Diamonds and Toads: A Modern Fairy Tale

by Saxon, K. E.

  Her eyes widened. She shook her head.

  “Good. Me either.” He bent down and kissed her again before saying, “Iz, I miss your voice. Why won’t you talk to me?”

  She shrugged.

  Sam sighed. “All right. Have it your way.” Then he settled himself on top of her and began kissing her in earnest. This time, as she cradled him between her thighs, there was nothing but hot, damp, burgeoning flesh between them.

  * * *

  Isadora ran her hands over Sam’s muscular butt cheeks and pressed him against the aching center of her as she turned her head, giving him better access to her neck and ear. A moan flew from her throat. He could make her want to do it so easily.

  His mouth, his hands, it seemed were everywhere at once. Firing her blood and making her mad with want of him. An uncontrollable desire to bite, to suck, to taste came over her.

  She brushed her lips across the left side of his chest and found his brown nipple. Oh God, Sam. Sam. It was you—always you. She sucked it hard into her mouth and he moaned. Then she traced open-mouthed kisses upward, to the curve of his neck. She sucked him there too. Then she bit.

  He grabbed hold of her hands and yanked them over her head. Then he drove his tongue deep into her mouth and rocked between her thighs, teasing her clit with the warm length of his erection.

  The kiss ended and Sam’s breath beat against her cheek. “You’re making me lose control, Iz. Stop it.”

  She shook her head.

  He squeezed her hands and pushed them down further into the pillow. “Lie still,” he said. He raised up, sat back on his haunches. “Don’t move.”

  He caressed her then. Caressed her breasts, her abdomen, her thighs and calves, before he settled down with his head between her thighs. “I’m going to get you ready for me.”

  Isadora’s mouth tipped up in a smile. She nodded and closed her eyes. Yes!

  He set about it then, in much the same way as before. But this time, while he teased and taunted her clitoris, he sent two fingers up inside her and stroked some magical place there that had her arching and gasping for air in seconds.

  Her thighs shook. Her muscles tightened. Her eyes clenched tight. She held her breath. A hot wave of intense pleasure filled her womb, shot internal lightning quivers straight through her, up to her brain.

  He jerked his head back. “No. Wait for me.” He was up and over her then, teasing her clit with the pad of his thumb and pushing into her, filling her up.

  In seconds, they were straining together, moving in time to the beat of their pounding hearts.

  “Good. So good,” he mumbled.

  Yes! She twisted and came up off the bed. Her vaginal walls spasmed around him and he cried out, “Ahh! God!” He rose up and gripped her hips. Then he went deeper, faster. The head of his erection pounded almost painfully against her cervix.

  Isadora opened even more for him and arched her back. Sam’s mouth came down on her nipple and he sucked hard. Hot and cold chills traveled over her skin. “Yes!”

  In the next second, her vagina convulsed. Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Ohhhh Go-o-o-d! Sam! Sam! I love this! “Sam! I love you!”

  Then everything went dark.

  * * *

  Sam lost control. He yelled out. His cock throbbed with the fierceness of the pleasure. It shuddered and jerked. And then, at last, release. So piercing in its ferocity, that silver spots floated behind his eyelids as he shot hot ejaculate high up inside her.

  Ears ringing and mind spinning, he somehow managed to roll onto his back before he lost consciousness.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Isadora slid one foot to the floor and slithered off the bed and out from under Sam’s sleep-heavy arm. The red illuminated numbers on the nightstand’s clock told her it was 6:32 a.m.

  He mumbled something in his sleep. She bugged her eyes at him and froze, but he rolled over and didn’t waken.

  Holding her breath, she tiptoed over to his closet, pulled out a chambray shirt, and silently padded down the hall to the other bathroom.

  Thirty minutes later, she was showered, shaved and walking toward the kitchen to try her hand at coffee making again.

  She was met by the aftermath of their ice cream and sex interlude. The scent of vanilla filled the air and the tabletop had a Pollock-esque design of dried cream splatters and streaks. So did much of the gold vinyl tiled floor.

  She put her hands on her hips. First, coffee. Then, clean up. She hadn’t forgotten her deal with the fairy.

  This time, she’d use a filter. She’d figured out that much from yesterday’s experiment and the result was much better. And even though she still needed sugar to disguise the horrid flavor, the caffeine it offered gave her the right amount of kick-start she needed for the day.

  She sat at the table on the deck with the bound galley in her hands, fully intending to read another chapter. As she looked at the words on the page, they blurred, and memories of the erotic night she’d just had pushed past her will to not examine it.

  Three times. They’d done it three times! And every time, she’d had one. Every time.

  He was good. She’d give him that.

  A ball of anxiety settled in her stomach. But—what about that ‘love’ thing she’d cried out to him that first time?

  * * *

  Isadora only managed to drink one cup of coffee before her restless mind forced her to get up and get busy and try to put her thoughts on something else.

  So she strode back into the kitchen and, this time, searched out items that looked like cleaning supplies.

  She found a box of pads that already had blue powdered soap in them. You just had to run them under water to get the suds going. This was like being given the key to the House of Dior!

  She cleaned the tiles first. It was a little harder than she’d thought it would be. She ended up having to use half a roll of paper towels to get all the blue soap up off the floor. But when she was done, she stood with her arms akimbo and beamed. Sam would be so proud of her.

  She attacked the kitchen table next. This time, she used less water and made sure she had paper towels ready to sop up the excess before it dripped over the edge.

  This was how Sam found her a few minutes later, cheerfully scrubbing the tabletop and humming that whistle-work song.

  She looked up and grinned.

  “What in bloody hell? Give me that!” He yanked the blue sudsy pad out of her hand and tossed it across the kitchen into the sink. “You’re scratching the finish. Shit. That’s my great-grandmother’s fucking table. Can you not do anything right?” He took her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the doorway. “Move. Just—just get out of here. I’ll do this.”

  * * *

  Isadora ran into the living room, tore off the shirt she wore, dragged on her discarded sports bra and shorts from the night before, and snapped up her clutch. Then she fled into the bathroom and flung the items she’d left on the counter into her carry-on. Where? Where could she go? She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Then, gritting her teeth, she swallowed down the bitter lump in her throat and hoisted the strap over her shoulder with shaking hands. Anywhere but here.

  The sliding glass door seemed a hundred miles away as she hustled back through the living room toward it. Then the goddamned thing fought her when she tried to get it open.

  “Izzy? Where—what are you doing?” Sam bounded toward her. She panicked. Grasping the handle in both hands, she jimmied it as hard as she could. It shot open and she ran. Past the table and across the deck to the dock. Her right foot was just about to land on the wood plank when a long, brawny arm snaked around her waist and hauled her off her feet.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry,” he said against her ear. He slid her to her feet and then wrapped his other arm around her. “I’m sorry.” He lifted his hand and stroked the hair away from her brow and kissed her temple. “Don’t go.”

  She shrugged. Well, she had ruined his great-grandmothe
r’s table. I’m sorry, too. “You’re a sorry piece of doo.” Damn it!

  Sam surprised her. He just chuckled and said, “Yeah, I know.” And then he turned her around and said, “Hungry? Want some breakfast?”

  At that moment, as she looked back at him and smiled up into his warmly amused eyes, Isadora made a decision. She was tired as hell of trying to not say the wrong thing.

  She nodded. “Legs and Spam.” Gross!

  He gave her a confused look. “Legs? Like, chicken legs?”

  That sounded good. Not as good as eggs, but certainly better than—ick!—Spam. She nodded. Maybe when it came to food, she’d best keep up the nonverbal stuff.

  * * *

  “Sorry, Iz, no chicken,” Sam said and swung the freezer door closed. “I’ve got eggs and bacon, though.” He turned and looked at her “Will that do?”

  The answering grin and nod she gave him was a lot more exuberant than he was expecting. “Okay. Eggs it is.”

  As he took out the frying pan and set about making their food, he started to whistle. It was that same children’s song he’d heard her humming earlier. She’d gotten to him again. He’d fought the good fight, and almost won, until she’d told him she loved him.

  Yeah, it’d been said to him before—more times than he could remember—at that same apex of sexual release, so he was more than a little certain that she hadn’t meant it.

  But that didn’t stop the gladness from filling his heart every time he recalled it. Which had been about every five minutes since she’d said it. Hell. Even while he’d slept, he’d felt a jittery happiness in his chest. It had invaded his dreams as well. Because she’d never said those words to him before. Not ever. Not even when she’d surprised the hell out of him and agreed to marry him on that Christmas Break trip they took to Hawaii.

  And he’d made love to her twice more last night with the hope that he could get her to say it again. But she hadn’t. Which no doubt proved that it really had been a slip of the tongue made in the heat of the moment.

  Funny, how the whole thing had backfired on him. His scheme to get, well, not exactly revenge, but justice for the way she’d taken hold of his heart when he was twenty-two, then stomped all over it and handed the bloody mass of pulp back to him with a flip of her hair and a “Who gives a shit about you?” smile on her face.

  He knew he’d better get a grip soon, or he was in serious danger of having his heart annihilated again. He swept a glance over to her. God, but she was so cute. She’d changed out of her own clothes and put his shirt on again. It made him want to beat his chest. It made him want to put his mark on her. But most of all, it made him want to take her again, right there, on the tabletop where her tapered fingers wrapped around her coffee mug.

  Those fingers. Around his cock. Now.

  He slid the pan of bacon off the burner and got to her in two long strides. Then he caught her up by her waist and kissed—attacked—her mouth, ripped the shirt off her shoulder and massaged her breast.

  “Eep?”

  * * *

  Isadora’s mind spun. He was going to do it again. Make her come. How could he have this much control over her senses? How?

  He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, then nibbled his way down her chin and neck. “What are you doing to me, Iz? God. What do you want from me?” He slid his lips over the rise of her breast and bit the tender flesh. “What?”

  Save me, God. Save me from myself. “Love me. God, just love me for myself.”

  “I do.” He pressed his face into her neck. “Dear God. I do.”

  Her own heart tumbled then. Against her will and in spite of the all-out fear of what would happen to her now.

  I love you too, Sam.

  * * *

  “Maybe we could take the ferry out to Bolivar later. Have a picnic at the Battery,” he said much later. After the lovemaking. After the breakfast.

  “Sounds fun.”

  Isadora blinked. How’d that happen? She tried it again. “But I want Brie and pâté.” She sat up straight, sat forward. Oh my god! I can talk!

  Sam shrugged. “Okay.”

  Her heart pounded. Was she cured? For good? Better wait it out. See what happens. Get in touch with the fairy.

  * * *

  The fairy phone sang out “Someday My Prince Will Come” while Isadora was putting on her makeup. She pulled the Pepto-pink star-spangled phone out of her clutch and pushed the receive button. “Hardee har har.”

  “Well, hello Dora dear. You rang?”

  “Is my curse lifted? For good?”

  “Why yes, dear. I do believe it is.”

  Isadora’s heart tripped and she allowed herself to breathe again. She whirled around and leaned against the bathroom counter. “So—so I can go home now? Get my life back?”

  There was a long pause and then: “If that’s what you want, then, yes. Yes you can.”

  “Whoop!” She did a little jig before asking, “Now? I can go now?”

  There was no answer.

  “Hello? Fairy?”

  Silence.

  Damn. Isadora shrugged. What day was this, anyway? Wasn’t the gala at the Crystal Ballroom tonight?

  * * *

  Sam came through the entryway of the sliding glass door into the living room with two bags full of picnic items. “Iz, I couldn’t find—Hey!” He took a quick look in the kitchen and dropped the bags on top of the table, then he strode down the hall. “Where are you? Izzy?” After scanning his bedroom and bath, he went back to the living room and looked around. A sheet of yellow writing-tablet paper caught his eye.

  He picked it up and read the one line she’d written. Then he read it again: It’s been fun, but must be off now.

  No salutation and no closing. She hadn’t even signed her name.

  Sam wadded the page up into a tight ball and threw it across the room. He’d gotten the kiss-off. Again.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Isadora placed her palm over her half-exposed, pushed-up bosom and pressed her palm against her aching heart. I will not feel this way. I will not feel this way. I will not feel this way.

  She took in a steadying breath and twirled away from the mirror and faced her mother. “Do you like the color?”

  “It will have to do, I suppose. There’s nothing else, after all, and it’s so last-minute.” Her mother took a long drag from her gold-tipped black cigarette and then tipped her head back and released the gray smoke through her red-tinted lips. As she flicked a long ash into the silver tray on the table next to the Louis XIV chair she sat in, she said, “You realize, do you not, that you are only back in my good graces now because of Chas? If it weren’t for his coming to my rescue with that tale of your video shenanigans being a well-rehearsed joke, then you’d never have been allowed entrée into my home again.”

  Isadora smoothed the front of her periwinkle blue satin gown with her hands. So. That’s how the fairy managed it. She’d wondered, but dared not bring up the subject for fear of opening up a better-to-remain-sealed can of worms.

  Her mother tamped out her cigarette and took a sip of her martini. “In any case, where were you the past two days? Tell me you weren’t with that purposeless sluggard, Sam Slade, the entire time. ”

  Isadora shrugged.

  Her mother sat forward. “Do not even think of starting that up again, my girl. I had a hard enough time getting you to untangle yourself from that decidedly inappropriate prospect eight years ago.” She pressed her sharply tipped red-lacquered nails to her brow. “My. What an absolute ordeal that was.”

  “Yes, mother. I know. I remember.”

  “We are Perraults, we do not marry scuba diving nouveau riche cowboys, no matter how wealthy their family is. It is not only about money, it is about position as well, my girl.”

  “Yes, mother. I’m aware. That’s why I came home.”

  “Well then,”—her mother tilted her head back and swished her jeweled hand at her—“push on, push on. We mustn�
�t dally or we’ll be late.”

  * * *

  “Hello?” Sam said into the phone.

  “Hey, man. It’s Chas.”

  “Yeah. What’s going on?”

  “Look, we didn’t get much time to catch up the other evening, and I really want to talk to you about something. So I was thinking: There’s a gala tonight in town and we still need one more person to fill the table we bought. How about it?”

  “Will Isadora be there?”

  A short pause. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No. No. Just curious.”

  “Hey. You and me—we’re good, right? I mean you’re not still pissed at me. After all this time. Are you?”

  “We’re good.”

  “Great! So—tonight? Can you make it?”

  Sam gripped the phone so tight his hand shook. He was a masochist. He had to be. “Yeah. Give me the details.”

  He hung up a few minutes later and fell back onto the couch. Okay, now what, genius?

  * * *

  “Champagne?”

  Isadora flashed an eye at the waiter standing next to their table and nodded. After taking a long swig of the crisp sparkling wine, she absently scanned the gathering again and sighed.

  “Yes,” her mother said, casting her own eye around the room, “a rather dreary lot. Not really our people, but this is a pet cause of Chas’s, so we must be seen.” She came in closer and said less loudly, “I do hope the poulet au poivre isn’t overdone; I detest dry poultry.”

  Isadora swallowed down the last half of her wine.

  Her mother gripped Isadora’s knee. “Oh dear God. Jacinda James, that fat fossil, just lumbered in with her newest garçon de le nuit!”

  Isadora smiled at her mother’s made-up euphemism, but she couldn’t resist getting a glimpse of the woman’s date. “Good lord! Is he on steroids? He’ll break her brittle bones if he climbs on top of her, padding or no.” Then a stray thought: Had Jacinda been one of Sam’s clients? For the first time in her life, a bolt of sheer jealousy traveled through her that had nothing to do with envy or loss of social place, and everything to do with possession. Unutterable terror nipped close at its heels. Get over it! You don’t love him. You won’t love him!