The Man of Her Dreams: A Sexy Shifter story.

by Robie Madison

  “Mine,” he whispered against her ear.

  Then his tongue traced a warm path along her collarbone, tantalizing her skin. He didn’t waste time, invading her mouth with promises, his tongue diving deep, her senses dizzy with possibilities. She clutched his shoulder like a lifeline, her thoughts little more than dancing wisps of cloud.

  “Owain.”

  His name was a hoarse cry from her lips as he rammed two fingers inside her pussy. Her hips canted upward, so that his second stroke went deeper.

  “Hold still, sweetheart.”

  She shook her head at his idiotic suggestion. A sweet tension was coiling itself within her and she didn’t want to let go. She cried out in frustration and clamped her hand on his wrist when his fingers dared to retreat from their exquisite torture. Her vaginal muscles contracted, desperately seeking the fullness she needed to take her the distance.

  After a short tussle, he pulled his wrist free and neatly pinned her arm to the bed. She kicked out her leg in exasperation. Hampered by the covers, her move lost its impact, especially when he neatly slid his leg between hers. His rock-hard thigh rubbed against her mound and she bucked.

  “That’s it, sweetheart.”

  And then his cock was there, nudging the entrance to her pussy. His body covered her, skin-on-skin, the heat merely stoking the fire burning in her veins.

  “Yes—”

  Her “please” was lost as his mouth clamped down on hers again and his cock drove deep inside her. Despite the preceding frenzy, his thrusts were slow and deliberate. His velvety-steel length abraded the sensitive walls of her pussy driving her wild with want. The friction spiraled tighter and tighter within her. She arched against him.

  He muttered a curse and released his hold on her arm to clamp his hand on her buttock, pulling her closer against him. And then he began to pump in earnest, deep, swift strokes that ratcheted the tension and caused her pussy muscles to spasm rhythmically around his thick length. She closed her eyes, hoping to lose herself in the sensations inundating her.

  “Look at me.”

  The harsh command shocked her into opening her eyes and focusing on him. His face was taut, his eyes wild like a stormy sea. Her orgasm burst upon her and she was lost, her world narrowed to the scent of her man and the texture of his skin. Owain buried his head in the curve of her shoulder, her name a sharp cry on his lips. When he came, his body shuddered under the force of his own passion.

  She turned her head and kissed his sweat-soaked skin. “That was quite a good morning.”

  Owain lifted his head, shifted his weight off her and grinned. “Do you think the neighbors heard?”

  A wave of heat that had nothing to do with recent activities washed up her neck and face. Oh lord. She closed her eyes as she recalled just how vocal she’d been the night before. Owain kissed her eyelids.

  Refusing to open her eyes, she shook her head. “We can’t leave the room. Ever.”

  He chuckled. “I like the sound of that, do you mean it?”

  She shook her head and opened her eyes. “We have to get out of here, right now.”

  “I was teasing, sweetheart. No one heard us.”

  He sounded very sure and she glared at him suspiciously.

  “How do you know? And forget it. Even if you’re right and no one heard us, this is a B&B. We have no supplies and we can’t even go to the bathroom without leaving the room.”

  He frowned, but his eyes were full of laughter. “Serious problems indeed. I have a solution.”

  “It better not involve climbing walls.”

  “It involves going to my farm. Interested?”

  Unable to stop herself, she reached up and caressed his face. “Very interested. But it still better not involve climbing walls.”

  “Then I suggest you go to the bathroom,” he said, neatly avoiding her concern. “I need to pick up a few supplies. I’ll meet you at my farm in—”

  “Half an hour.”

  He bent his head and kissed her. “You are definitely a wanton, Megan Jones. Half an hour, then.”

  She put on her robe, grabbed her toiletries bag and a change of clothes. But when she reached the door she paused and looked back. Her heart thudded in quiet joy at the sight of him lounging in the bed.

  “See you soon, sweetheart,” he said with a lazy smile.

  “Okay. Just don’t let Mrs. Smith see you leave.”

  Owain was gone by the time she slipped back into her room fifteen minutes later showered and dressed. The rumpled sheets were a dead giveaway, though, that he’d been there. She resisted the urge to rush to the window and check the wall. Instead, she quickly made the bed and tidied the rest of the room, impatient to be gone. A pang of guilt assailed her, though, at the sight of her laptop lying neglected inside its case on the desk. She had yet to check her email for return messages from her parents.

  Considering how often she’d commented that her computer was her lifeline to the world, it was amazing how little she missed being connected. Grinning, she grabbed her purse and headed out the door and down the stairs. The tantalizing smell of fresh baking wafted past her, reminding her she hadn’t eaten yet.

  “There you are, dear.”

  Megan swiveled around at the bottom of the stairs and came face-to-face with Mrs. Smith coming down the hall and groaned inwardly. Here she’d told Owain to be careful and she’d been the one to get caught. She murmured a return greeting and edged toward the front door.

  “We missed you at breakfast, so I thought you might like a cup of tea before you go out.”

  She wouldn’t, but when she saw the steaming cup and saucer in Mrs. Smith’s hand, she knew she couldn’t refuse. “Thank you, that sounds lovely.”

  “Right in here, dear,” Mrs. Smith said and led the way into a cozy sitting area set aside for guests that she’d been shown during her brief tour the day she’d arrived. Since it was so late in the morning, Megan had the room to herself.

  Having set the cup and saucer on a low, round table, Mrs. Smith left with a friendly nod. Megan sat on the edge of one of the easy chairs and stared at the cup of tea and the wedge of lemon tucked on the saucer. She might as well drink it. Ignoring the lemon, she picked up the teacup only to pause as Mrs. Smith laughed and the soft, tinkling sound of bells floated in from the hallway. Then she heard the creak of the kitchen door and the gruff voice of Mrs. Smith’s English-born husband and the clatter of pans.

  Shaking her head, she sipped her tea and glanced at the assortment of tourist pamphlets and Welsh heritage books that filled a nearby wire rack. Thus far she hadn’t seen much of Trefriw, let alone Wales. She grinned. But she had seen a great deal of Owain Deverell.

  Her gaze flicked over a booklet on the history of the Conwy valley, one on Welsh place names and one on the red dragon, the national symbol of Wales, when her breath caught in her throat. A wild-looking black stallion stared out at her from the cover of a book about Welsh folklore. The teacup rattled when she set it down on the saucer, but she hardly noticed. Lithesome, winged fairies and other imaginary folk adorned the cover too, but it was the stallion, with its mane flowing in the wind, that made her heart thud painfully against her chest.

  Reaching out blindly for some support, she gripped the edge of the table and sank to her knees on the carpet. And stared, mesmerized by the sight of the horse that haunted her nightmares glaring back at her from something as mundane as a cover of a book. She reached out her hand, only to stop inches away. A picture of a horse couldn’t hurt her, not that her dream one ever had. It had simply terrified her as a child and continued to haunt her.

  She grabbed the slim volume off the rack and turned to the Table of Contents before she could talk herself out of investigating. There was a long, alphabetical list of folk legends. Right near the bottom, she found what she was looking for—the water horse.

  She reread the information three times before she scrambled to her feet. Ignoring the unfinished cup of tea, she remembered to grab her purse and ran
back up the stairs to her room and her computer.

  Instead of checking her email, she logged onto the internet and did a search on the water horse folktale. Found throughout the United Kingdom under different names, the most familiar one being the Scottish Kelpie, there were many variations to the legend, but the basic facts were the same. Considered a malevolent water spirit, it was a shapeshifter who alternately appeared as a wild horse or a young man of about twenty-five. In horse form it lured unwary travelers to mount it and then it would plunge deep into the water, drowning its victims.

  “I’m afraid of horses.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “I’m afraid of horses.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “I’m afraid of horses.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve only ever been able to visit you in your dreams.”

  Megan slammed down the lid of the laptop and shoved her chair away from the desk.

  No.

  No way.

  What she was thinking was certifiable, crazy. In a word, ludicrous. The fantastic creatures that inhabited fairy tales were mythical. Weren’t they?

  But, try as she might, once she remembered Owain’s response when she’d told him about her fear of horses, she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Or the confession he’d made the first night they’d met in the pub.

  “I know, sweetheart. I’ve only ever been able to visit you in your dreams.”

  Put side by side with what she’d just read—

  No.

  No way. And yet she couldn’t ignore the evidence or her dreams.

  Snatching the folktale book off the desk, she stuffed it into the largest pouch in her purse and headed back out the door, determined to confront Owain and get some answers.

  Chapter Seven

  Megan was halfway along the main road heading north, when she realized she hadn’t chanted her mantra, yet had ended up driving on the left. Sobered by the thought that she hadn’t given a second thought to what she was doing, she slowed the car to a more sedate pace.

  She rolled her shoulders a little, trying to ease the tension in them. She stifled a yawn, shook her head to clear it and concentrated on the road ahead. Operating on automatic pilot, her mind played and replayed every word she and Owain had exchanged since they’d met. In her usual, practical way, she hoped to remember some bit of conversation where she’d mentioned her nightmares before the horse had intruded on their picnic. Rationally there had to be some logical explanation for how he’d known, but the only one that made any sense, and no sense at all, was totally fantastic.

  A few minutes later she passed the spa. No other vehicles were driving along the road in either direction, so she slowed the car to a crawl so she wouldn’t miss the turnoff. She found it and followed the lane around a winding curve a fair distance before she spotted the farm up ahead.

  A low wall enclosed the property, but the gate was open for her. She drove in and parked the car out of the way along the side of what appeared to be a shed. Cursing the effects of jet lag, she yawned again. Before she could open her door and get out of the car, Owain stepped out of the house. Resolutely, she grabbed her purse, shut the car door, and headed toward him.

  He’d changed. He was now dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt, tails hanging out and only half buttoned, but the sleeves were rolled up, revealing the dusting of hair on his forearms. He looked downright delicious and totally human.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  She ignored the hint of bare skin peeking through the placket of his shirt, his welcoming smile that held a blatant invitation in it, and the greeting. When she got close enough he held out his arms, as if anticipating she’d step into them for a hug. Hesitating mid-step she detoured around him and marched into his house.

  Actually, to call it a house was to flatter it. From all appearances it was a Spartan, two-room cottage. A solitary, brownish-beige couch was tucked into one corner of the room. A rectangular table and a couple of chairs stood against the opposite wall. A familiar-looking picnic basket sat on the table next to an oil lamp.

  She glanced over to where the kitchen should be. A single counter ran the length of the short wall with cupboards beneath. She couldn’t detect a single electric appliance, let alone running water. Neat, clean, and utilitarian in the extreme, the room was further evidence that only confirmed, rather than denied her bizarre theory.

  The door creaked behind her, warning her that Owain had followed her into the room. Clutching the straps of her purse a little tighter, she walked over to the table. She put the purse down, but didn’t let go. A sudden wave of fatigue washed over her and she clutched the edge of the table. The rational side of her brain wondered, fleetingly, if she was about to make a fool of herself, but she had not come all this way to wimp out. She forced herself to stand a little straighter. Opening one of the zippered pouches on her purse, she pulled out the locket. She was fairly certain she should have produced it and asked her questions the first time she’d seen Owain at the pub.

  Whirling to face him, she ignored the frown forming across his brow and reached out for the edge of the table again to prevent any temptation she might have to move closer. Holding out the locket she pressed the catch releasing the lid to reveal the portrait inside. Her hand shook, but she ignored that too.

  “Is this a picture of you?” she asked.

  Her question stopped him in his tracks. She watched his face very carefully, but it remained maddeningly impassive.

  “Where did you get that locket?”

  His question, in lieu of an answer, sank like a stone in her stomach. He might just as well have admitted he recognized it.

  “Answer the question.” She thrust the locket forward. “Is this a picture of you?”

  “Megan.” He ran his fingers through the longer locks of hair on the top of his head. The feral glint in his eye suggested it would be wise for her to drop the subject.

  She didn’t.

  “Yes,” he finally admitted, trapping her with his gaze, which had turned a cold arctic blue. “That locket—”

  “Belonged to my Aunt Margaret who lived in the early eighteen hundreds. Care to explain how your picture got into a locket that’s about one hundred and seventy years old and how you knew about this?” Releasing her grip on the table, she reached behind her and pulled the Welsh folklore book from her bag and held it up.

  “Know about what, the Fairy Realm?” There was a hard edge to his deceptively casual tone.

  “The horse. The black stallion that haunts my nightmares the same way you haunt my dreams.”

  “Visit. I visit you in your dreams.”

  She pushed herself away from the table and flung the book at his arrogant face. Lifting his arm, he easily deflected the paperback, which fell onto the floor by his feet.

  “That depends, doesn’t it?” she asked, forcing herself not to finger the heavy gold chain to which the locket was attached. “On who—or should I say what—you come as.”

  “Megan, don’t.” His voice was low and deadly with a hint of discomfort.

  She gulped in a breath of air amazed at how far she’d pushed him already. Wondered how far she could push him for the truth before he pushed back. Wondered if she would even believe the truth, should she drag it out of him.

  “Don’t what? Don’t wonder how it’s possible that you were alive one hundred and seventy years ago and yet you don’t look a day over twenty-five. Don’t put two and two together and realize that you do haunt both my dreams and my nightmares. Which, according to the book and the articles on the net, makes you a malevolent water spirit who drowns—”

  He lunged so fast, she barely saw him move. When he reached her, he swung her around and shoved her against the wall.

  “Stop it, damn you.”

  His fingers slid through her hair, holding her fast seconds before his mouth descended onto hers. The kiss was brutally hard, but she welcomed the roughness, opening to hi
m when he stabbed his tongue inside her mouth. He smelled of fresh male and tasted of sin. No matter how they came, his touch, his kisses, the taste of him were so much better than anything they shared in her dreams.

  When they broke apart he kept his arms on either side of her face, penning her in. Okay, he’d pushed back. Instead of feeling pleased, she was scared. Scared about what she might learn, but now more afraid of not pursuing the answers she’d traveled across the Atlantic to discover.

  “I do not drown people.” He sounded belligerent.

  Oh my God. She pressed her back against the wall and prayed her wobbly legs would hold her up. Not even daring to blink, she held his stare. He’d all but admitted—

  “What do you do, then?”

  His body trembled so close to her own, she felt the fear coating his skin. He closed his eyes.

  “I am compelled to carry them to the Fairy Realm.”

  Oh my God. She swallowed and wished her heart wouldn’t act as if she were running in a marathon. Loosening her grip on the wood-plank wall, she lifted one hand and lightly settled it over his heart. He flinched and his eyes opened, but she refused to pull back.

  “Then it’s true. You’re a—”

  Without warning he grabbed her arms and pulled her hard against him. The heat of his body seared through her thin blouse.

  “Stop it, damn you,” he yelled. He shook her, as if he intended to knock some sense into her. “Don’t you understand? I’m trying to protect you.”

  Aside from rattling her brain, at the moment he seemed intent on intimidating her. She yanked her arms out of his grasp. He released her immediately and clenched his hands, giving her time to step back. Trapped between him and the wall, she didn’t get far. His revelations made her more determined than ever to face the truth and she jabbed a finger into his ribs.

  “Protect me. Protect me from what? You? You didn’t even have the guts to tell me the truth about who you are.”