Carnal Magic

by Christine McKay

  She bit her lip, studying his arm and not his face. “What should I call you?”

  There was a long pause. She glanced at him through her lashes. He looked stupefied. “How about Ell?”

  She frowned. “Short for Ellis? You don’t look like an Ell.”

  “Ray?” he offered.

  Her frown deepened.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Pick one, then.”

  It was her turn to do the studying. Deity or demon? Or something in between? Despite his imperialness, there was a hint of desperation to his gaze, a bottomless hunger. For the first time in a very long time, her heart struggled out of its vat of self-pity. “How about your given name?” she suggested.

  “No.” An answer as solid as stone.

  “How about Bob?”

  His brows knit. “Bob?” Putting his hands on his hips, he glared at her. “Do I look like a Bob?”

  “About as much as a Ray,” she muttered. “Bert?” Color crept up his neck. She masked a giggle with a cough. “Tristan?”

  “Do I appear Scottish?”

  “No, but I bet you’d look good in a kilt.” That hit a little too close to the truth. She hurried on. “Maddog?”

  “I fear I left my eye patch and parrot in my other coat.”

  “Why not your given name?” she grumped. “You know mine.”

  He met her defiant gaze. “It’s Azrael.”

  “Oh.” And she’d complained her name was old-fashioned. She chewed on her lip, then said, “Ell’s not bad.”

  “I thought not.” He offered her his arm and this time she took it.

  Chapter Two

  “Where are we going?”

  He was steering her toward the parking lot. “Dancing.”

  Not exactly a talker, was he. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m naked under this coat.”

  He gave her a quick glance, eyes gleaming. “I had noticed and it will not be a problem.”

  She colored, the heat of his look warming her more quickly than a shot of Jack Daniel’s. “I warn you, I’m a foot masher.”

  “I will make note of that.”

  She searched her brain for another excuse, then settled on the truth. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  This from a man with skeleton hands? They’d reached her car. Fumbling with her keys, she opened her door. “Um, am I driving someplace?”

  “No, you are leaving your belongings here. The dance is elsewhere.”

  She eyed him warily. “Everything?”

  His lips curved. “Then we might not make it to the dance. Just your bag of magicks. I thought perhaps you would like to know they are safe.”

  “Of course.” The look he’d given her could melt stone. Fortunately she was mostly frozen flesh. The marble rubble of her heart remained untouched. With her shoulder bag safely stowed, she turned toward him. “Now what?”

  He offered her his arm again. “We dance.”

  Some of his gestures seemed so at odds with his modern appearance. “I’m not going to damn my soul doing this, am I?”

  “A bit late to ask.”

  She blanched. He took her hand and laid it on his arm. “No. I am neither good nor evil.”

  “Must be nice,” she muttered.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “To think you are completely impartial.”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Ego. Less talk, more seduction. You’re burning moonlight.”

  He rewarded her with a wide white grin, steering her toward the cemetery gates. “As you wish, my lady.”

  A thick fog descended on the cemetery, masking everything beyond the wrought-iron fence line in a wet ashen mist. She could just distinguish the jagged edge of the gates from the silhouette of trees. The parking lot itself remained fog-free, though a haze clung to the single streetlight like a twist of supernatural garland.

  “You’re not going to resurrect the dead and make me a part of some macabre death dance, are you?”

  His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Where do you get such ridiculous ideas?”

  “Blame television and an overactive imagination.”

  “I think we can put that imagination to better use.”

  She shivered. She needed to remember no matter how attractive he was, he was not part of the human race. She’d summoned him. He had no business in her world. No good could come of him being here.

  At their approach, the graveyard’s double gates swung open. As they stepped through them, Azrael covered her hand with his. One moment they were facing the cemetery, stones arranged in military precision, the next, they were in a warmly lit room filled with music and the murmur of voices.

  She blinked. It was like being at the mercy of a TV remote, only the people remained when the scene shifted.

  Dropping his arm, she spun around. Parquet floors marched beneath her feet. A chandelier the size of a VW Beetle glittered overhead, dripping crystals and prisms. Her footfalls clicked rather than thumped. She glanced at her feet, hidden beneath a froth of gold and white skirts. Grabbing a fistful of skirt in each hand, she simultaneously lifted the copious amounts of fabric and stuck out her foot. She was wearing friggin’ glass slippers!

  At her panicked look, Azrael said, “I did not trust glass to a self-proclaimed foot masher. They are Lucite.” He was resplendent in a long blue velvet coat with gold braid and buttons. Snugly fit white pants and black boots completed the ensemble.

  She found her voice. “Where are we?” She held out her hands in front of her. They were encased in white satin elbow-length gloves. She raised a hand to her hair, feeling it curled and coiled on her head. One curl trailed down her neck to tickle the tops of her breasts. Speaking of which, her breasts apparently had their own invitation to the event. The corset of the dress pushed them up, cradling them in a perfect double curve of white flesh. She wasn’t sure they’d stay put, but groping herself in public to double-check was out of the question. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Seriously.” People moved around them, women in elaborate wigs and even more elaborate gowns, glittering jewels at their throats and wrists. The men were equally coiffed, some wearing wigs, others with as much bling on their coats as their women had draped around their necks. Heaving bosoms also seemed to be a theme of the night. Big or little, apple-blushed or chocolate, their rounded contours decorated every gown.

  Compared to those of some women, her breasts’ bared curves were downright discreet.

  Somewhere in the ballroom, an orchestra began a slow waltz. Azrael gave her a low formal bow. “Care to dance?” He straightened, watching indecision flash across her face. “Under that skirt no one will see you step on my feet. Or do you still feel the need to flee?”

  Her chin rose. “You asked for it, mister.” She wasn’t one to step back from a challenge. Besides, what did dancing have to do with passion? Unless he was capable of out-of-body experiences, they couldn’t share a dance floor and a bed at the same time.

  Taking his hand, she let him pull her into the throng of dancers. His hand settled at her waist, hers demurely on his shoulder. He made it seem effortless, floating across the floor, his hand carefully guiding her. The sheer volume of skirts acted as a natural barrier between them, though she did catch his eyes flicking to her breasts once or twice.

  “Where are we?” she asked again as he spun her beneath the chandelier. She caught the glitter of crystal rainbows dancing across her arms and his shoulders.

  “Does it matter?”

  She bit her lip. “I guess not, as long as you can get me home. Why the Cinderella theme?”

  “Do not all women secretly wish to be princesses?”

  “Yes, but not if they knew they had to cart all this fabric around. These skirts are like one giant anchor.” He spun her and she accidentally crushed his foot.

  He winced.

  “Sorry.”


  “It’s nothing.”

  Rhythm broken, she crushed his other foot.

  His beautiful face crumpled. “Perhaps I should have stuck to something without heels.”

  “Perhaps you should have left me in the cemetery parking lot and went along your merry way.”

  “I believe that is the first time anyone has referred to me as merry.”

  Dance finished, he pulled her out a side door. The patio overlooked a formal garden glittering under the twinkle of a million white lights. Beside the stiff evergreen hedge, the flower beds had been laid to rest for the season. Though the grass leaned toward a sickly frostbitten color of yucky green, there was no evidence of snow. Somewhere off to her right, she heard the trickle of water. Wherever he’d whisked her to, it wasn’t in the same climate zone she’d left.

  She’d never been good at small talk, but she suspected even the smoothest talker would have had a hard time coming up with topics interesting to a denizen of the underworld. “So…how long has it been since Satan let you out to wreak havoc on humankind?”

  “You speak too much.”

  “And you’re quite the ladies’ man.”

  That earned her a frown. “Isn’t this setting romantic?”

  “Romantic, yes. Seductive, no. And no matter the location, you’re still required to be enchanting.”

  Snorting, he gave her a dismissive glance. “I intended to take you in this garden. Given my nature, perhaps the cemetery would be more appropriate.”

  “Take me?” Arching a brow, she put her hand flat on his chest. “Whoa. You haven’t even kissed me.”

  His hands rested momentarily on her waist. Hot, so hot, was all she could think. God, there was so much need in his eyes. What had she gotten herself into? Would she survive three nights?

  The heat of his skin burned through the layers of corset and fabric. He jerked her to him, crushing her breasts against his velvet coat. His splayed hands skimmed up her sides, thumbs outlining the curves of her breasts a moment before his fingers found their undersides. Cupping her breasts, he teased her nipples until they jutted through the fabric like jeweled accents. He lowered his lips to the valley between her breasts, but instead of bestowing kisses, he blew a stream of warm air across the tops of her breasts.

  Too bad there wasn’t a contest for perkiest breasts at the ball. She’d win, hands down.

  His tongue flicked out, leaving a wet trail over the curve of one breast. Her hands fisted in the fabric of her skirts. She wouldn’t touch him. Let him be the seducer. Let him burn for her. She was going to get Tom back.

  Then his lips and teeth fastened on a nipple and she whimpered. God, it’d been so long since someone had worshiped her breasts. His hands crept to the gown’s lacings and undid them. One less layer of fabric separated his mouth and teeth from her skin. He kissed a path from nipple to shoulder, traveling over satin, lace and skin. His nose nudged the puff of sleeve off her shoulder. Warm lips found the sensitive dip where neck met collarbone.

  His hands moved to the pink satin corset, undoing each hook, from the bottom to the top. He kissed her exposed belly button, undid the next hook and pressed his lips to the newly bared flesh. She whimpered. When the lower arcs of her breasts were revealed, he licked them, kissing up the curves of flesh, teasing her breasts’ aureoles with a flick of his tongue.

  With Tom, it had been tangled sheets and fevered kisses. Neither had time for seduction. This…this was a slow burn.

  They sank onto a bench. Undoing the last three hooks in quick succession, he held her exposed breasts in his hands. The outside air was cool on her nipples. Her aureoles contracted, begging to be warmed. He blew a breath of air over them, watching the flushed skin tighten. Her nerve endings smoldered, skin scorching under the touch of his lips and teeth.

  She was dressed in nothing but a fluff of skirts. She tried to draw the shreds of her self-control around her, but all reservations had fled along with her corset.

  Her eyelids fluttered at half-mast. Grabbing the lapels of his coat, she demanded, “Kiss me.”

  His mouth lowered, breath whispering against her cheeks. Lips hovered just out of reach. She opened her eyes. His gray eyes stared back at her.

  She mouthed, “What?”

  He smiled, sheepish. “It has been a long time since I—”

  She jerked him close and kissed him, eyes open and watching his reaction. She saw his startled look, the melt from muted gray to storm-ridden seas. The hunger behind his kiss, the hum of pleasure, both urged her to take rather than receive.

  As she leaned forward, her breasts scraped against velvet and braid. The juxtaposition of soft and rough made her gasp. Her arms wound around his neck, fingers of one hand teasing the curl of hair at his nape, the other twisting in his hair. Her lips seized his. His hesitancy was like gas to a lit flame. Need exploded in the pit of her stomach, surprising her with its intensity. Then his lips parted and his tongue flicked out to trace the upper edge of her mouth. She feathered kisses along his jaw, his stubble tickling her skin.

  Her mouth returned to his, drawing in his tongue, sucking the life from him and returning it with her own breath. Suddenly she pulled back. “This isn’t passion.”

  He made a choked noise, neither denial nor agreement. His hands kneaded her breasts. He brushed his thumbs over her aureoles, teasing the rosy skin with the sporadic scrape of his nails.

  “I mean it.”

  His thick black lashes framed the seascape of his eyes. His throat worked but he made no sound. It didn’t matter. Her purr was enough for both of them.

  “This is lust, pure and simple.” She kissed him again.

  His hand burrowed in her hair, spilling pins across the gravel path. They shimmered there like pearls washed ashore. Her hair tumbled down her bare back, a riot of curls.

  They slipped off the bench and she felt a blanket beneath her back, her head cushioned by his hands and a roll of velvet. She stared up at him, her own need reflected in his eyes.

  “You’re magic,” she breathed. “You’re not real.”

  His hand caressed her calf while the other removed her shoe. He tossed it over his shoulder. It spun and fell, a shooting star illuminated by moonlight. She’d lost the other when she toppled off the bench. His hands slid up her legs. He teased the triangle of silk covering her twitching nerves, the heat of his skin scalding her.

  “Say something,” she pleaded.

  He sat back. “I am going to tear your skirts off you one by one.”

  Her heart stopped beating. She knew it stopped because so did her breath and every other function in her body. In the lingering silence, an owl hooted and was answered. The fountain burbled and chattered to itself. Her heart cobbled itself together and began to beat, jackrabbit fast.

  Shucking coat and undershirt, he revealed a long pale expanse of flesh dusted with dark hairs. The march of hair and muscle vanished beneath his waistband.

  She took a ragged breath and reached out. Those pants had to come off.

  He had other ideas. Fabric ripped. Hundreds of sparkling beads showered her skin. Tearing the skirt to her waist, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her bellybutton. It gave her a fine view of his smooth back, the arch of his spine and the muscles guarding it.

  Her arm dropped, task forgotten.

  The fancy underskirt was next. Chiffon made a wet noise as it tore, its frayed ends fluttering like butterfly wings. There were layers and layers of crinoline underskirts. Grabbing a fistful in each hand, he shredded the material. Bits tore off. He threw them away. She felt a bit like an elegantly wrapped present, her skirts but tissue paper covering the real gift. The tattered remains of her skirts coated the ground like snow. By the time he finished, it was his breathing that was ragged, not that hers had improved any, either.

  Settling his hands on her hips, he pulled her across the blanket to him. She marshaled enough of her brain cells and synapses to force her arms to move. Her hands fumbled with the button on his waistband.
She wanted to scream in frustration. He paused long enough to help her remove his breeches. Then her hands were skating over the delicious curve of his ass.

  He pressed himself to her. Heat flooded her senses, a long line of sweltering skin. Kissing the dip between her jaw and neck, he teased her, rubbing his shaft against her inner thighs. The fire built, a conflagration only an orgasm could douse. The muscles of his ass tensed as her fingers trailed lower, stroking the juncture of thigh and ass cheek.

  Her hands slid over the swell of curved muscle and clutched his buttocks. Arching up, she impaled herself. The swiftness, the sweet invasion, left her writhing. He slid the rest of the way into her and slowly pulled out, a lazy withdrawal that sent her nerves shrilling like a bow swept across a violin’s strings.

  Another swift thrust had her back bowing and her whimpering. The conflagration burst into a full-blown firestorm. There was no time to breathe, to plead, to savor. The fire consumed her muscles and bones and left her limp. A single trembling finger stroked the sweat-slick dip in his back.

  God, he was still moving. His ragged thrusts refused her labias’ slow kisses. Burrowed in the shreds of her skirts, his hands closed into fists. His head tipped back and he murmured a stream of words in a foreign language. A chant, a prayer, a plea, a curse, she didn’t know. Muscles tightened. Nerves sang. Her vision blurred, the bubbling in her ears replacing the fountain’s playful chatter. A second maelstrom swept through her. She moaned and flung up a hand. Catching it, he pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles. She swore she died. Blood curdled. Bone and tissue dissolved into one tear-jerking clench of bliss.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, Azrael echoing her words.

  She bolted upright in bed, sheet clutched to her chest. God, what an erotic dream! She wondered if she could pull the pillow over her head and return to right where she’d left off. Glancing at her clock, she swore softly. Ten a.m. She’d overslept. Something tickled her face. She put a hand to her hair. Tugging it in front of her, she blinked. She was holding a fistful of blonde curls.

  Her hair was naturally straight.