Spicy Little Curses

by J.T. Geissinger

She tasted like sweet dreams and bad decisions. And I was already in too deep.

The ink on my skin burned, a pulsing reminder of what I was, of what every Rousseau man carried in his blood. But when she kissed me, I forgot.

I felt like a starving man. Like I had no choice. Hell, maybe I didn’t. Because the second my mouth claimed hers, it seemed inevitable, as if it had been written in the stars long before we met. It felt like fate . . . and fuck, did that feel good.

“Cut me some slack! This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. Which is saying something, considering I once accidentally joined a cult because they had really good tacos.”

She wasn’t a stranger anymore. Or an adversary. Or even the key to unlocking a curse. She was mine. And she was always meant to be mine, no matter how impossible that seemed to either one of us.

It figured I’d fall for a witch. My taste in women always ran toward the feral ones.

“Holy. Shit.” “Thought you knew all the big words, Notebook.” “I do. Those were more appropriate for the occasion.”