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“Hoochie daddy shorts,” I muttered without thinking.
“What?” Jag said.
I sat up straight so I wasn’t staring at his ass anymore. “I said… ummm… coochie dewy shorts.” Great, now I had implied I wore musty-ass panties. “Which I dislike,” I added quickly.
“Oh, I heard hoochie daddy shorts,” Jag said with a smirk.
Heat flushed up my neck. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Jag winked. “You could be full of me.”
Damn it, that line shouldn’t have worked, but my heart leaped and my pussy clenched.
Ram groaned. “Are you going to buy pants too before I ring this up? I don’t want to have to do another order.”
Jag ignored him and looked me over, making my skin tingle. “What does the lady think?”
I couldn’t help but glance at his tiny shorts and the outline of his cock. I wondered what it tasted like—and if it turned into a harp when he was hard or if that was a separate thing. But I had already made an idiot of myself, so I said, “It’s chilly out. You’ll get cold.”
And your cock will shrink.
Stop it, brain!
Like always, Jag didn’t miss a beat with me. “Maybe I was bitten by a radioactive flamethrower and don’t get cold?”
“Then shouldn’t you go entirely naked?”
“Yes, but I like this jacket.”
I laughed.
“Dear goddess, just put on pants,” Ram said.
“I have a hate-hate relationship with pants,” Jag said. “They make me itchy. I can’t stand fabrics rubbing against my legs.”
I jumped off the counter. “Maybe you just need something with wide legs. I can resize whatever you like, so it’s not tight-fitting.” I regretted saying that, but his comfort was more important than my horniness.
I guess.
Jag’s eyes brightened. “That might work.” He gestured for me to follow, and I gladly did, eyeing his ass as it shook in his tight shorts.
“I’m still getting used to all the amazing magical things witches do,” he said.
That got me to look at his head. “We literally traveled through portals to other worlds and resizing pants impresses you?”
He pulled a pair of black slacks off a shelf. “You underestimate how much I hate pants. That prison jumpsuit was driving me insane.”
“You hid it well.”
“I learned to mask when I was a kid.”
If I had learned how to hide better, I might have had an easier time growing up.
“What is it?” Jag said. “Are you thinking of how to make me a chainsaw arm?”
I smiled a little at that. He placed a hand on my cheek and stroked it with his thumb. I nearly melted into his firm, kind touch; his fingers were rough and calloused from playing the dick-harp. Dick-sitar? Dick-lute? Whatever it was.
“How did you get your dickstrument?”
