Page 45 of Resurrecting the Witch
I was attempting to educate Patrick on the ins and outs of Buffy lore, and he seemed to be genuinely interested. It was nice, comfortable. Especially after we shared our tragic backstories with each other and didn’t run in fear. “Yes, Spike. He’s so dreamy.”
Patrick made a noise that could only be described as a grunt of disbelief.
“What, you don’t think withthataccent he couldn’t get anyone in Sunnydale?”
“I don’t understand what it is with you Americans and accents,” Patrick said in his own swoon-worthy Irish lilt.
“Says the hunky Irishman.”
“You are Irish yourself, female. How come you don’t have an accent?”
I shrugged. “By the time I was born we already had such a high population on the island. Before Hunter, we had even more residents than we do now. We’ve been building back up, but I wasn’t just around my family; I grew up with folks from everywhere. And my first language was English instead of Irish Gaelic. I do have an American accent when I attempt Gaelic though.” I shrugged again, thinking about all the different types of paranormal folks I’d interacted with over the years. “I think I just adapted an American English accent since that was most of the media I consumed, too.”
“How much Gaelic can you speak?”
“Enough to know you call me your love and your pet, but not enough to have an entire conversation. I can listen and understand more than I can speak it.”
We sat in comfortable silence as the credits rolled and the dreaded “Are you still there?” appeared on the screen from the streaming service.
“I don’t understand why it asks that. Of course, I’m still here, why else would it be playing?”
I laughed at his comment. “Some people might forget to turn it off.” He rolled his eyes at me as if the thought was ridiculous. “What? Have you never fallen asleep with the television on?”
“Obviously not,” he huffed the words.
I shoved his shoulder. “What do you mean ‘obviously not’?”
“I don’t sleep, witchling.” He turned to look at me. At some point during our Buffy marathon, he’d taken my legs into his lap and had been massaging my calves throughout each episode. It was nice and comforting. I noticed the more time I spent with Patrick the more I realized how truly caring he was with me. He was always touching me or letting me know he was there in small ways.
“What do you mean, you don’t sleep?”
“I mean, I haven’t slept since I woke up last year.”
I let that settle in. “I guess that’s a zombie thing? How are you not going mad?”
“Maybe I am?” He shrugged and gave me a wink. “Dr. Luna said it was normal for an undead to not sleep.”
“What else do I not know about? You look so normal except for your weirdly pale and purplish skin and how your eyes turn black sometimes.”
“Weird, huh?” he pinched my calf at my insult.
“Hey!”
“Don’t call it weird I know my skin touching yours makes your needy little cunt desperate wet for me.”
Well, that took an unexpected turn. “It does not,” I tried to defend myself.
He clicked his tongue. “You shouldn’t lie to me,mo peata.”
“I’m not lying,” I muttered before my breath hitched as his hand moved higher on my calf, more sensually than he’d been massaging me earlier. His thick fingers continued until they drifted up my inner thigh, slowly caressing my skin and making my flesh break out in goose bumps.
“Good girls don’t lie, witchling.” Patrick looked at me with an intense glare that promised me something wicked.
“Who said I’m a good girl?”
He smirked which made his dimple all the more prominent.
“I suppose you might need to prove it to me.” He shrugged.
