Moira Rogers


Last Call, Story Two
Series Info:


September, 2008

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Artist and witch Fiona Logan hasn’t had an orgasm since a bitter ex cursed her five years ago. Whenever she gets aroused, bad things happen. Now, she’s come to Last Call in hopes of gaining an audience with–and help from–its owner, a powerful wizard named Benito D’Cruze. If anyone can break the curse, it’s him. And if he won’t come downstairs to meet with her, she’ll bump and grind until his bar caves in from the backlash.

Hurricane: Contents under magical pressure. Experience required.

Ben doesn’t get involved with patrons….not even the hot, sexually frustrated ones. But when a lush looking blonde threatens to wreck his bar with her curse and her need, he decides it’s time to take matters–and her–into his own hands. After all, even if he can’t break the curse, he can certainly ease her frustration. And what powerful wizard doesn’t love a challenge?

Originally released in September, 2008. Reissued by the author in April 2012 with a new cover.

Read an Excerpt

Fiona took one last look at the printed menu in her hand and grimaced at her friend. “I don’t need a drink. I need help.”

“Honey, this place is chock full of hot wizards.” Jenn snatched the menu out of Fiona’s hands and studied the back of it. “And this menu’s the key. We just have to decode it. Maybe they have a drink for, ‘My castrated jackass of an ex cursed me to a life free of orgasms, contents under pressure.’ Like… oh shit, you can get in on a vampire/werewolf threesome? Hot.”

Leave it to Jenn to focus on the more salacious aspects of Last Call’s offerings. “I like my blood where it is, werewolves are notoriously possessive, and a supernatural hookup is not on the agenda. Remember what happened when I kissed that councilman at your gallery opening last fall?” Fiona shuddered at the memory. “That poor cater-waiter lost his eyebrows, and the sprinklers destroyed your mixed-media.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you need a supernatural hookup. Maybe there’s someone in here powerful enough to survive the curse. Hell, maybe there’s someone who can break it.” Jenn clutched the menu in one hand and grabbed Fiona’s arm in the other. “Come on, let’s go ask the bartender.”

She knew who could break it. Someone who could lay wards so powerful they’d keep garden-variety humans off of a property without any question or concern. Someone who could maintain peace and order when vampires and witches were partying with demons and faeries.

She needed the owner of Last Call.

Fiona grabbed the menu from Jenn and scanned the back, then slammed the paper down on the bar. One way or another, the curse ended tonight.

The bartender walked over, his movements easy in spite of the churning energy in the club, one eyebrow raised and a grin on his dark, handsome face. “Can I help you ladies?”

Fiona took a deep breath. “I need to speak to Benito D’Cruze.”

“No, she doesn’t!” Jenn reclaimed the menu and held it up. “She needs… a hurricane.”

“A hurricane?” The bartender glanced at Jenn before bringing his gaze back to Fiona. “Hurricane’s for inexperienced witches and wizards. People who are liable to blow the place up without proper handling.” Unspoken was the implication that she didn’t look particularly inexperienced.

Fiona gritted her teeth. “Can I see Mr. D’Cruze or not?”

“Sorry, miss. The owner’s not available. You could call his office and arrange an appointment during business hours, though.”

“Okay.” She drew in another breath and nodded. “Then I’ll need that hurricane, please.”

One dark eyebrow curved up into a perfect arch. “You sure?”

Jenn, who had already indulged in a number of the bar’s more mundane drinks, leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “She’s got a big bad curse on her. Things blow up when she gets turned on. She may not be an inexperienced witch, but she still needs proper handling.”

“Uh-huh.” Fiona grinned. She could just make out with the ones who thought they could handle the curse. Sooner or later, doddering old Benny D’Cruze would make his way down from his lavish office to inspect the damage. “Hope the property insurance is paid up. Rum makes me horny.”


Ben knew there was something wrong in his club long before the bartender called his office. The spells he’d wrapped around Last Call were some of the finest magic in New York City — hell, in the state — and very little happened in his bar without him finding out about it, sooner or later.

His wards had alerted him the minute she’d crossed the threshold, of course. Black magic wasn’t allowed in the building, but people who were cursed weren’t necessarily practitioners of the darker magics. So he watched them and made sure they didn’t cause trouble.

A row of video screens covered a desk on the side of his office, but Ben wasn’t watching them. The cameras on the dance floor were static, inefficient at following one person. Instead he stared down into his scrying bowl and watched as the pretty little blonde ground against a man on the dance floor, her ass rubbing his crotch as she moved with the music. The wizard looked thrilled to death.

Ben didn’t blame him. Hell, his cock was hard just from watching her move. Of course, it wasn’t just her body, lush as it was, that fueled his arousal. The scrying spell painted her aura in bright colors he could almost taste, even as the curse clenched tight around her. Sensuality, sexuality… and a deep, deep need that eclipsed desire and even lust. She needed to be taken, claimed and fulfilled.

She was hungry. And he saw why as the wizard’s hand drifted around her body. His fingers brushed her breast, and the curse flared so brightly that the rest of the scene in his scrying dish faded. Power tore through the building, powerful enough that he felt the ripples even in his office, three floors above her.

A second later the phone rang. Ben didn’t take his eyes from the scrying dish as he reached out to pick it up. “What happened?” Something had to have happened. That much power, released recklessly…

“Half the bottles of booze at my bar just shattered.” It was Bernie’s voice, deep and slightly annoyed. “I think it’s the lady who just ordered the hurricane. Every time a guy gets near her, the lights flicker or the music skips.”

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from those gyrating hips. “I’m coming down to take care of it.”

“You better hurry, boss. She’s starting to look like a challenge, and you know how that riles up the werewolves and demons.”

“I said I’d take care of it.” He slammed down the phone before Bernie could speak again, and waved his hand over the scrying dish. The image vanished, leaving a pool of dark water in its place.

He rose to his feet and glanced down at his worn jeans and battered T-shirt. Most days he enjoyed his casual clothing. He could walk among his clients and no one suspected they were in the presence of the mysterious and powerful Benito D’Cruze. The downside, of course, was that few people believed he was Benito D’Cruze without the trappings of wealth and money, which meant it might be wise to change into something a little more impressive before trying to deal with trouble.

Another trembling ripple of power from downstairs made the choice for him. He strode to the office door, determined to save his club from absolute destruction.

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