the opposite of this reason, to stand on business, and here she was, picturing Priscilla Hart pulling her hair in all sorts of terribly unprofessional circumstances.

Agatha cleared her throat.

“Now that that’s squared away, what shall I call you, Mistress of Darkness?”

“I don’t mind that.” Hart’s smirk said she didn’t mind it a little too much.

“Maybe if we wanted people to think this was purely physical.”

Hart raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

“You know,” Agatha began, “my father is French, and I am fluent. We do have many lovely terms of endearment. And I think I might have the perfect one.”

“Really?” Hart purred it, and Agatha felt that low in her stomach.

“Chérie,” Agatha blurted out, and when Hart’s cheeks colored ever so slightly, she knew she’d gotten it right too. She wouldn’t examine it too closely, the way sobriquets had fallen so neatly into place for this little charade.

“Let’s get on the road,” said Hart. Her voice was casual, but the twin spots of pink on her cheeks betrayed her as she pulled onto the street. It felt so satisfying, knowing she’d never seen Hart blush for anything but her. Something in her melted, just a little.

Agatha briefly considered calling off the prank. It would have been easy enough, to run her thumb across all four fingers and cut the magic she’d set up for when they pulled out onto the highway.

But what would be the fun in that?

No, she sat back, ready to play a role and unsettle the woman who had unsettled her in more ways than one today already. Pranking would help sate the lust. Probably.

The road stretched out in front of them, clear and lovely, the skies blue, and Hart reached for the radio, eyes still on the road, and then jolted the steering wheel sharply onto the shoulder, slamming on the brakes when she saw the enormous creature in the middle of the road.

All four hooves were still for a moment, and then the front right one lifted, the giant antlered head turning toward the now-stopped car.

“Oh, fuck,” said Hart, raising her hand and snapping.

When nothing happened, she screamed, “FUCK.” She shook her hand in front of her, and snapped again, but the giant moose lumbered toward them nonetheless, its torso higher than the Packard, and Hart turned to her.