Dream Lover

by Kristina Wright (ed)

  You’re alone again, that’s what.

  The wolf man held his mouth to her ear. His breath was hot. The woman shivered.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  What’d you say, Moongirl?

  “I said, don’t leave me.” Pieces of bedsheet came away in her fingernails.

  We’ll fuck and hunt, the wolf man promised. So much come and blood.

  He got to his knees then flipped her over and pulled her toward him. He entered her from behind. She pushed against him. Fur rose on his spine. She chewed a hole through another pillow. The wolf man drooled onto her back when he came. She collapsed. He pried the pillow away from her then licked the tears off her cheek; he licked them from her earlobe too. He licked her throat and then her shoulder.

  Finally, she closed her eyes.

  In the morning, when she woke, Hayden turned his head to look at her.

  “Moongirl, I’m here.”

  In the sunlight she saw his eyes were two different colors, like hers.

  VANILLA

  Victoria Janssen

  Devlin had flour on the tip of his nose.

  Louisa stopped in the communal kitchen’s doorway and watched him absently brush his nose with one floured knuckle. He’d spilled flour on the counter, and was scraping it into a paper towel. Flour puffed into the air like tiny, coded smoke signals and settled on his black T-shirt, just over his stomach.

  She recognized eggs and butter, but not the long, thin black item—seemingly organic—that he’d placed next to one of his mixing bowls. His supplies were arrayed on the island counter in the center of the research facility’s kitchen.

  “What’s up?” Devlin asked, intent on what he was doing, but apparently recognizing her without looking up, almost as if he was a telepath, like her.

  He seemed different without his lab coat—he worked with clairvoyants, one section over from where she regularly both underwent testing and administered tests with the empaths and telepaths. “I was only passing,” Louisa said.

  “I’m making cookies,” Devlin said, glancing up at her and grinning his blinding grin. “One of my postdocs got a job at the Institute of Psychic Studies in Switzerland, so we’re having a party for her. It’s more special when you don’t just program a baking machine, don’t you think?” He measured sugar into a bowl, first light, then dark. He picked up the black item.

  Louisa stepped closer. Devlin, an American like most of the scientists here, was a few years younger than she, terribly handsome and, she’d discovered, as chivalrous as her own aged grandfather. She had wished he would be a little more forward; they worked in separate departments, so there would be nothing improper in a relationship. But if he had no interest, that was that. She could almost be satisfied with less. She and Devlin had always gotten on well at the frequent lunches, teas, and beer-fests held for researchers and subjects alike. “What is that?”

  “Vanilla bean.” Devlin used a small knife to slit the length of the bean. Fragrance spilled out. Louisa’s nostrils flared to take it in. “Here, look.” He peeled back the edges of his cut as if exposing a wound. “It’s the seeds you use. My father taught me.”

  He had never mentioned his family before. Louisa said, “I had no idea.”

  Devlin scraped out the minuscule black seeds with his thumb, letting them drop into the bowl of sugar in small clusters. Louisa admired the precise grace of his long-fingered hands. He said, “I mix the seeds into the sugar, then cut in the butter.”

  “This seems rather a lot of trouble.”

  “But it feels great. The texture of the sugar, I mean,” Devlin said, as he began mixing the sugar and vanilla seeds together. Unexpectedly, Louisa received a telepathic flash of his visceral gratification as his fingers combed through the mixture.

  Louisa blinked. This was the first time she had sensed anything at all from Devlin. She was used to brushes of unintentional contact from “normal” people in the facility, which she had heard likened to feeling auras rather than seeing them: snippets of pain or intellectual insight belonging to others, but experienced by her.

  What she perceived now was his sensual pleasure from his fingers in vanilla sugar, a pleasure almost sexual. Louisa’s knees felt weak. She sat down in one of the hard chairs.

  Most of the time, Louisa avoided thinking about sex. She had signed a five-year contract that might lead to tenure, so she intended to devote all of her energies to the laboratory programs she had devised.

  And without reinforcing telepathic touch, the idea of sex lacked…spice. Her sole relationship, with another of her kind when she was in her twenties, had convinced her of that, though the affair had ended in apathy. Christopher’s politics had ended the affair, not any sexual incompatibility. With a wave of heat, she remembered endless afternoons when nothing was said; Christopher’s hands arousing her as swiftly and knowledgeably as her own, his touch never too soft, her orgasm never too soon, the two of them blurring into one in a haze of sex that shrouded the mind more than the body.

  Sensing what Devlin radiated was not mind reading. It was only the body. The body gave away so many of its feelings through posture and movement already, it would be no great imposition to…and there was always…

  Well. She really ought to do something about this, but she couldn’t think of what to say or do. So she sat still and watched.

  Devlin used a fork to mix in the eggs. The movement of his hands was hypnotic. Louisa’s vision blurred. She could almost feel the hardness of his long body against hers….

  Louisa caught herself with a gasp. Luckily, Devlin didn’t notice. She rose and, turning her back to him, began to draw herself a cup of coffee from the urn that never slept. She almost flung the contents into the air when she felt a large, warm hand close over her shoulder.

  “Are you feeling all right, Louisa? You look flushed. I know it’s not my job, but…you should take care of yourself. You work too hard.”

  The aroma of vanilla on his hand seemed to penetrate to her brain. There was nothing to do but blush even more hotly. Louisa half lifted her cup, then set it down on the counter in front of her with a little click.

  Without speaking, she reached up and covered his hand with hers, gently caressing.

  His breathing changed. His fingers flexed slightly, then laced with hers and pulled gently. Louisa found herself facing him, her cheeks hot, her right hand pressed into his rib cage as it rose and fell with the force of his breathing. She had never seen eyes so blue. His right hand clasped her left, tightening as he drew her closer still.

  Louisa bent her head and tasted sweet vanilla on his fingers.

  Devlin sucked in his breath. Louisa slowly, slowly lifted her eyes to his. His lips parted as if he were about to speak. Instead he stepped back, away from her.

  Louisa’s heart clenched tight.

  Devlin closed and locked the door.

  Her knees weakened. She could not sense his intentions at all, though his actions made them clear, a confusing dichotomy for her. She’d been spending too much of her time isolated with other telepaths. Devlin took her in his arms so quickly she had no time to analyze. Her head fell back when he delicately kissed her throat, his long hands sliding down her back as if he were modeling a statue. His mouth traveled to her ear and her fingers clenched in the back of his shirt.

  Still she sensed nothing telepathically, but the warmth of his body was somehow more intoxicating. She had forgotten how good it could be simply to touch, and she had no distractions from physical sensation and the rich scent of sugar and vanilla permeating his skin. Delicious bubbles danced unpredictably down her spine. Devlin licked her temple, then their mouths joined in thirsty, hasty gulps. She fumbled at his shirt, lifting it as high as his sternum, then impatiently abandoned it for the fastenings of her lab coat. Devlin’s hand met hers and they pushed it off together, pulled his T-shirt up, then pressed newly bared skin against skin.

  Louisa almost flinched from the intensity of the contact but tightened her arms
around him, instead, and looked up at his face, now as rosy as her own. He shook his head once, as if to shake off a blow, obviously seeking control. “I never thought you—Louisa, I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

  She had to concentrate to remember to speak aloud. “Devlin, if it’s all right with you, I would rather not stop.”

  Devlin’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Here?”

  After experiencing a sample of his skill, Louisa found this evidence of prudery endearing. “Is that a problem?” she asked, wide eyed herself. “You locked the door.”

  “I guess I did. Must have been your sexy accent. Nope, wait, you didn’t say anything, so it couldn’t have been that.” Devlin’s expression shifted from teasing to serious. He slid his hands up and down her arms. “Louisa, this is all right, isn’t it? Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

  Louisa touched her fingers to his lips, silencing him. “I trust you.”

  “Trust,” Devlin said, breathing out shakily. “Thank you, Louisa.”

  She hooked her hand behind his neck and pulled him down to her, savoring the skin beneath her fingers. Against his lips she whispered, “Join with me,” before kissing him.

  Perhaps she had been wrong. She was solidly within her body, and her mind, too, was focused only on her body; she could not sense what new sensation would come next. This purely physical communication seemed more intense than she had expected, and there was an added sense that it was somehow forbidden, animal.

  She gasped as his slender hands gently molded her breasts, leaving behind traces of vanilla. Her fingers dug into his hips, trying to pull him closer. Instead, his hands encircled her waist and lifted her effortlessly to the countertop. She sat blinking at him as he grinned and very carefully nudged her mug of coffee out of the way. He tugged her shirt over her head, then removed her bra, dropping both garments onto the floor.

  Louisa toed off her shoes and pulled ineffectually at his shirt, but he was simply too tall for its easy removal, even though the counter gave her added height. He grinned again and took it off himself, and she leaned forward, caressing his lean, muscular chest with her cheek, arms clasped about his rib cage, inhaling his scent. His fingers tangled in her hair and his head rested atop hers, and for long moments they were still and silent.

  Finally, Devlin let out a shaky sigh and cupped her face between his palms, leaning down to kiss her gently. Louisa’s hands wandered over his chest, her thumbs lingering on his nipples, stroking them into hardness. When she heard an unguarded sound escape him, she bit his right nipple, then his left.

  Devlin growled and lifted her off the countertop, letting her slide down the length of his body. Taking this for encouragement, Louisa slipped her hands into the waistband of his trousers, caressing the muscular curve of his buttocks. She grinned into his chest when he impatiently pushed down her khakis and panties together. After bending to untie his shoes and pull them off, she reciprocated with his jeans, popping open the buttons one by one while trying to maintain her teeth’s grip on his nipple.

  His hands kneaded her shoulders with sporadic clenches as she kissed, licked and bit her way across his chest. Louisa backed him against the island counter and managed to pull down his shorts partway; a bowl skidded but rattled to a stop before it could fall; she dropped to her knees and mouthed his leaking cock through his boxers, swiping with her tongue and heating the damp spot with her breath.

  “Louisa,” Devlin gasped, then made an inarticulate noise and said her name again, as if he couldn’t form a sentence; he was gripping the counter behind him with deathly force. His body’s response was clear as a sentence sent mind to mind.

  Louisa’s thighs felt wet with her own fluids and her belly had turned to molten lava, but she felt more in control than Devlin obviously was. She sat back on her heels, neatly evading his desperate grasp at her cropped hair, and grinned up at him.

  “Please don’t stop,” Devlin said, weakly. Louisa leaned forward and nibbled behind his knee, receiving in response the best inarticulate noise he’d yet produced, something between a whimper and a shriek. She followed a path up the back of his leg until her hair brushed his groin, and then she gnawed her way down the front of his taut thigh to his knee, tugging gently at his soft hair with her teeth, before switching to his other calf, using one hand to balance herself and the other to massage.

  Devlin growled again, a deep sound nothing like his normal voice. Then, for a shocked moment, Louisa was airborne, before her buttocks landed gently on the counter again. Devlin’s hands seared her waist, but his strong grip was not painful. The pressure of his fingertips radiated luscious little nudges of pleasure that nevertheless failed to reach inside her deeply enough.

  Louisa shoved down his shorts and he thrust up into her hands as if his movements were choreographed, or perhaps even telepathically triggered. A moment later, he staggered back out and away from her, gave several stentorian breaths, then dove forward, seized her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. Louisa rocked forward, pressing her belly against his cock, pushing against him each time their mouths met in crazed abandon, but the pressure was not quite enough. She wrapped her legs around him, and before she had completely adjusted herself, he was inside of her. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Eyes closed, she shifted gently, admitting his cock more deeply. She’d never felt so close to anyone in her life. Devlin’s hips twitched, then relaxed, and he buried his face in her neck, kissing a line up her throat.

  Devlin withdrew slightly, and a faint whimper escaped Louisa’s lips, surprising her. “Let’s try this,” he said in a strained voice, and lifted her almost free of him before letting go, so that she sank onto his cock with delicious force. Louisa grabbed at the counter behind her, then at his shoulders. “I won’t drop you,” he whispered, stepping back until the island counter braced him. “You don’t weigh a damned thing.” As if to demonstrate, he rocked gently forward and back. Tears leaked from the corners of Louisa’s eyes, completely against her will.

  “You feel so good,” she said in a small voice, holding on. Everything felt clear and distinct, like words through a magnifying lens.

  “Go on?” Devlin asked, shakily.

  “If you stop I’ll hurt you.”

  He lifted and lowered her again, changing the angle of penetration slightly. “Sweet,” she gasped, pressing forward a little. “That’s so good. It feels—sweet—”

  Devlin reached back to the counter, still holding her effortlessly with one arm, then pushed his fingers between her lips. Sweetness and the heady perfume of vanilla flowered in her mouth. She convulsed around him, barely holding herself back from orgasm.

  Devlin’s fingers were no longer in her mouth; she glanced down and saw he’d firmly clamped his cock, stopping impending ejaculation.

  Neither dared move for several minutes, though Devlin leaned back against the counter to take some of her weight as they breathed carefully.

  “Devlin,” Louisa said. “We can’t stay like this forever.”

  “Unfortunately,” he replied, breathlessly.

  “Please—”

  “Right.”

  Louisa relaxed, surrendering to Devlin’s manipulations of her body except for occasional kisses that she could not resist. Then, suddenly, their tempo changed, and she rode him with her eyes shut tightly, concentrating, reaching out and finally digging her fingers into his shoulders and grinding her hips until release took her. A moment later, the spasms of her cunt drew out Devlin’s orgasm as well.

  Gasping, sweating, he nonetheless managed to set her gently on the counter again and kiss her slowly on her forehead, eyes and mouth. “Umm,” he said, then laughed a little, bracing himself on the counter with his hands.

  Louisa’s arms tightened in return. “That…that was…” She kissed his neck.

  “I can’t believe we did that in the kitchen.” He sounded more dreamy than shocked.

  “In the kitchen of a respected research facility.” Louisa paused. “Do you want to do it
again?”

  FOR HUMANS, LOVE’S ALL ABOUT WEIGHT

  Lana Fox

  It all starts a week after Faye Crocker’s funeral, when her tenyear-old grandson turns up on my step. He’s holding an enormous birdcage covered with a drape—the sort of red cloth a stage magician would own. “What have you got there?” I ask.

  “Grandma said, once she’d died, I should give you this.”

  I’m about to say I don’t want anything from Faye—dead or not, she can’t make up for causing trouble—but here’s her grandson, all slumped and sad, and I haven’t the heart to take it out on him. So I ask him in, and while I’m closing the door, he strides straight through and plops the cage on the table. He removes the cover with a flourish and I stare through the bars. That’s when the world goes still.

  The creature inside is the size of a parrot, with bright scarlet feathers and a beak the color of an eggshell. But what really gets me is its eyes. The pupils are like ink blots framed by brown irises and whites as pure as pearls. “Hold on,” I say, as the bird tips its head and blinks like I’m the odd one. “Its eyes are…human.”

  “Yeah,” says the boy, as if it’s obvious. “Grandma bought it from the magic shop down Hickory Lane.”

  My ears prick up. I like the idea of magic. “Is there really such a shop?”

  He tells me there was, but the owner moved away. “There used to be crystal balls and stuff, but it’s boarded up, now.”

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” I say, gazing into the cage. The bird dips its head and preens its red feathers.

  “It’s a peace offering,” says the boy. “That’s what Grandma said to tell you.”

  “Peace offering or not,” I say, “I can’t keep a pet.” Even as I say it, I’m touching the bars. The bird’s quite enchanting.

  “If you don’t want it,” he says, “d’you mind looking after it awhile? We’re clearing out Grandma’s bedroom and…” Well, poor kid, what can you say to that? Besides, when I’m near this bird I get a warm feeling, like I used to with Derek when we were first in love. “What does it need?” I ask. “I’ve never owned a bird.”