by Nina Mason
By the time she entered the doctoral program at Cambridge, the hole inside was an abyss. One of her professors, sensing she was in pain, sent her to see the campus shrink: an American named Hollis Randall with a soothing voice, sandy hair, and kind blue eyes. He practiced something called “cognitive therapy,” which helped people change the “stinking thinking” underpinning self-defeating behaviors.
At the start of their first appointment, Dr. Randall looked her in the eye. “Do you have a philosophy of life?”
She responded with a sulky shrug, after which the good doctor explained how people with a spiritual belief system tended to be happier than those without one. That conversation launched her quest for a truth she could embrace, heart and soul. Before long, she found herself drawn more and more to paganism, the occult, and white magic.
When Wickenham offered her the teaching position—a fantastic opportunity—she sent an excited email home, expecting her parents to be as thrilled as she was. Their reply was swift and succinct: “If you take a job promoting the devil’s work, you’ll never be welcome in this house again.”
Chapter 10: Splendor in the Grass
As they headed back toward the house, the hunger dragged on his body like a rip current. He’d done everything he knew to curb his appetite, but could fight his needs no longer. Since she refused to release him, he saw no alternative but to take her up on her offer. Not that it would be a hardship. He desired her. Desperately. And, if she kept her word, he’d be off to Scotland on the morrow and she would never set eyes on him again—in this lifetime, anyway. She knew this. Plus, he felt no flicker of Fitzgerald’s energy, meaning she was safe for the time being. So, what harm could come from quelling his longing for a single night?
“Do you still wish to relinquish your title?”
She glanced at him with an expression of surprise and hope. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
He could think of dozens of reasons she might not want to after the things he’d disclosed, but, just at the moment, he felt disinclined to point them out. His consciousness was flowing steadily downward, along with all the blood in his brain, making him drunk with desire.
“And afterward? How will things stand between us?”
“Just as they always have,” he told her. “Tomorrow at midnight, you’ll release me from your spell. Until then, we are free to enjoy each other’s company in whatever way we please.”
“Which, if I agree, will extend to shagging...and possible bloodletting?”
“Aye.”
“And there’s no chance you’ll change your mind about Scotland?”
“There’s always a chance, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “But I don’t suggest you put any money on it, eh?”
“So, just the one night, then?”
“Aye. Just the one.”
She grabbed his arm, spun him around to face her, and threw her arms around his neck. “Kiss me, you bloody-minded vampire. Before I change my mind.”
She didn’t have to ask him twice. He gathered her into his arms and captured her mouth with a tender kiss.
“You will be gentle with me, won’t you?”
“Aye, m’aingael. As gentle as a lamb.”
Her eyes were yielding and warm. She touched his face, melting his heart. She was so like them, so bloody like them, he was in love with her already. Or, rather, as she’d forced him to admit, had never stopped loving her.
Kissing her again, he urged her lips apart and offered his tongue. She accepted it, entangled it with her own, and moaned into his mouth. His hands slid down the long muscles of her back and over the swell of her buttocks. Now that he’d surrendered to his desires, allowed himself his feelings, he did not want to stop kissing her, to let go of her, even for a moment.
On a sudden impulse, he swept her into his arms and carried her into the walled garden, never releasing her mouth. The pleasant perfume of peonies, roses, and lily of the valley filled his nostrils. He laid her down on the grass, kissed her face, her neck, her ears, her hair. He began unbuttoning her blouse. Her bra was black lace. Pulse quickening, he lowered his face, pulled down the scalloped edge of one, and flicked his tongue against the nipple.
“You’ve got lovely wee tits.”
“You don’t think they’re too small?”
“I think they’re perfect.”
He didn’t know why he wanted to take her outdoors, he just did. There was something magical about making love en plein air. The trees, the breeze, the smell of earth and grass. Taking the nipple between his lips, he urged it to grow. She pulled up his shirt, her hands seemingly as eager as his for the feel of bare flesh. Feel his sporran inhibiting his growing arousal, he reached behind to release the buckle. She tugged up the pleats of his kilt, baring his arse to the moon and stars. He moved to her other breast, pleased to find the nipple hard. After giving it a few flicks with his tongue, he returned to her mouth.
He nibbled her lower lip between kisses. He wanted to savor every moment of this, squeeze every drop of sweetness out of the experience. Her hands caressed his cheeks. He deepened the kiss before pulling out of it, rising up on his knees, and stripping off his t-shirt. She swept her hands down his ribcage and over the front of his kilt, snagging his erection. Her touch was clumsy yet ardent. Closing his eyes, he reveled in her naive sensuality as she explored the most sensitive part of his anatomy. The hand dipped underneath, up his inner thigh, and across his stones. Desire’s arrow struck him hard, making him quiver.
As she continued playing under his kilt, he set his hands on the lawn beside her spilled hair and brought his mouth down on hers in a torrid kiss. Taking his weight on one hand, he exposed her breasts, which were just as he remembered: round and full, but not too big. He’d never been particularly fond of overlarge bosoms—any more than a handful being wasted and all. He put his hand on one of hers, a perfect fit. She shuddered and he moved his mouth to her neck, trailing feather-soft kisses from collarbone to ear.
The tantalizing scent of her jugular called his fangs. Pushing up, he looked down at her. She was so familiar...and, at the same time, so strange...and still so achingly lovely he couldn’t bear it.
She let go of his member, set her hands on his chest, tickled his hair, teased his nipples. He grinned his approval. She moved her hands to his hair and tried to pull him into a kiss. Coming down, he touched his lips to hers, but only for a moment before moving on. He planted a garden of kisses along her body, as he opened her jeans. He pulled off her sneakers without undoing the laces, tugged off her jeans, and buried himself between her legs, pressing them open. Her arousal filled his senses. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to savor the tang of her secretions.
“What are you doing?”
“Enjoying your musk.”
“You don’t think it smells...funky?”
“Och, no, lass. I think it smells sublime.”
Craving her flavor, he moved in, parted her folds with his fingers, and flicked his tongue against her bud. She twitched and gasped. He proceeded to kiss, lick, and suckle until her hands tore at the grass like garden claws.
“Do you like that, then?” he asked, coming up for air.
She groaned. “Like doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Pushing two fingers inside her, he was pleased to find her wet and slippery. Ready then, as he was. He wanted more than a taste; he wanted to devour her, to swallow her whole. Pushing up on all fours, he crawled over her and lifted his kilt.
“If it hurts too much, just say so and I’ll stop, aye?”
She nodded, her face pinched and white, but said nothing. He could feel her trembling under him, but with anticipation or fear? Positioning himself at her entrance, he pushed a wee ways into her. She was tight and slick, but also clenched.
“It’ll hurt less if you relax.”
“Okay,” she whispered, unclenching a little. “You’re rather...well-endowed, aren’t you?”
“Aye. A bit. But not freakishly so.”
Sh
e laughed. A nervous titter. He eased deeper, pushing through her hymen with a slow, measured stroke. She gasped, arched, and scraped his back with her nails.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he rasped, stilling himself. “But at least you’re no longer the oldest living virgin in the U.K., aye?”
He began to move, cautiously at first and then with more vigor. With each push, he felt her body stiffen and arch, felt her fingers rake his back. He knew he was hurting her, knew he should stop, but the feeling was too divine. And not just physically. As he filled her, she filled him, easing the emptiness, making him feel as if they’d never been apart.
She began to relax and move with him, getting into the rhythm. Then, she wrapped her legs around him, taking him deep. Groaning with the pleasure of it, he drew back and plunged as deep as her body would allow. With a breathy moan that almost made him lose it, she reared up to meet him with driving need. She did this each time he thrust, again and again, until sparkling waves of sensation rolled through him, one after another.
When it was over, he rolled onto his back and looked up at the night sky. The moon was full—a giant luminous pearl among tiny diamonds. The cool grass soothed his back, which burned where she’d scratched him. But no matter. The sex had been amazing—for him, at least—and his discomfort would pass much quicker than hers would.
“I never know what to say to a lass after I’ve rogered her.”
“Rogered? How romantic.”
Laughing, he rolled against her and kissed her shoulder. “Was it what you had in mind when you summoned me with love herbs?”
He heard her heartbeat quicken. “How did you know that?”
“I recognized the blend, having practiced magic for a time.”
She looked at him, eyes glinting with surprise. “Did you? Why’d you stop?”
“What good is magic if you can’t conjure the only thing you truly want?”
“And what is it you want, Graham?”
“This.”
She put her arm around him, pulled his head onto her breast, and stroked his hair—a heavenly feeling.
“You don’t have to leave me.”
“Aye, lass. I do.”
She sighed. “Why didn’t you bite me?”
“That’s the main course.” He kissed her nipple. “This was only the appetizer.”
* * *
When the night grew too cold for comfort, they moved indoors, stripped out of what remained of their clothes, and got into his bed. He spooned her, holding her close so close she could feel his erection in the small of her back, the warmth of his skin against hers, the moist heat of his breath near her ear.
“Roll over. Onto your back.”
She did as he asked, suddenly afraid, but some deep-down part of her wanted him to; wanted him to take part of her into his body just as she’d taken part of his into hers. As he came over her, she saw his eyes. They were yellow, like a wolf’s. Tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. She wanted to look away, but her will was gone. She could feel those eyes pulling her in, down and down into their depths. She was drowning, but it was a peaceful, euphoric feeling. His woodsy scent filled her nostrils, making her lightheaded and strangely detached. It was as if she watched it happening to someone else.
She shivered, dimly aware of his knees pressing between hers and his hands on her breasts, squeezing gently, teasing her nipples, sending sweet tremors all the way down to her sex. She shivered as he came over her and touched her lips with his—petal-soft—before moving to her ear.
He nibbled her lobe. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Returning to her mouth, he nipped her lower lip before moving to her throat. She clenched, bracing herself for the bite, but he only nuzzled and licked the thick cord of muscle. He then kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, and the indentation at the base of her throat. Finally, he proceeded to her left breast, where he circled the aureole with his tongue before closing his lips around the nipple. As he sucked it, thrills twitched deep in her abdomen.
When he bit down, she came back to herself with a jolt, cursing and bucking under him. Excruciating pain echoed through her body. As he sucked, the pain gave way to euphoria. Then began a pleasurable sensation, like electrical pulses surging to points of ecstatic brilliance, making her insides quiver and melt. It went on for what seemed a long while, and then he let go, rose over her, and came into her with a smooth, deep thrust. The feeling of their merger overwhelmed her, threatened to consume her. It was too much, too intense, too amazing. She clung to him, afraid of what was happening to her. He wasn’t just inside her, he was part of her, fused with her. For the first time in her life, she felt truly alive.
The orgasm broke over her like a tidal wave. She came around him in shuddering sequences, again and again, her body spent, but unable to refuse the pleasure. By the time he finished, she felt both ecstatic and utterly depleted.
“Bite me.”
“Sorry?”
“Bite my shoulder. Hard enough to break the skin. Then swallow a wee bit.”
“Will it make me like you?”
His eyes darkened. “Turning you is a hard limit, lass. As in, non-negotiable.”
“Then why do you want me to drink your blood?”
“So we can feel each other. In our hearts and our veins. And so I can find you, if you’re ever in trouble.”
When he offered her his shoulder, she kissed and nibbled it a little, preparing herself.
“Go on.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
She couldn’t answer because she didn’t know. Setting her fear aside, she pressed her mouth against the ridge of muscle just above his clavicle and bit down, sinking all her angst and heartache into his skin along with her teeth. He hissed and flinched, but pushed into the bite rather than pulling away. Blood seeped up from the wound, tasting unexpectedly sweet and tart. She swallowed a few drops before pulling away.
“Well done.” He kissed her quickly. “Now I’ll ken when you need me.”
She needed him now, she wanted to scream, needed him not to run away to Scotland the day after tomorrow and break both their hearts; needed him to wake up and smell the coffee of spiritual truth: namely, that all love flowed from the divine source and that the soul was simply its channel to humanity. Thus, if he could still love, he must still have a soul.
* * *
“Do you mind if I switch on the light?”
“Wha—?” His voice sounded groggy. “Oh, uh, no. I suppose that’d be all right. But why?”
“I want to look at you.”
“You mean...naked?”
She gave him a smile. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
She’d read a thousand times what it was like, but no description had adequately captured the soulful feeling of communion and surrender she’d experienced when their bodies joined. And as sore as she was, she yearned to feel it again.
“Why bother to ask? Am I not spellbound to fulfill your every whim?”
She felt a discordant mixture of power and guilt as she reached across him to the bedside lamp, planting a penitent kiss on his mouth as she did. Light bathed the room. Squinting against the sudden brightness, she studied him. His skin was pale, almost lucent. Unearthly, but beautiful. Like moonlight...or the wing of a dragonfly. She’d felt his chest hair while they were making love, but now saw it was the same shade of copper as the hair on his head. A dusting of it covered his chest and belly, thickening as it trailed downward. The hair below was darker and redder. A blush heated her face as her gaze settled on the thing that had been inside her only moments before. Only now, it looked relaxed and harmless.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” She touched his penis with a tentative finger. “I mean, it’s so, well, ugly, really, but also kind of lovely too, in its way.”
He made a funny sound in his throat, but said nothing.
“Does it have a name?”
“Oh, aye. And a driving license.”
“The bloody bane of my existence.”
“I mean a nickname. Like John Thomas or maybe Roger or, oh, I don’t know. Men seem to have so many silly nicknames for their willies”—she laughed—“including that one.”
After clearing his throat, he flashed a sheepish smile. “Well, if you must know, you’ve just had the pleasure of meeting wee Angus Og. Or, that is to say, I sincerely hope you found it pleasurable.”
His smile—and the name—warmed her all the way down to her toes. Angus Og was the Celtic god of love. The equivalent, more or less, of Cupid. She set her head on his chest, watching in a detached kind of way as her hand squeezed and pulled, marveling at the queer organ’s miraculous response.
“Why do men feel the need to name them?”
His laugh, a musical and magical sound, turned her insides to treacle. “Because the wee buggers tend to have minds of their own.”
His breathing grew thready as she continued fondling him. When a liquid pearl emerged, she smiled and wiped it away with her thumb. The throaty sound he made was a bullet straight to her sex.
“What might the wee bugger be thinking now?”
She’d made him hard and wanted him again, despite the lingering soreness.
“Aye, well.” His voice was deep, husky, and sexier than hell. “He’s thinking what he’s always thinking, I suppose. If you want the God’s honest truth, wee Angus there has a bit of a one-track mind.”
Chapter 11: Everything Happens for a Reason
She laid awake in the dark, hyperconscious of the ticking time bandit on the nightstand. Each motion of the second hand marked another moment gone. It was just after four in the morning, giving her a mere twenty hours more to sway him—not that she could do much on that score while he slept beside her like the dead. Unlike him, she would not allow slumber to steal a single precious second. She could close her eyes after he was gone.
Her gaze roamed over his body, curled atop the covers with nothing on. His skin was creamy white; his shoulders broad; his buttocks taut; his legs lean and muscular; his feet as finely sculpted as his hands. Longing twitched, but she wasn’t about to wake him. She needed to think, to plan. Aside from sleep-learning, there wasn’t much she could do to influence him at the moment, so she’d best channel her energy toward the Fitzgerald side of the equation. She needed to research spells. Was there a computer in the room? She scouted around, finding a closed laptop on the desk between the windows.
