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It’s a time-tested truth that the best-looking men are always the absolute worst.
Oh, except for the fun fact that any woman who fell in love with a Rousseau man was doomed to a tragic death. So that was perfect. Nothing says “great idea” like falling for a man who might be my own personal grim reaper.
“What you’re asking for, smart-ass, is a spanking.”
A jolt of lust rocked my body. Wide-eyed and breathless, my heart pounding, I stared at him. Spanking? Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea.
She tasted like sweet dreams and bad decisions. And I was already in too deep.
“You don’t know me, but I’m as stubborn as a drunk goat on a narrow bridge.”
The only thing worse than a smart-ass woman was a smart-ass woman who was right.
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.
