by Ruby Sirois
I make a gesture within her—come hither—and she responds with a deep gasp, a moan, a shudder, her fingers clawing at my back. A burst of slickness. Obedient to her unspoken demand, another finger slides in to join the first.
The heat of her is unbridled dragonfire. Her silky nectar pools in my palm as I move within her. I ache to taste it, to lick it from my hand. To drink it from the source. Instead, my tongue dips into her mouth the way I’d dip into her pussy—flicking, teasing, tasting, tracing—first one full lip and then the other, then the tip of her tongue. My thumb, firm against her hard little clit, follows the movement of my tongue as I make love to all of her at once. My witch writhes beneath me, the hot inner walls of her pussy pulling me in deeper, sucking greedily at me, demanding more.
My fingers fuck harder into her, meeting the demands of her hips. Her bare skin burns against me, her cries of ecstasy like music. Her soft arms twine around my neck, her soft breasts press against my hard chest, flattening the rough mat of hair there. Her nipples, two hard gems against me. My head dips to capture one. I draw it into my mouth, match the beat of my fingers with the tip of my tongue.
Her pussy clenches around my fingers in time with the flicking of my tongue against her nipple. I suck her in, taking as much creamy flesh into my mouth as I can. Tasting her, loving her. The rhythm of my fingers inside her is relentless as a heartbeat. I focus on the slightly rough texture of her top inner wall, right where her most sensitive spot is. I press up into it, my fingers drawing a response out of her willing body.
I feel her falling over the edge.
I am there to catch her.
I reach out for her, and encourage her to jump.
“That’s right, lilla häxan. Come for me. Let yourself go, come for me.”
It’s instantaneous. She cries out, and pulls in a shuddering breath as if she’s dying. Her whole body tenses, then quivers wildly beneath me as she comes. She screams as her pussy clenches even tighter around my fingers, drawing me deeper against her spot, my movements never slowing. Her honey spills into my hand, and her fingernails dig deep crescents into my skin.
My cock is pulsing with the galloping beat of my heart. Thick and hard inside the confines of my trousers, it strains for release as her body shakes beneath me. I ache to free it, to plunge inside her, feel her from the inside as she comes for me like this.
To claim her completely, to fill her up with my hot seed.
It’s all I can do to focus on her, solely on her pleasure, even as it spurs my own on beyond anything I’ve ever felt before.
When her body finally relaxes, limp, sated, I gently withdraw. Her gasp as my fingers finally leave her is delicious. I can’t help myself. I bring my hand to my lips, tasting the salty sweetness of her, sucking her essence from each digit. I clean her cunt honey from my palm, my eyes meeting hers even as I focus entirely on the taste of her.
Sweet and slick and wild, with a salty tang all her own. I want to drink her down, taste her from the source. It’s all I can do to resist, to keep myself from lapping up her wetness and bringing her to orgasm all over again.
Her eyes are wide, dazed, watching me.
“Your honey is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”
I lap the final traces of it from my skin. Already, I want more of her. Emelie’s scent lingers on my digits, a sweet promise. My cock aches, just as hard as it was when my fingers were inside her.
“That was—” she can’t finish.
Her breath still comes in ragged gasps, her cheeks flushed the same rosy-pink as her nipples. Her eyes reflect the dragonfire still holding at bay the edges of darkness surrounding us.
Her gaze alone could cast a spell on me, turn me to her will. I pray she never discovers her power over me—for when she does, I will be lost.
“I’ve never come that hard before.”
A trickle of sweat falls across her face, pools in the crease by her nose. She swipes at it with the back of her hand.
“A powerful orgasm makes for a powerful spell.”
She is surprised. “You know tantric magic?”
“I have studied many kinds of magic—some more avidly than others.” I don’t tell her that my rite with her was the most intoxicating of any I’ve performed by far. I am too proud to let on how deeply she has affected me. “It bodes well for the fulfillment of your wish.”
“My wish!”
Remembering the disc, she plucks it from between her breasts, peers at it. The metal glows faintly along one side, a quarter of its silver face gaining a crescent of golden patina.
“It worked?”
She rubs it with one fingertip, testing to see if the color rubs off. It does not.
“Gods…! It worked.”
I wonder at the pang of jealousy which sears me as she holds the disc so tenderly. I want her fingers to touch my skin with as much wonder. With as much hope.
I wonder, and am disquieted.
* * *
Mine, growls my dragon, twisting, writhing with need.
* * *
Mine.
6: Emelie
“Emelie?” Linnea’s voice sounds odd.
“Hmm?” I say, holding my cell against my ear with my shoulder as I mix up a new batch of sanitizing solution in the fermenting room.
Bright sun pours in through the windows, and it’s a little bit too warm. I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead with one arm.
“Um… you did the spell, right?”
“Jodå.” Yes, indeed.
“And…?”
“Well, it worked, if that’s what you’re asking. And I didn’t die.”
I smile a little to myself, thinking of Ragnarr, fingering the disc at my throat.
“Ja, it worked,” Linnea echoes. “Oh, it certainly did. Because we have an investor. Like… a really, really big investor.”
“What? That’s amazing! And quick,” I say, marveling.
After all, I did the spell only the day before yesterday.
“I just talked to our lawyer. This investor, this secret investor, they…”
I’ve never heard her like this. Shell-shocked, almost. It’s kind of eerie.
“Spit it out, Lin.”
“The investor found us a place. Or gave us a place. I don’t know, I’m in shock. It’s on the west side of the square in Stortorget, Gamla Stan. One of the really old gable houses, you know, those Amsterdam-looking Nordic Renaissance style ones that you like so much. It’s the red one with the white bricks and pretty ornaments on the facade along the roof edge.”
Gamla Stan is the most historic and beautiful part of Stockholm, dating back to before the 13th century. Tourists love it, and only businesses with a lot of money can afford to operate there because rents are through the roof. Stortorget is the oldest town square in the entire city, home to the Nobel Prize Museum and the Swedish Academy.
The location is a straight-up money-printing machine.
The chance to move So Mote It Bee there is beyond life-changing. It’s life-saving. It’s a dream location. I feel like I’m dreaming.
Am I dreaming?
My cell phone clatters to the floor. I can’t seem to move.
After a minute I remember how to breathe. I pick my phone back up.
“When?” I say.
My voice sounds distant, out-of-body. I think I’m smiling, but my face is numb.
“When do we get it?”
“Next month. It’s been a café forever, but they’re ending their lease on short notice. We just have to go do the paperwork.”
“So tell me about how it’s all been going for you, Emelie.”
Mom saws her grilled chicken breast into tiny pieces before taking a prim bite of her salad. I feel her eyeing my meatballs and mashed potatoes—
are you going to eat all of that?
but I try to fill up the air with my news, head her off before she can get started in yet again on the tired old rhetoric.
“It all sounds very exciting.”
“It is. It’s been a whirlwind over the past few weeks getting So Mote It Bee moved into the city, but with the help of the staff, everything’s gone smoothly. They’ve really gotten a spark of new life in them. I don’t know who’s more excited to be honest, me or them.”
I spread a bit of creamy gravy and sour-sweet lingonberries on my meatball and bring it to my mouth. The richness of the sauce blending with the juicy meat and tart berries explodes on my tongue.
Heavenly.
“There’s even an original vaulted stone basement dating back to the twelfth century, with the perfect year-round cellaring temperature for my French oak barrels.”
“Sounds lovely. And you know, it’s a miracle you got that house,” Mom says, spearing a piece of cucumber. “It’s been a coffeehouse for literally centuries, it’s in all the travel guides. I don’t understand why they would give up their lease just like that. I wonder if they had some sort of financial troubles, or maybe there was a death in the family. It had to have been something serious.”
She nibbles her cucumber in contemplation.
I have my own shortlist of theories as to why the café gave up its lease, but I sure as hell am not going to get into it right now. I especially don’t want to tell Mom about Ragnarr and our deal. Coming from a long line of witches, I know exactly how she feels about dragons. I just want to enjoy our lunch, and I don’t feel like hearing it.
I’ll tell her… eventually. Maybe.
“I guess we just got lucky with this mystery investor,” I say, licking a buttery bit of mashed potato off one knuckle.
Sage, white pepper, a hint of allspice. Interesting mead idea. Combined with lingonberries?
Stow that thought away for later.
“Apparently they own the house. We even got free rein to redo the interior—as far as the city’s historical preservation association’s guidelines allow, anyway. Helps that it was already a café and had a decent setup to start with.”
“And has Rebecka finished with everything? I hope she charged you a fair price. Just because she’s your coven-sister doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pay her fairly.”
Rebecka, an interior decorator, has been the driving force in redoing the bar and restaurant front-of-house floors of the Stortorget house for us.
I nod, swallowing my bite and wiping my mouth before answering.
“We paid her more than she wanted to take, actually. My vision has always been a sort of witchy, historically-inspired eclectic aesthetic with a lot of greenery, and she’s done an amazing job of pulling the look together to get the place feeling really cozy. You know, hand-made cast iron details, an antique glass demijohn or two in the corners, artisan table centerpieces made of raw rock crystal and handwoven textiles on the walls. And a sort of mishmash of antique chairs. You know—witchy. But the kitchen and workspaces are accessibly modern. I think she’s done exactly what I pictured, so I’m really happy with all of it.”
“Have you been on any dates lately?”
Mom’s infamous abrupt changes of subject are something I should be used to, but they’re always jarring every single time.
“Not really,” I say, which translates to zero—just like it has since my divorce.
My plate is nearly empty.
I scrape up the last bits of brown gravy, redolent with heavy cream, beef fond, and shallots, together with two lingonberries leaking ruby-red juice, for one last bite. Then I lick the fork clean.
“Well, honey, maybe if you lost some weight
wish you’d lose weight
you’d have more options,” she says. I sigh. Here it comes.
“Mom, you know—”
“I just worry about you. I worry about your health. You’re not getting any younger and you’re always saying how your knees hurt.”
“My doctor says I’m healthy. My bloodwork looks great for my age.”
just fifteen kilos to start. I promise I’ll help you
“But for how long? It only gets harder the older you get. I lost the weight when I was just a bit older than you, and I feel great now. It’s a lifestyle change, but it makes a world of difference. And you still have some childbearing years left if—”
“Nej, Mom. I don’t have time.” My fingers clench in the napkin hidden in my lap. “That ship has sailed. I don’t want to spend any more energy thinking about that. I just want to focus on So Mote It Bee.”
“But I want to see you happy. Get remarried, start a family like you always wanted. It’ll be so much easier with all of that if you lose weight. Your health would improve and so would your quality of life. I’m just speaking from experience. I know it’s hard, losing weight, but you deserve happiness. You’ve got such a beautiful face,
you disgust me
but men like to build a life with someone who’s healthy.”
My head is starting to pound.
“Like I said, I am healthy. My bloodwork is perfect and despite what you think, I love my body the way it is. I don’t need or want to change myself just to please someone else or to find a relationship, so if a man doesn’t see me as more than a baby-maker or dismisses me as just some lazy fat-ass then I’m not the one for him. End of story.”
“Hmm.”
She purses her lips at me, picking at the half-eaten salad still on her plate.
“Well, I talked to Pernilla the other day.”
I have to fight not to grit my teeth. This subject change is arguably worse.
“And what did my wonderful ex-mother-in-law have to say?”
“She’s my coven-sister. Just because your marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean my coven had to disband. You know how hard it is to find people you click with.”
I stare at her, saying nothing. If I have to explain it to her one more time I will start screaming and never stop. She gives me a smile which I suppose is meant to be a peace-offering.
It doesn’t work.
“Anyway, Peter is doing well. He got a promotion at work. A lot more responsibility, but a big raise too. Oh—and Anna is pregnant
can’t get pregnant
again.”
“Again?” My voice squeaks. I clear my throat, annoyed. “But they already have two.”
It sure didn’t take him long to start making them after leaving me five years ago, I want to say. I bite the words back.
I want to build a family—
I don’t want to be bitter anymore, but the emotion is ingrained in me, eating away at me like his acid still does. A vicious parasite, so deeply buried I can’t eradicate it without destroying myself in the process.
“You can’t be happy for them? Honestly, Emelie.”
“I’m happy. Happy that he’s someone else’s husband.” I say it half under my breath.
not tonight, I’m not in the mood
Mom shakes her head at me in disappointment.
you don’t turn me on anymore
“Bitterness is not a good look on you.
you look disgusting
I hope you don’t talk like this in front of other people. Do you?” She examines my face thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why you can’t find a date.”
not attracted anymore
I met someone else
divorcing you
His words echo in my soul, again and again, the way they have for years. Ripping me apart on the inside until there’s only shreds of me left. The scarred shreds pull and ache, and I favor them, an amputee favoring the wounded limb.
Only sheer force of will has me able to push them aside.
Only sheer force of will has me picking myself up every day and not drowning under the weight of them.
I am stronger than his words. I know I am better than that. But it’s still so, so hard.
I can’t tell my mom that this is why I’ve never dated since my divorce, why even the idea of falling in love again is anathema to me.
It would just invite more of the same.
Sure, they’re all nice at first. But if I trusted someon
e again, and I heard those words from him too… I’m not certain it wouldn’t break me. And I’m not convinced I could put myself back together a second time.
I can’t explain to her just how bad it had been for me back then, because even to this day it’s obvious she adores him. Thinks the world of him.
Agrees with him.
And when I hear the echo of Peter’s words from her mouth, I want to curl up and die.
Mom has no idea how much it hurts me. She would never understand.
“Ja,” I mutter. “Maybe.”
* * *
On the way home, I stop by a bakery and pick up a box of buttery almond pastries dotted with thick chunks of crispy toffee and milk chocolate. Besides my mead-making, they’re the only thing in my life which have never haunted me with an echo of cruel, cutting words. They’ve never hurt me, never rejected me, always comforted me.
I bite into one as I walk, the rich marriage of flavors like a hug from the inside.
I think about how I’d go about making a chocolate-toffee-almond dessert mead. I measure the ingredients in my head, adjusting, tweaking. The world disappears. All I see is my work.
And I feel better for a while.
7: Ragnarr
The spring afternoon sun is warm but the air is cool. Echoes from the heels of my Italian leather boots clicking against the cobblestones ring from the claustrophobic walls of one of Gamla Stan’s medieval alleys. A half-empty street, unusual for this time of year—yet another sign of the effect the bad economy has had on the country.
I tower over almost all the people I pass. Feminine heads turn, but my focus is only on one thing: the bright flash of Emelie’s red-gold hair bobbing half a block in front of me.
The flame of her draws me, foolish moth that I am. I want to singe my wings on it.
It beckons, and I am helpless to deny its call.
I follow.
The shops, cafés, and restaurants are a blur of muted colors around me as I pass. Snippets of conversations in half a dozen languages blow past on the breeze. The buildings have become more polished and the streets cleaner and sweeter-smelling over the passing of centuries, but their essence is the same. A thousand years of history lies buried not far beneath the worn gray stones lining the streets.
