Diamonds and Toads: A Modern Fairy Tale

by Saxon, K. E.

  The galley kitchen of Sam’s not-so-new and not-so-luxury houseboat had a coffee maker—also not-so-new and not-so-luxury. But if it worked—and more importantly, if Isadora could figure out how to use it—she’d kiss the avocado green hem of its harvest gold embroidered cover every morning for the rest of her curse-filled existence.

  After fifteen frustration-filled minutes, she located the can of coffee. Store brand?? Egads. And—blech! It probably tasted like turpentine mixed with antiseptic mouthwash strained through a dirty diaper. She thrust it back toward the shelf and then stopped short. Caffeine. Must have caffeine.

  She walked it over to the vintage brown and aged-yellow white maker. Okay, now what?

  * * *

  Sam wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the woman he’d left half-dressed in his living room the night before. Once she’d showered and put on one of his work shirts to sleep in, she’d settled on the couch next to the chair he occupied and silently finger combed her flame-colored tangles into submission—a thing he then began to imagine doing to her. Finger combing her. All over. It had taken every bit of willpower he could muster not to give her the nine inches she’d stipulated. And then some.

  But somehow he’d managed it.

  His own shower—the one he’d taken after fleeing to his bedroom—had been cold, painful and brief.

  Nothing like the dreams that had followed.

  Okay, guy, get a grip. Be cool. He swung the door to his bedroom wide and walked toward the kitchen with purpose. He’d have to pass the couch where she slept, but he’d keep his eyes directed straight ahead. It was the only option. Otherwise—well, there was a high probability that things would go a different way. A way that might just let on how much she still mattered to him. How much she still affected him. How much he still wanted her. A power over him he had no intention of giving her again. Ever.

  No matter how satisfying it would be in the short run.

  * * *

  Isadora sat at the wrought iron table on the deck of the houseboat avidly perusing the “Advance Uncorrected Proof” of a book she’d found lying on top of the desk in the living room entitled, Harvard Gigolo, A Memoir by Anonymous and drinking her coffee.

  The bitter brew went down smoother now that she’d added several spoonfuls of sugar and some milk. The grounds stuck in her throat each time, but she was getting used to it. Actually, she was pretty proud of herself. She’d made her very first pot of coffee—all by herself! Yes, it was a menial task that she was pleased to have a servant perform—or Delilah—whichever was most conveniently positioned at the time of her need.

  But still. The fact that she’d managed to figure it out—even if it was with the help of her BlackBerry and YouTube—was still an accomplishment. Wasn’t it?

  In any case, she supposed it behooved her to learn all such tedious tasks now that she was on her own—for the time being at least—and working for her room and board.

  She shook her head and read the title of the next chapter: “The Frigid Oilman’s Wife.”

  “WHAT IN THE HELL!”

  Isadora jumped so high, the coffee spilled all over the page she was reading. The mug clattered on the table as she dumped it down and then she waved the book in the air in a guilty attempt to fling the coffee off the sopping paper.

  The sliding glass door behind her swished open. “What did you do in there—wage war? There’s a river of coffee on the floor, an open container of milk in the sink and coffee grounds and sugar granules stuck to everything.”

  Isadora shrugged.

  “You didn’t re-seal the loaf of bread, either. And there are globs of grape jam on the counter next to it.”

  Isadora altered her shrug a fraction this time by first lifting a brow and then tilting her head to the side.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Well, clean it up.” He turned and strode off then, leaving her to stare at his receding backside.

  Jerk! He could do it himself if he was so worried about the mess. Except. Cleaning was part of the deal. Besides, who knew what else the fairy would do to her if she reneged?

  She glanced at the book. Bummer. She was just getting to the good bit.

  * * *

  A half-hour later, Isadora energetically pumped hand soap onto her sixth long swath of paper towels—it’d taken her a few tries, but she’d finally figured out that wetting them down with water first made them work better—as she mentally went down the list of every Harvard guy she knew. Who was ‘Anonymous’? Oooh. Maybe it was Ronnie Gould. He’d always been a wicked one. Plus, he and Sam had been roommates.

  “What happened to my bound galley?” Sam said from behind her and then slammed the book she’d been reading down on the counter next to her.

  Isadora shrugged. It was clear what had happened to it, so even if she could have given him an answer, she wouldn’t have.

  “Coffee. Coffee’s what happened to it. I can’t give this to a reviewer now.” The hand that he’d splayed on the book’s top fisted. “Look, it’s clear I need to set a few ground rules if you’re going to work for me. Number one being, leave everything on my desk alone. Understood?”

  She nodded. Sure she would, after she’d read about the frigid oilman’s wife—who, she was pretty sure—was none other than Mrs. Blain Johnson. Besides, it was his fault she spilt the coffee.

  “Number two, I like things clean and tidy. Keep them that way.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but nodded. What else could she do?

  “Number three, put some more clothes on.” He thrust a pair of faded men’s pajama bottoms at her. “I’ll go by your house and get some of your things. Unless—do you want to go with me? Maybe try to make amends with your mother?”

  No. Not a good idea. Isadora shook her head.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. Those smoky green eyes of his swept over her face and down her neck, stopping just above the deep vee of her shirt’s neckline. Isadora felt heat unfurl, beginning in her belly and moving like wild fire through her veins.

  “What’s with all the silence, Isadora? Cat got your tongue?”

  No, a fairy stole it. She shrugged.

  He grinned. There was wickedness in that grin.

  In a flash of pure insight, Isadora realized who’d authored the book: Sam! Sam was ‘Anonymous’! Her heart pounded in her chest and her gaze darted to the galley. But—was it after they met, or before? Like magnets to steel, her gaze riveted to his groin.

  She moistened her lips.

  Sam unfolded his arms and grasped the counter behind him. He shifted his weight to the other foot and cleared his throat. “Izzy?”

  Her eyes flew back to his. Oh shit. Take me home. “Make me come.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “A guy doesn’t even rate a kiss first?” Sam swept his hand behind Izzy’s head and pulled her into him. She gasped and he swooped, melding his mouth to hers before she could take another breath. He turned her so that her backside was pressed tight against the counter and her pelvis and torso were pressed tight against his, he dragged her jaw open wide with his thumbs and delved deep into the warm recesses of her mouth with his tongue.

  A strangled mewl ushered up from her throat and he groaned in answer.

  This was the kiss he’d never had the courage to give her when they were younger. This was the kiss that a man gave a woman he intended to have at his mercy. This was the kiss that a man gave a woman when he was about to take her to bed.

  He’d known the exact moment Izzy had put it all together in her mind. And now she wanted a taste of the dark side. Fine. He’d give it to her. Why not? It’s what he wanted, too—had been wanting, in fact, for eight long years.

  He could do this. He could fuck her and never let on how much he still cared. Sure he could.

  But first, he’d make her want him with the same gut-wrenching fire that he wanted her.

  And that would take more time.

  He dropped his palms
to her shoulders and broke the kiss. “I’m going to make you come, Izzy, I promise. You’re going to come so hard and so long, you’ll lose consciousness.” She blinked up at him, her pupils as big and as dark as sloe berries in autumn. He traced his tongue over her swollen lips then said, “I’m going to take my time about it, though. Starting when I return.” He gave her one last quick peck and then released her. “I’ll be back by lunchtime—make us some burgers, will you? The meat’s in the freezer and the buns are in the bread basket.”

  He strode as quickly as he could out of the kitchen and left through the sliding glass door before he could talk himself out of his plan and take her right there on the hard, cold vinyl floor.

  Not the way to go, if you wanted to maintain control—and distance—in a sexual relationship.

  * * *

  The snick! of the sliding glass door shutting snapped Isadora out of her stupor. Oh shit. She was in deep trouble now. Or—maybe not. He had a way of mastering her sex drive that no other man had ever been able to do before. She picked up the bound galley and absently kicked the discarded pajama bottoms out of her path as she strolled into the living room and sat down in the overstuffed chair. After flicking the reading lamp on and thumbing to the chapter about the frigid wife, she settled back to read.

  An hour later, she was convinced that Sam had not been exaggerating. And maybe, just maybe, that was a very good thing for her. Or could be. If he really was able do for her what he’d done for that poor oilman’s wife.

  Her ‘little problem’ with sexual release was something she’d been hiding from everyone—not just the men she’d slept with—but everyone, even her friends, since her second time doing it. The first time, she really hadn’t minded spilling the beans—hardly any girl had an orgasm their first time, everyone knew that. But when Chas and she had done it the second time and she still hadn’t felt the vaguest need to cry out, or send him deeper into her, or do any of the other outrageous things the romance novels depicted, well, it had ended up being the first time she’d ever faked it. She’d had to. Chas wouldn’t stop until he’d gotten some kind of response out of her.

  So, she’d mimicked the heroine from the latest book she’d read and moaned, thrashed about, and cried out at the top of her lungs. And then he had, too.

  Yes, she’d learned a very valuable lesson that day: Men really liked making women come.

  And now—after, well, not millions, as she’d blurted to Sam, but more men than she could name—she was finally going to give Sam a whack at her.

  * * *

  Sam dropped the carry-on bag onto the floor next to the coffee table. It was stuffed full with outer- and under- garments, plus several items from her vanity. Izzy’s mother had been a bitch—not surprising—and given him leave to take only what could fit in the bag.

  “Izzy?” There was a distinct smell of burned beef in the air. Not a good sign. Even though he was getting evil gratification out of having her do chores for him, he still didn’t want his home destroyed. He walked toward the kitchen. “Iz? You in there?”

  He stopped in the entryway and stared. Not one dish, utensil, or towel it seemed had been left unsoiled. The door to the microwave hung wide open and the charred remnants of a ground meat explosion caked every interior surface.

  Okay. Cooking—off the list. Sam whirled around and headed through the living room and down the hallway. “IZZY! WHERE ARE YOU?”

  He rapped a knuckle on the bathroom door. A second later, it swung open and a distinctly damp-eyed, disgruntled female emerged.

  “What happened to your arm?—let me see.” He took hold of her wrist and brought the cold cloth away that she was holding against the inner side of it. “That’s a nasty burn. Here,”—he turned her around and headed them both back into the bathroom—“I’ve got some salve and bandages in the medicine cabinet.” He swept her up and set her on the countertop. “You hungry? I can call for a pizza in a minute.”

  Izzy gave him what he was coming to recognize as her signature answer for everything—a shrug—but she added a nod this time.

  “Good.” He pressed down the edges of the square bandage and then lifted her off the counter “And afterward,” he said against her ear as he slid her down his torso, “we can take another step or two toward bliss.” Then he smacked her on the left butt cheek, set her on her feet and walked out.

  * * *

  Isadora found Sam in the kitchen—whistling!—a few minutes later.

  “The pizza should be here in about half an hour,” he said over his shoulder and then turned back to continue scrubbing the gunk off the microwave.

  She wandered over and idly picked up the spray bottle he was using. ‘409’ was on the front in big purple letters. Oh. She’d heard of this. And it certainly would have been useful this morning. She noticed that he was using some sort of sponge as well.

  Her second foray this afternoon into ‘The Kitchen Zone’—as she’d begun to think of it—had not turned out as well as her first. Even with the YouTube video. And then, when the meat blew up, she’d fried her arm on the blasted electric stove. The freakin’ circle-y thing was still black—not red like in the video—how was she to know it was hot already??

  “Did you see the carry-on next to the coffee table? Unfortunately, that’s all the stuff your mother would let me bring to you—sorry.”

  Isadora whirled around and headed into the living room. She snatched up the bag and almost broke the zipper getting it open. She tore into it then, flinging sports bras, panties, capris and shorts everywhere. When she got to the bottom and found one pair of athletic shoes, her brush and a small bag of makeup, her knees gave out and she withered onto the sofa. Not one single designer shoe, purse, or evening dress. Nothing for a MassArt fashion design grad. Nada. He’d brought her only crap from the floor of her closet. Isadora leaned forward and put her face in her hands. Oh, dear God. I really am screwed, aren’t I?

  “Want a Bud?” Sam called from the kitchen.

  She lifted her head and ground her teeth. No, I do NOT want a Bud!

  “No. But I DO want to fuck!”

  Damn.

  * * *

  Sam gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and squeezed his eyes shut. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to stride in there and plow into her, the way she clearly wanted him to do.

  “LAT—ahem—LATER!” he called back. Much later, in fact. But she didn’t need to know that, now did she?

  * * *

  Were they going to do it now? Isadora wondered. Sam had cleared the table out on the deck of all remnants of their meal and now he was leading her by her hand through the living room and down the hall toward his bedroom.

  She frantically tried to remember how he’d described his sessions—his word, not hers—with the frigid wife, but the adrenaline pumping through her system was affecting her synapses. All she could recall at this moment was that the woman had had an appendectomy scar that she’d been embarrassed for him to see.

  Once in his bedroom—it was larger than she’d expected. And the bed. The bed was massive—he surprised her and stopped in front of a carved oak door. Swinging it open, he said, “Jacuzzi?”

  To Isadora, this seemed like a last-minute reprieve. She nodded her head.

  His answering smile had the devil in it. But when he placed his hand in the curve of her back and urged her forward, she went without hesitation.

  She didn’t really know what to do with herself as she waited for him to fill the tub and turn the jets on, so she studied the layout of the room, nosed around in a couple of his drawers (he wasn’t paying attention anyway—so why not?)

  It was then that she found his stash of condoms. Oh my freakin’ God. He hadn’t been joking about the 9-inch thing. Why hadn’t he said anything about THAT in his book? Seemed like pertinent information to her. Real pertinent. Super pertinent. EXTREMELY pertinent.

  Isadora forced air into her lungs. Okay. Big is good. Everyone said so. Hey—maybe that was the problem
—maybe she just hadn’t been with a guy that was big enough. She shot a glance at Sam from the corner of her eye. Well, sometime tonight she was pretty sure she was going to find out.

  * * *

  Sam reached across Izzy and picked up the beer he’d left there a minute ago before they got in the Jacuzzi. As he brought it back toward him, he brushed his arm over the tips of her breasts. An electric shock traveled straight to his groin when he heard her suck in her breath.

  Tilting the bottle of brew back, he took a long swallow and then set it back down in the exact place he’d taken it from. This time, instead of touching her breasts, he settled his other arm over her shoulder, followed the shape of her ear with his index finger and nuzzled into her hair. “You smell good. Like springtime.”

  Her breathing was becoming labored—so was his, truth be told. How the hell he was going to keep this provocative, but unfulfilled, he didn’t know. His cock was so hard it ached. But he was still determined to try. Even if the naked-seduction-in-the-Jacuzzi idea was turning out to be more tantalizing for him than he’d expected.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Be careful not to get your bandage wet.” He lifted her injured wrist to his lips and nibbled the tender skin on either edge of the dressing. When she began to tremble, he repeated the exercise, this time, going further still, up her arm to the sensitive place inside the crook of her elbow. He tickled it with his tongue and she squirmed on her seat.

  “You’re even more beautiful than you were at nineteen, Izzy.”

  He heard the harsh rasp of her breathing as a shudder went through her.

  “I’m going to kiss you now.” He took her chin in his hand and turned her toward him. “Close your eyes,” he said and then he tasted her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. “Just float.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Isadora leaned her hip against the edge of the kitchen table and took a sip of wine. Thank the dear lord, Sam had finally caught a clue and bought a bottle. He was preparing steaks for their dinner, and she watched him with newfound curiosity now that she’d had some experience in such endeavors.