Spicy Little Curses

by J.T. Geissinger

Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better.

Why couldn’t Dax Rousseau be a hunched-over ninety-year-old with a leaky bladder and deadly halitosis? Why did my first brush with the supernatural have to be so handsome? So muscular? So maddeningly hot?

I guess he was right about me being reckless, because I didn’t even pause to think before I rose up on my toes and pressed my lips to his.