by Ann Macela
And when he came close enough, her scent practically made him dizzy.
And while he followed her, he had to remind himself not to watch too closely the sway of her hips and the glimpse of her legs under her pleated skirt. The urge to touch grew with each of her strides.
He wondered if hitting himself in the head would clear his obsessive thoughts. Probably not.
The question was rapidly becoming not if he could resist the imperative, but if he could resist the woman.
He looked elsewhere, around the room, hoping to find another view as interesting. One didn’t exist.
He could at least put the table between them for a physical barrier, and he took a seat on the opposite side from her. Their gazes met and held, and he fought the urge to crawl across the expanse of white linen and …
His intention must have shown in his eyes, because hers widened and she glanced quickly down at her hands. When she raised her gaze again to his face, he felt like he’d been caressed by a flame. He didn’t know green could be so hot.
Before he or she could say or do anything, however, a grim-faced Ed came in with an equally unhappy John Baldwin.
Good. Marcus forced his mind to concentrate on the papers in their hands.
“More posters,” Ed announced and spread out a collection on the table.
“Same operation—gray robes, impossible to tell who they were—only tonight they did their dirty work during the debate,” Baldwin said, “and with a difference.”
Marcus looked down at the flyers. Some were identical to the originals last week.
Stop Destroying Magic!!!
Accept the Truth!!!
End the Debates Now!!!
Or You’ll Be Sorry!!!
Others were blatantly partisan. “The Fomsters are evil and will destroy us!” versus “Only the FOM can save magic’s future!” “Traddies will doom us to the magic of the past!” versus “Only THA can maintain our heritage!”
“Looks like everybody’s getting into the act,” Morgan said.
“Here’s the one on your door, Gloriana.” Baldwin held up a white page with red and black lettering. “Join our noble THA cause or be cast out!”
“Cast out? Of what?” she asked. “If they mean the Traddie group, that’s fine with me.”
“Here’s yours,” Baldwin said to Marcus.
It proclaimed—in more red and black—”Join us. FOM will prevail!”
“So, what’s the verdict?” Marcus asked. “Are we in danger? Are these real threats, or is someone simply blowing off steam?”
“I wish we knew,” Baldwin answered. He ran a hand over his face. “Tonight was quiet. We had three overflow rooms and, while there were the usual cheers and boos among the Fomsters and Traddies, they were all behaving themselves.”
“I thought we had an insightful, interesting session tonight,” Ed said.
“I agree, and we finally had intelligent discussion of methods for testing the equation,” Marcus said. “In fact, a couple of the masters gave me new ideas for calibration.”
“Maybe they’re beginning to listen to our calls for moderation and study,” Glo—uh, Morgan remarked.
“We can hope so,” Baldwin nodded. “In the meantime, we’ll increase surveillance during the next session in Atlanta. Oh, I meant to ask, did either of you receive threats or posters through the post office mail lately?”
He and Morgan shook their heads.
“My e-mail is full of all kinds of letters, but nothing like what we’ve seen here,” she said. “I simply refer them to you and the Council, Ed.”
“Mine, too. I forward them and delete them from my e-mail.”
“Tell us if you get any weirder than usual. We’ll see you next week. Have a safe trip home,” Ed said. He and Baldwin said good night and left the room.
Marcus and Morgan stared at each other for a long moment.
“Let’s get out of here,” he suggested finally. “We still have to decide what to do about our problem during next week.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
On the way to their suites, Gloriana tried to think of something new they could do about their situation. Hunt for more information on the Rhinedebecks, but that wasn’t new, and what good would it do? He’d rejected her, and she’d rejected him, and they ended up apart. Would she and Ma—no, Forscher suffer the same fate?
She knew suffer was the correct word.
The SMI was applying more and more insistent, unrelenting pressure on her and, she assumed, on him. Sitting on stage, she’d been conscious of his every word and gesture, despite Ed sitting between them. Walking beside him to the dining room afterward, she’d felt each time he breathed, and his glance—now tactile in its intensity—had sent a hot shiver up her back when she preceded him through the door.
When they’d sat down … thank goodness Ed and John had come in. She’d felt like launching herself across that table, grabbing him by that perfect tie of his, and…and …
She clamped down on her rampaging imagination as they entered the elevator. She faced front, and he punched the button for their floor. An older couple followed after them and commented on their enjoyment of the debate. She and Forscher, yes, Forscher—she remembered for once—thanked them for the compliments.
When Gloriana asked which side the couple favored, the woman laughed. “Oh, we’re in the middle. We have six children and could really have used a standard approach in the beginning to get them started. In the end, however, they proved to be quite different from one another in talents and casting methods that, well, one size definitely didn’t fit all.”
“Interesting,” Forscher said. “I didn’t consider such a situation. Thank you for the insight.”
Arrival at the couple’s floor ended their conversation, except for good-byes. When the door closed, Gloriana said, “None of the teaching masters suggested a standard beginning leading to infinite individual methods, either. I’m certain it wouldn’t work in every case, but it’s worth talking about.”
“We’ll bring it up at the next debate,” he said as he took her hand and intertwined their fingers.
The familiar warmth his touch generated flashed through her body, and only with difficulty was she able to keep her body facing front. He’d acted so matter-of-factly that she was sure he hadn’t been conscious of his action. She snuck a glance—he was watching the floor numerals change.
They exited at their floor and walked down the hall, hands still linked. When they approached their suites, he said, “Let’s go to yours.”
He released her hand to insert the key card and open the door.
Gloriana breathed a sigh of relief as she dropped her folio and purse on a chair. She took off her suit jacket and laid it on the chair back; when she was near him, she was warm enough without it. Straightening the lilac silk shell over the waistline of her gray box-pleated skirt, she walked to the windows before turning to face him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m happy to be out of the spotlight. I feel like somebody’s always watching me when I’m in the hotel common areas.”
“I’m the same way.” He placed his folder beside hers, followed her to the windows, and looked out at Chicago, not at her.
He was standing close enough to touch, certainly to smell. What was it about the man’s scent? No flower had ever smelled so alluring. Her center began to hum.
No, it wasn’t him. She had to remember, the SMI was causing her reaction. Her center vibrated faster and radiated … satisfaction? Of course it was pleased. They were together.
Forscher was staring out the window and frowning. Why didn’t he say something? Once again, he’d gone into that silent state, and she had to be the one to start the conversation. They couldn’t merely stand there. The imperative was too active, applying more pressure, determined to have its way by whatever means necessary. It was better, more prudent, much safer to discuss their problem, try to come up with a plan of action. Maybe talking would calm the SMI down, too.
“So, where do we go from here?” she asked.
“More research, I guess.” He didn’t look at her, only crossed his arms tightly over his chest. The expression on his face was positively grim.
She wasn’t going to let his negative body language distract her. “Atlanta’s practitioner library is the depository for the entire Southeast, and all the holdings in New Orleans have been moved there. I understand it also contains copies of a great many European sources. Maybe we should go a day early next weekend and see if they have data on the imperative. I could call and ask them to pull relevant documents before we get there.”
She felt her center twinge, a sharp little jab to remind her of the SMI’s displeasure about their goals. She ignored it.
“That’s fine.” His voice sounded strained, as though he was forcing the words through gritted teeth. “We simply have to find an answer, a way out of the imperative’s ridiculous trap.”
“Are you all right?” she asked when he closed his eyes and grimaced.
“Damn!” He bent over suddenly, holding his middle, and went down on his knees.
“Ma—Marcus? What’s wrong?” She knelt, too, putting her left hand around his back, and holding onto his right arm with her right hand.
His face contorted, he groaned and began rubbing his breastbone like he wanted to push his fist through it.
“Marcus, what’s the matter?”
“Imperative,” he gasped out. “Hit me … like this … the other day.”
He was obviously in awful pain. What could she do? A healing spell wouldn’t work on the imperative—she knew, she’d tried it on herself. She held him tight, although it didn’t seem to help. He groaned again, and his muscles were like granite under her fingers.
She had to do something and tugged on his tie to loosen it. He seemed to breathe easier. She began to rub his chest under the tie and above his left hand, still pressing into his solar plexus. He was so warm, his body so stiff. “Does that feel better?”
He nodded, swallowed, took a deep breath. “Don’t … don’t stop.” He moved his right hand around her back and held her closer. His eyes were still closed, but he raised his head, inhaled and exhaled, and said in a stronger voice, “Better.”
She spread her fingers on his chest and applied more pressure, sweeping from one side to the other. After a minute, she could feel the steel-like hardness of his muscles soften a little. He was breathing better, too.
A few moments later, he straightened up on his knees, opened his eyes, and looked down into hers.
That sinking sensation hit her again, and she couldn’t look away. His pupils expanded, and she could practically feel hers doing the same. She vaguely noticed her hand sliding down his chest.
Until she touched his magic center.
Intense heat flashed through her, all the way to her toes. She pressed her hand to his chest—whether to aid him or warm herself, she wasn’t sure. Her mind couldn’t seem to grasp the concept—any concept. She was losing her thought processes again, she knew that much, and she didn’t care. With the heat had come a tremendous euphoria. She was flying.
He covered her hand with his, and her very cells rejoiced. When he turned his hand around and pressed it to her center, the heat doubled and redoubled. Her heartbeat speeded up, but instead of her blood rushing to her head, it raced to other, much more sensitive places. Desire and longing stole her breath. If she hadn’t already been kneeling and holding on to him, she would have collapsed—or truly flown.
“Glori,” he murmured, as his lids lowered over his darkened eyes, and his mouth descended to hers.
As their lips touched, immense need and voracious want welled up inside her and destroyed the slight vestige of opposition her muddled mind attempted to make. He was what she needed, and he was what she wanted, and he was what she must have.
She met his plundering tongue, dueled with it, returned his kiss with some plundering of her own. She heard him groan; she could feel her body vibrating. A low hum permeated the air.
Closer, she had to be closer. She worked her hand out from between them and slid it up to his shoulder and around his neck. Speared her fingers through his hair and held him to her.
Something was still missing—until he moved his hand from her center around to her back and held her even tighter, shifted so they were plastered together from chest to knees.
And their magic centers aligned.
Mine!
Raw energy blazed—hot, fierce, stunning. She could feel its aura shimmer around them. Only his arms kept her upright.
Magical power—elemental, primal, untamed, undisciplined—rushed from her to him and back, buffeting them like a hurricane’s gusts. She held him tighter, somehow sure in the knowledge they’d ride out the storm—together.
Their kiss grew deeper, wilder, hungrier. She tasted his need, his desire, and reveled in them. He’d awakened a part of her she didn’t know existed, a part demanding hot-blooded, compelling, reciprocated passion. She exulted in the discovery. She wanted the kiss to go on forever.
When he suddenly raised his head and moved back slightly, she whimpered, tried to pull him to her again, but he wouldn’t let her. She opened her eyes to see his face—so stark, rigid, and severe above hers, his eyes mirroring the want she knew shone from hers.
The earth suddenly tilted as, with one arm behind her shoulders and the other at her hips, he laid her on the carpet. He braced himself above her on straight arms, and for a long moment, they stared into each other’s eyes.
Even barely touching him, Gloriana could feel the exciting, arousing, burning power flowing between them. It was too much. It was too little. All she could see was the man before her—her man, and she would have him.
She grabbed his perfect tie and tugged.
“Glori,” he said again and, coming down on one elbow, lowered his body to hers.
“Glori,” he whispered and kissed her.
Their previous kiss had been potent and electric. This one shattered her senses. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear. She had only touch. She gripped his soft hair and his silky tie to hold him to her, then ran one hand under his coat and slid it over the fine cotton of his shirt and along the hard muscles of his back. Only he was real in the void—an anchor to cling to.
When he put a hand on her shoulder, another sense reawakened—she could feel. Feel his fingers trace her collarbone, skim down her middle—where her center hummed as he passed—and around to her side, up and over her swollen breast. Feel through the silk of her blouse his fingers fondling, kneading, claiming. Feel his leg between hers, pressing into that aching place at the junction of her thighs. Feel his caress move from her breast down to her hip, down her thigh, and up under her skirt. Feel him pause at the top of her thigh-high stocking, stroke her bare flesh, spread his fingers over her leg and gently squeeze. Feel him move higher.
He cupped her, and her body jerked of its own accord, settled when he was still, arched when he pressed a finger to that most sensitive spot. She moaned when he pressed again and every muscle in her clenched. She couldn’t help pushing back against his hand. Lightning flashed through her body, and she arched again, ground herself against his fingers to relieve the yearning ache between her legs.
Without removing his hand, he lifted his body away, drew back from the kiss. She protested, raised up, tried to hold him until he said in a low, raspy voice, “Glori, look at me.”
She opened her eyes, stared into his. Only a thin rim of blue showed around a dark center.
“Glori, do you want this? Do you want me?”
There was an element in his tone she couldn’t identify, so she ignored it. Instead, she tried to comprehend his question. Didn’t he know every cell in her body was screaming for him? She did, however, have the answer. Her voice was scratchy like his when she said, “Yes, Marcus, I want you.”
Quickly he shifted to her side, sat up, tugged her panties down and off, and raising her skirt, bared her to his gaze.
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Gloriana watched expressions of such wonder and possessiveness wash across his face that she felt no embarrassment. On the contrary, she trembled with longing for his touch. He stretched out his hand and cupped her again, sliding his fingers through her curls and along her sensitive folds. His caress only caused the ache between her legs to grow stronger, more insistent, and she squirmed against his fingers in hope of finding relief.
Her movement must have acted like a trigger, because he changed position to kneel between her legs, and tore at his clothing, finally pushed his trousers and underwear down.
Before she had more than a glimpse of his erection, he pulled her legs around his hips, leaned over her on stiff arms, and positioned himself at her entrance.
He locked gazes and asked again, “Do you want me, Glori?”
“Yes, Marcus, I want you.” As the words left her lips, she felt in her bones she’d given him the right answer. She was his.
He lowered his head and kissed her while he pushed into her, slowly, inexorably.
She arched to him, used her legs to pull him closer. She could feel herself stretching, but if there was pain, it was lost in the glorious wildfire rushing through her. Oh, yes, right here was where he was supposed to be.
When he was completely inside her, he drew back and looked into her eyes again.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he whispered in return.
Marcus stared into her darkened green eyes for a long moment. Satisfaction and exultation and lust raged through him. He was right where he needed to be, inside her. Where he was meant to be. She wanted him, and he was hers.
She was so scalding hot, so tight, so slick around his throbbing cock. Where she was meant to be. He wanted her, and she was his.
Being in her eradicated the excruciating torment in his chest that had brought him to his knees. But the pain had been replaced by something else—a want, a yearning, a need for release, for completion. He felt building within him the compulsion to move.
Control. The word skittered through his heated brain and he acknowledged its worth. He had to be careful with her. It was her first time, after all.
