Elven Magic

Elven Enchantment (Box Set)
Willa Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2015 by Willa Okati

Days like this were enough to make a girl wish she batted for the other team.

Men! Ciara ignored the noise of the bar to pick at the label on her bottle of imported beer, shredding the edges with her short-clipped nails. No polish; just a thin coat of gloss. Most men weren't worth the spit to shine your shoes with. At least, not the men she'd had the misfortune to date.

Most recently, Paul.

She growled under her breath and tore off a strip of label. Men like Paul could drive a woman to drink. That -- that moron, Paul. Sweet as honey when they first met, but with a Madonna/whore complex to end all Madonna/whore complexes. He'd told her she had no imagination in bed, even that she was frigid, but she found out later that he'd been going straight from her to Hooker's Row every time they slept together.

Just today, she'd thrown the pictures the private detective had taken into Paul's face and told him to go fuck himself. Then she changed her number and headed to O'Dougal's, the best -- okay, the only -- Irish bar in her area.

It was St. Patrick's Day, and when better to pay the place a visit? She liked O'Dougal's, although it would never win any awards for class. All dark woods and dim light, with folk singers and occasionally a Celtic band. Things went on in that bar that wouldn't see the light of day in any other bar -- God, the hookups she'd watched -- but they always had a booth available for someone who needed it, and the best beer in bottles or on tap that she could want.

She took a sip and muffled a slight burp behind her hand. So she'd wanted a bottle tonight. Not as classy as a glass with a head of foam, but hey, what did she have to worry about with class? No one else here cared. She could sit in her corner booth in the near-dark, drink herself silly, and call a cab to take her home to her lonely bed. And that's just what she planned to do.

The Irish band tonight was on a break, quaffing down ale at the bar. The way they were going, she'd be surprised if they had the cognitive ability to go on halfway in tune. A rowdy little college-age gang, they had a nice enough hand with the fiddle and the bodhran. They were all too young for her, though, even if she had been looking.

Other people in the bar worth noticing? Well, there was a woman with long, curly blond hair, hanging on a nicely dressed man's arm. She was tottering on stiletto heels and wore more makeup than a trowel could shovel on, but he didn't seem to care. Ciara made a small disgusted noise. Probably like one of those ladies Paul had seemed to go after so much.

Two women sat at a table, eagerly discussing something. Looked like young businesswomen out for a night on the town. They'd flipped over the paper placemat and were scribbling frantic notes on it. Ciara watched them with interest. At least they seemed like they were having fun.

She was a people-watcher. Always had been. It served her well in her job as a secretary at the law firm. She could tell the good clients from the bad ones. Her bosses relied on her intuition.

Too bad that same savvy sucked when it came to dating.

She took another swig, finishing the bottle. Right on cue -- another reason she liked O'Dougal's -- the bartender waved at her and sent a perky little thing over with a second icy brew. Ciara passed her a five. After thought, she gave her a fifty -- what the hell? -- and said, "Keep 'em coming. When I can't count how many bottles are on the table, call me a cab."

"Man troubles, sweetie?" the barmaid said sympathetically. "Work got you down?"

Ciara sniffed into her sweet, sweet beer. "That rotten loser," she said miserably. "Why I ever trusted him…"

"Man troubles." The barmaid poked a pencil behind her ear and pocketed the fifty. She jerked her thumb back at the bar. "Not that I'd be interested while I was in your situation, but you should check out the floor show."

"I've been listening to the band."

The barmaid giggled. "Not the band." She pointed again. "Them."

Ciara followed her finger to a dark corner of the bar. Her mouth fell open a little. Two men, each one a hunk of the highest order, wrapped around each other like white on rice. Mouth to mouth, they kissed as if they'd eat each other alive starting from the lips and moving on down. Hands roved over backs and down to gorgeous, tight asses in leather pants.

"Whoa," she said faintly.

"Ain't that the truth?" The barmaid grinned. "Men get hot thinking about two women. So women get hot thinking about two men."

She wasn't wrong. Ciara could feel her nipples starting to pucker as she stared at the men. One light, long and lean, wearing eyeliner and a shirt halfway unbuttoned, showing off a ripped chest. The other taller and stockier, dark, with big hands that looked like they knew what they were doing. From the way Blondie humped against him, Ciara guessed that they did. Both men wore their hair long, sweeping their shoulders and blending together in a curtain of blond and black.

A shudder of excitement washed through her.

The barmaid grinned at her. "I just knew that would catch your eye."