Tempted by His Wicked Kiss

New York City, December 31—Countdown to Eternity...

Jackson Holloway is running out of time. To pay for his life of crime, he must find a pure soul to take his place in the Underworld before the clock strikes midnight. Medium Charlotte Simms seems like the perfect target—all he has to do is kiss her. But one kiss leads to a sensual encounter unlike anything Jack ever experienced in life. And now he must choose between love—and eternal damnation....

Tempted by His Wicked Kiss

Zoey Williams

Dear Reader,

When I told my AP English teacher from high school (who is still my dear friend to this day) that I was writing paranormal erotica, she said, “Paranormal erotica? What is that—sexy ghosts?” I laughed long and hard at that, but when I stopped, I sat back and thought, Well, what about a sexy ghost? Could I make ghosts sexy? And so began my journey of thinking up the plot of Tempted by His Wicked Kiss.

Inspiration struck next when I had a girls’ night with my mom, my best friend Mary and her mom, Kathy. We were eating, drinking and laughing as usual when Kathy took out an old tea-leaf-reading book from the 1920s and we all read our cups of peppermint tea. That’s when I knew my next heroine would be a fortune-teller and seduce the hero over a tea-leaf-reading session.

Tempted by His Wicked Kiss was so much fun to write, even more so than my debut novella, The Demon’s Forbidden Passion. I can only hope that you have just as much fun reading it. Feel free to tell me what you think at www.facebook.com/AuthorZoeyWilliams or on Twitter, @ZoeyWilliamsAu. I would love to hear from you!

All best,

Zoey

Dedication

This novella is dedicated to “Hilda and the Pool Ladies,” Mary, Kathy, Amy, Zoey P., Paula and Marissa, for always being my biggest cheerleaders and dearest friends.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter One

For almost all of Jackson Holloway’s adult life, his name appeared everywhere. The headlines of newspapers, police blotters, wanted posters that had been hung so long on policemen’s bulletin boards the paper had yellowed and curled. But now, for the first time—standing in the middle of Times Square six days after Christmas—Jack was anonymous. Lights sparkled from every angle—from the flashing billboards above the street to the lit advertisements on top of the cabs that flooded the asphalt. All of them hocked overpriced restaurants, kitschy souvenirs, discounted Broadway tickets, cheap T-shirts. Men in sandwich boards and funny costumes attempted to thrust colorful flyers into the fists of tourists. Each had a different message typed out in the same loud font. Designer suits at bargain prices. $10 off your meal at such-and-such restaurant. Do you like free comedy?

A cacophony of horns honking, the swish of revolving doors, the tinny music being pumped out of the underside of Broadway theaters’ awnings: it was almost maddening. And there were people: throngs and throngs of people. Without tourists, Times Square was still an assault on the senses. With them, it was like the inside of a beehive—constant movement, constant buzzing, swarming.

Jack’s face blended into the crowd, completely unnoticeable among the sea of tourists. People bundled in hats, gloves, and scarves all across the color spectrum breezed by as if they could see right through him. He’d always enjoyed coming here for that very reason. Because when Jack was invisible, darting through the crowds, he never got caught.

Back when he and Cal were kids, they’d cut class (not like anyone cared when they left—teachers sighed in relief when the boxes next to their names remained empty as they ticked off attendance), take the C train from Brooklyn and spend the afternoon in midtown. As they traveled over the bridge, suddenly everything would turn from the gray, institutional look of the projects to the sparkling lights of Times Square. Jack liked the escape—to spend a few hours outside of their dangerous neighborhood. Cal liked the escape, too—because the pockets in Times Square were the easiest to pick.

The two would slither through the crowd, their hands diving into whatever back pockets or purses that were attached to a distracted traveler. They made a game of it—how much could they pick in an hour? Sometimes a wallet or two would contain bills in a foreign currency Jack wouldn’t recognize and scores were argued over. But then a quick trip to the exchange on 48th Street would reveal the true victor, almost always Cal. Because that was where a crumpled mound of gibberish notes was turned into cold, hard cash. And he and Cal would be able to eat that night.

But that was more than a decade ago, back when things were simpler. When their worst offenses were pickpocketing a few bucks and stealing a grime-covered banana off a street-adjacent fruit stand. Back then, it was mere child’s play. As Jack and Cal got older, petty crime slowly escalated to robbing ATMs, holding up convenience stores, muggings. Jack knew Cal also dabbled in hired hits from time to time—Cal getting paid to beat someone to a pulp.