Page 48 of Hopelessly Teavoted

The macabre staccato of the doorbell cut through his reverie in front of the mirror.

As though staring at his reflection could change the reality that he could not touch the woman he loved.

Or, rather, Az could touch her, but it would be his last living act. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. Even if she did still want to pretend when he wanted to go all in.

Azrael pulled open the heavy door, and there stood Vickie, an anchor in the cold early October night, trepidation on her face, eyes wide with concern as they flicked from him to the door.

She had to be doing the same mental calculations about how safe it would be to walk close to him.

It had been two weeks since they had reaped the soul of Tina Rosehill, and it was already October, but Priscilla had finally bullied him into inviting her for dinner.

He was tempted to pull her in for a hug, to risk it all in the hopes that fabric could save them from fate. Instead, he stepped back. “Come on in, Victoria.”

Vickie flinched a little at her full name. It had been a devotion earlier, but it was a wall between them now.

It was also a confession, an explosion of syllables admitting his ardent affection. He wanted to fist his fingers in her hair and pull her mouth close to him in greeting.

But he also wanted not to die, so instead he raised his hand awkwardly. The motion was painfully familiar.

“It’s good to see you, Az,” she said weakly. “Prissy insisted that I needed to come early to keep you company while she and Evelyn cooked.”

“I know,” he said, his gut twisting at the thought that she would be reluctant to come tonight.

Even after his efforts toward friendship.

Goddess, he understood, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

He paused, hesitating. It hurt him, but he didn’t want to cut her with his pain.

“I’m glad you’re here, Vickie.” He snapped his fingers, pushing the strand of hair caught on her cheek back behind her ear.

Her hand flew to her face, as though she might hold the magic there, to touch him without ever making contact.

“I’ve been thinking, Azrael. You have magic. We are both creative. Flexible. Willing to try new things.” She picked at her cuticles for a moment, hesitating. “Maybe we could try this without touching? Have you thought about it?”

“I have considered it in depth, yes.” In enough depth to yearn for her, pitifully.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. Was it tempting fate? Asking for too much? The curve of her neck was so tempting, and he was a snap away from touching it, if not with his fingers on her, then indirectly, with his magic.

A yowl at his feet broke the tension, and Emily Lickinson protested loudly until he petted her, and she prowled back over to Vickie, purring against her legs.

“Great timing, Emily,” Vickie said. “Give him time to paws and think it over.”

Dammit. She was perfection.

Az sneezed a little—he’d forgotten his allergy medicine again—but the cat was worth it. A snap of his fingers put a pill and a cup of water in his hands.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Yes, but something stronger than water, please.”

He winked at her, determined to focus on the fact that she was here.

Tossing the allergy medicine back with the water, he snapped his fingers, and the glass disappeared back to the kitchen.

The bar cart had been set up for exactly such things, and three snaps later, a dark and stormy for each of them appeared directly on the end table on either side of the lamp shaped like a warrior mermaid, her trident pulled back in defiance.

“You remembered,” she said, reaching for the glass. His arm itched to reach for her, but instead he snapped his fingers again, and a pair of leather driving gloves appeared on his hands. It felt formal in a way that reminded him of his father, and she smiled, stepping toward him.

“I know your favorites. It’s either that or margaritas, and the night is too young for vomiting or nudity.” His tone was jesting, but his jaw twitched at the last one.

“Az,” Vickie breathed, so quietly that he blinked, unsure if it was a real syllable spoken or simply the product of his wishful imagination.

He stepped back, carefully unrolling the sleeves of his crewneck sweater so there was no exposed skin.

Her eyes flashed with hurt. Dammit, he was an asshole, making the woman he loved think he didn’t feel safe enough to know she would not accidentally immolate him.

“I trust you, Vickie. I just feel fucking awkward. Fancy gloves and then what, a merino wool sweater? I’m a mixture of Target casual and old Hollywood glam.”

“I know,” she said softly. “It doesn’t have to be weird. I have an idea. Prissy did say that we should dress up for dinner. Do you have a suit?”

“You think the son of Benedict Hart doesn’t have many, many suits?”

“Magic one on. The nicest one you have. Put those clever fingers to good use.”

Devil damn him, there were other good uses he wanted to put them to, but this was the option he had, so he slid one glove off his hand, trying not to lose his mind at the slight bite of her lower lip as his fingers rubbed together, and the exhale, barely audible, which reminded him so much of the soft, whispery sounds he wanted to pull from her.

He wanted her, and the suit he had just magicked himself into was cut snugly enough in the legs that he knew it would be apparent. A flush crept up his cheeks despite his best attempts to play it cool.

“Now do me,” she said, voice breathy. Eyes caught low enough on him that he wondered how bad it would be, really, to burn for her in earnest.

“Pardon?”

“There’s a corseted, off-white gown. It’s hanging in my bedroom closet, the farthest against the wall, pushed against an old cauldron. Do me. Put me in it.”

He counted backward for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to tame the lust inspired by her words.

He closed his eyes, focusing. The magic to transport her outfit from there to here was trickier than reaching for a costume in the attic, but younger Vickie had made him watch the music video enough times that he could call up the image of it easily.

With a snap of his fingers, he swapped out her jean shorts, tank top, and sweater for the champagne-tinted dress.

Opening his eyes, he took her in.

She looked like she was going to her own wedding in that thing.

Our wedding. The thought popped into his head, unbidden, and he blanched.

Azrael had always told himself that he didn’t need to get married. That it was for old-fashioned folks like his parents, tangoing in their elegant living room and partaking in whatever activities he wanted to forget took place in what was now a very nice home gym.

But he would marry Vickie if he could. Soul-seal with her, marry her, carry her heart in his heart. Carve it there, even. Maybe not today or not even this year, but it was what he wanted, one day. He wanted every single thing with her.

The thought twisted painfully in his chest now that it was impossible to even fuck her the way he had once imagined that he could, skin to skin, and with his hands and mouth.

“Vickie,” he said, “I want to—”

She lifted a finger and shook her head, stopping him. “Az. Gloves.”

He nodded. Those he knew they had in the house, and a few snaps later he’d put her hair up and added elbow-length gloves.

She looked so good that it burned. Az slid the glove back onto his hand and brushed a finger across her cheek. Her loveliness was bright enough that he could almost feel her through the fabric.

Almost was such agony now.

“I missed you,” Vickie said. It pained Azrael that he couldn’t kiss her face. In the yearning fashion of his Victorian forefathers—on his father’s side, at least; his mother’s family were Ashkenazi—Az raised Vickie’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against the glove sheathing it.

The way her mouth parted and the hand in the other glove clenched, he knew she was as desperate as he was. Victoria’s cleavage heaved over the top of the corset, and Az longed to run his tongue down the curve of each breast, to palm them and feel the press of her skin on his lips.

Fuck.

“Azrael,” she whispered, and then he was taking her gloved hand in his, pulling her behind him into a drawing room, their drinks sweating, abandoned, side by side, on the table.

He couldn’t throw her on the sofa the way he wanted, not without dying. He could only sit down and gesture for her to sit next to him.

He opened his mouth to tell her everything, but she stopped him, a gloved finger to his lips, her pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Now that I’ve got you in formal dinner wear, can I try something a little scandalous?

” If he thought her words might end him, her gloved touch threatened total annihilation.

She moved his hands down, pulling them toward her waist. His hands gripped her sides, digging in to keep from moving them upward and touching her where it would kill him.

At the door, the house slid the lock shut, the echo of it reverberating through his thick, sluggish longing. He’d die if he touched her. But he might die if he didn’t touch her too.

“Yes. Touch me—with your gloves on.” The words fell from her mouth, and he wanted—no, needed—nothing more in the world. “Put your hands on me,” she whispered.

“I…” He faltered for a moment, biting his lip. “Fuck.”

“I was hoping to try to, yes. With gloves and with magic.” Her throat flushed, she nodded, the words still in her mouth. “If you want, that is. I’m going to need an enthusiastic yes , Azrael.”

“Fuck yes. Tell me what you need. Tell me how much you need it.” He wanted all of her, but he could do this. He would take whatever she would give him. If he couldn’t touch her, he at least needed her words, all her emotions.

“Yes. Please. Make me feel good. For fuck’s sake, don’t die, but make me feel something again. Let’s pretend we’re not cursed. Let’s pretend there’s not a good chance we’re the kind of tragic play where they both die at the end.”

Az’s chest was a hollowed-out drum where his heart used to beat, and the misery of not being able to actually touch her and have her again was searing.

He pushed the pain away. He didn’t want it to be pretend, but he did want Vickie to have what she needed, even if it hurt.

That was true. He focused on the truth that he could give her, and the more embarrassing one, that he would take whatever he could get, even if it hurt later.

He could pretend for her, if that was what she needed. For now, at least.

“Close your eyes, Vickie. Close your eyes and pretend .”