Page 51 of Vengefully Matched

Priscilla winked, and she was definitely a little bit out of it. However high she was, her smile was still dazzling as she leaned closer.

“Don’t worry, baby. That would be one benefit of fucking a girl. I can go as big as you want me to. As big as you need.”

Fuck. She was firmly aware of the pulse between her thighs, of the tension against the sheer, smooth bra under the white silk blouse that had seemed modest enough, until it was soaked by a stray sprinkler and splattered in Priscilla Hart’s blood.

Now she was bloody, wet, and painfully aware of the way her nipples hardened. Priscilla was, too, from the way she looked down, drinking in the sigh of Agatha, pupils blown wide. She was still clutching the finger, applying pressure, but her cheeks had plenty of color now, and her tongue darted out, tracing the outline of her unfairly plump lips.

It was the drugs, she told herself. The drugs that had made Hart horny, that had made her lick those lips.

Agatha wanted to bite them. She tried to distract herself with deadly octopus facts, but she found that she was unable to remember a single one.

How the hell had she gone from suspecting Priscilla Hart of murder to seriously considering an attempt to, for the first time in her life, lick a woman until she lost control. Even down half a digit, Hart was like a tempting glass of wine, like a dark bit of chocolate. Agatha suspected she would be decadent on her tongue, and goddess, did she want to consume her.

“Hellooooo,” called a voice, breaking her from a lustful reverie just before she did something stupid, like tried to finger her somewhat fingerless fake girlfriend.

Priscilla stood up, wincing slightly, and reluctantly, Agatha rose.

“I tried to tell him not to,” cried Dotty. “The gas leak!”

“There’s clearly no gas leak; this is some sort of occult mayhem,” said the man. Agatha thought he looked faintly familiar. He was wearing a delightfully loud pair of pin-striped tan-and-maroon pants, a bright yellow cardigan, and a tan jacket that floated around his shoulders like a cape, matching a jaunty little cap perched atop his head.

“Hank,” said Priscilla, and was that relief in her voice? “This is my girlfriend, Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin.”

“So pleased to meet you,” he said, holding up the hand that was not clutching a small cream-colored satchel. “I came as soon as I heard there was something amiss at the Gardens.”

“Agatha, this is Hank Dewey. He’s a friend of Victoria’s.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and then, out of the corner of her mouth, “Who’s Victoria?”

Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “Your girlfriend doesn’t know your brother’s girlfriend?”

Agatha kicked herself. Of course she knew Azrael, and by connection, vaguely, Vickie Starnberger. As Council president she was well aware of all of the magical community members, and Victoria was one of them.

Plus, she made a mean honeycomb latte.

“Vickie, of course,” said Agatha, smoothing her shirt. “You’ll have to excuse me, Hank. I’m a bit frazzled.”

“Dear, I don’t know that you’ll be able to pat out the blood splatters. You’ll want to soak it in cold water and treat it with hydrogen peroxide right away.”

Dotty cleared her throat. “Ms. Hart, are you quite all right?”

“I’m so sorry, Priscilla, where are my manners? Obviously, your appendages are more important than the sartorial blunder of blood splatter.”

Priscilla snapped, keeping her hand by her side, where it wouldn’t draw Hank’s attention. She winced and then did it again. “It’s been cleaned and bandaged. I’ll be fine, if a bit less nimble on my left hand than I was this morning.”

“In that case, I’d like to take the lead on cleaning this place up. I am, after all, the chair of aesthetic oversight.”

“That’s not technically a real position,” interjected Dotty.

“Dorothy,” said Hank, raising his chin. “Don’t start with me today, not in the wake of such traumatic disturbance to my most beloved Green Witch Gardens.”

“You—you mean Green Wonder Gardens.”

“I meant what I said, Dot.”

Priscilla’s jaw dropped a little, and Agatha watched Hank, frantically racking her brain for protocol on breached containment of magical activities.

“This is a normal, nonmagical garden!” Dot shrieked at a high pitch that did not do her any favors in selling it, but in her defense, it had been a generally stressful afternoon.