If Wishes Were Horses

by Joey W. Hill

  She felt every press, pinch and scrape against her legs deep in her pussy, and in her clit. Her breasts strained upward in sensual response.

  “Ah, God, Sarah. You make my cock so hard. You make me want you so much.” The hand drifted down her calf again, caressed her ankle, molded her foot. “I want to watch your pussy when you come. It ripples like the edge of a mermaid's tail, that graceful shimmering among the liquid…your liquid, Sarah. This time I'll clean your come with my tongue instead of giving a towel that pleasure.”

  “Justin—”

  The orgasm roared over her and through her, bowing her up against the pillows. Justin's hand never let up on its slow glide on her right leg, dipping into the sensitive curve of knee and tracing the fragile bones, and it was the same as a relentless and perfect masturbation of her pussy, the heavy waves of climax pounding her though he touched nothing but her leg below the knee. Her fingers dug into the pillows, and she rode the sensation, her body rocking and her ears full of his passionate whispers, driving her on.

  “That's it. Come for me. Come harder.”

  Her body at last slumped back, her limbs as weak as her first week of Academy training. She felt his hands still on her, touching quivering flesh, stroking, and then she gave a soft, keening cry. His lips pressed between her folds and he sucked the moisture away from shuddering flesh. He licked delicately as she jerked and convulsed in tiny movements under his relentless hold, crying out with every contact he made with her

  rippling cunt. He took his time cleaning her, putting his tongue deep in her, then polishing the swollen lips on the outside with sucking kisses and long strokes of his tongue. He did not neglect her thighs, washing the insides, that fragile network of bones between thigh and labia to remove the pool of perspiration and arousal that had gathered there.

  “Now,” he murmured, “until you bathe, you will feel that faint stickiness there, and remember my mouth on you, as well as your own climax. Dead fish, my ass.”

  He tied her robe, arranged it over her sensitive flesh, and then his face was there above hers, his dark eyes like rich fire. “Come home with me, Sarah. Please don’t make me beg.”

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  She never said yes, but she could not bring herself to say no. After a moment of silence, she murmured in surprise as she felt his arms slide beneath her and lift her up. She had apparently dozed off.

  “Okay,” she said, her face against his neck, and then she didn't remember much else for awhile. The world narrowed to the flickering light of candles, and his dark, mysterious eyes. “I can walk, Justin,” she said as an afterthought.

  “I know. Just let me take care of you.”

  Those seven words, every woman's dream, almost never translated into reality. For this floating moment, she decided to let it be true, to believe it wouldn't become a nightmare. She was vaguely aware of him carrying her outside, shifting her as he locked the store, sitting her in the plush seat of the BMW.

  “My clothes—”

  “I've got them. Don't worry.”

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  Chapter 10

  The old Victorian home he lived in was in the small historic district of Lilesville, his

  aunt's home. She had driven by it yesterday once or twice, musing about the man who

  lived there.

  The bedroom in which she woke was small, but the furnishings were antiques with the old wood smell that was comforting, familiar, and classy. Gauze curtains fluttered at the open window, the screen permitting a breeze and the moonlight to illuminate hersurroundings. A china washbasin and pitcher, an antique clothes press on which her clothes had been neatly hung. Her robe lay at the foot of the bed, on a folded white spread.

  It didn’t seem like a man’s room. It was comfortable, and the tasteful choices reflected a reverence for things of enduring beauty, which was like him. However, it did not have the accoutrements of a man who slept there, like pocket change on the dresser. Perhaps his aunt’s room. It did not have the vacant feel of a guest bedroom.

  She remembered vaguely the warmth of his clothed body curled around her naked one, his hand stroking her hair, but she was alone now. Except at the Rite, she’d not yetseen him fully naked, but then his form had been a mix of shadows and fire. She would like the pleasure of seeing that body close up, though she did not deny the extreme eroticism of feeling his clothed body against her wholly bare flesh.

  Had he worked some spell on her to keep her so relaxed and doubt free? If so, it was wearing off some. Waking in a strange house and finding her life so neatlyarranged around her was disconcerting, to say the least.

  Sliding on the robe, she moved across the room and into the hallway. She heard the ticking of a clock and saw dim light coming through an archway at the end of it. Trailing her hand along the wall guided her way, and brought to her touch a variety of framed pictures the right size for photographs, likely a montage of past and presentfamily.

  The light was candlelight, of course. Did the man ever use electricity? A dozen pillar candles reflected against the windows of the sunroom, which served as agreenhouse for all the plants in there. There was a fountain and a lotus-shaped gazingpool, beside which was a carved bench. An altar made of twisted branches arched over the wide, sanded surface of a tree stump that looked as if it had a diameter of two feet. Twined in the arch and in a chain along the circumference of the altar’s surface were the fresh white wildflowers growing all about Lilesville. Four more lit candles stood on the altar. It also held a wooden carving of a man-stag creature and a voluptuous Goddess, and four carved symbols burned into the compass points of the circle beside each of the

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  candles. A tiny porcelain carousel like a child’s music box made a triangle point between the figures representing the Lord and Lady.

  Justin was in front of the altar, moonlight sliding down his bare pale body. His back was to her, just slightly turned so she could see his profile and the surface of the altar. He laid a flower at the base of the small Goddess statue, bowed his head to the Lord figure and then stretched his arms up. Gathering energy to him in a way she could feel through her skin, both as a woman and as an observer, he made a mysterious and yet intensely vulnerable figure. She had never really seen a man truly absorbed in prayer, in devotion for something larger than himself.

  She stepped back. Even the intimacy of passionate sex did not give her the right to intrude on this. He turned his head and with a shock, Sarah saw tears in his eyes. He blinked them back quickly, and she pretended not to see.

  “I'm sorry,” she said softly. “I just came to find you.”

  Her gaze fell to his hand. He held a lock of hair in his fingers, tied with a ribbon and a sprig of greenery. Watching her, he placed it on the altar, inside the chain of flowers. The color and texture was recognizable, since she had only handled it recently.

  “You took her hair.”

  “A lock of it, yes.”

  She studied him a long minute. “I guess a lecture on how stupid that was wouldn't do any good.”

  “No.” A faint smile lifted his mouth, but his eyes remained sad, distant.

  Well, she had promised Eric she'd try to get more out of him. Since he'd barely given her time to breathe up until now, this was her first opening. She was veteran enough to take advantage of this opportunity, woman enough to feel a twinge of guilt for doing so. She acknowledged that she wanted to know more for herself as well and took a small step into the room.

  “Am I intruding?”

  “That's not possible.” He went from his knees to his heels in one easy motion and shrugged into the cotton robe to the left of his feet. He turned toward her, belting it, and eased onto the bench. “Come sit with me.”

  She complied. His arm was along the back and it was a small bench, so she ended up inside the crook of shoulder to chest with him gazing down into her face. It was asnatural as the water pouring from
the fountain to accept the kiss he pressed on her lips and drew out, his fingertips grazing her jaw. When he lifted his head, her hand lay on his knee, as if for balance.

  Sarah cleared her throat, looked away. “The carousel. I don't understand that,” she nodded to it on the altar.

  “It's…It’s hard to lie to you, Sarah.”

  “Have you been?”

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  “No.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder when she tensed and would have drawn back. “No. If I can’t tell you something, I’ve simply told you I can’t, or won’t.”

  “Is it because I'm a cop you find it hard to lie to me?”

  “No, it's not because you're a cop.” His finger traced down her cheek, that gentle touch that kept surprising her, as if he considered her delicate, something precious. It startled her to realize she had never been treated that way by any man in her life, and how much she welcomed it. The knuckle moved to touch her beneath her chin, his other fingers spreading out to feather her jaw. “It's not that at all,” he murmured, gazing into her face with an expression of intent wonder that made her self-conscious, though not in an unpleasant way. She stifled the urge to speak or squirm beneath the regard that seemed almost reverent.

  “I can tell you the truth about the carousel,” he said finally. “I want to say I can't, but that would just be cowardice. The carousel is a small urn. It holds a handful of my daughter's ashes.”

  “Oh. Oh.” It was automatic, her hand closing over his on his knee, bare where the robe parted, her fingers firm and sure. “Justin, I'm so sorry.”

  He nodded, and now, when she saw him fight back the grief, she knew what had sculpted that gaunt, haunting quality of his face. She knew the psyche articles and the stress ratings, but most importantly, as a former homicide detective, she had seen the loss of a child crumble a person instantly, from the inside out. She wondered that anyone ever survived such a blow to the soul.

  “I suppose I wanted you to know,” he said. “Otherwise, I wouldn't have brought you here. Her pictures are all up in the hallway. I know she's at peace with angels somewhere, or maybe embracing a new life, a new incarnation someplace where she'll get a longer chance to experience what the world has to offer her. That is my faith, and that is what I believe. But I miss her, every day.” He lifted a shoulder, shook his head and looked away at the moonlight playing in the fountain waters.

  “Can I…do you want to tell me how it happened?”

  That same half shrug, a slight gesture, like a wide range of movement might break him. Sarah moved in closer, laying her head on his shoulder. She wrapped her arm around his chest, curling her hand around his far side, thinking she could help protect his heart with the strength of her arm. His freed hand rose, touching her forearm. She heard the thud of his heartbeat. Slow, almost too slow, as if maintaining its normal resting rate was too much against so much pain.

  “We were walking down the sidewalk together. Where I used to live. We'd take a walk each day. To the end of the street, turn the corner, walk up to the neighborhood store. The manager there was an older man who missed his grandchildren, so she was always welcome. We'd get a piece of candy for her, a paper and a soda for me, walk home. The road the convenience store was on was a busy one, but the sidewalk made it safe.

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  “It was over in a second,” he murmured, “maybe even less. She was holding my hand, laughing, looking up at me. A driver changing a CD in her car wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing. She jumped the curb.”

  Sarah's grip on him tightened and he turned his face even further toward the window, so all she saw as she looked up at him was the strong straight line of his neck, the gray marble plane of his jaw and cheek, stark in the moonlight.

  “The car didn't touch me. The grill rammed right into my little girl, threw her a hundred feet into the air. The car skidded by me, hit a tree. I can still feel her fingers in mine sometimes, that brief second before they were gone.”

  “Oh, Justin.”

  “She landed in traffic. On that busy four-lane road, not one of them hit her, even

  though she dropped in among them like a bird shot from the air. They all managed to stop in time, or were at the right place to miss her. I was running out even as she was coming down. I don't remember anything about the cars, even though someone said later I was almost hit by two of them.

  “I thought, maybe I can catch her, only seconds before she landed. She…her head hit the pavement first. Then I was on the ground, holding her in my arms, and I knew. It was worse than dying, worse than any torture. She looked at me, blinked, those beautiful blue eyes, and I saw the light going out of them, it was so quick. ‘Daddy, it hurts,’ she said. And that was it. She died.”

  Sarah laid her hand against the side of his face, felt the tears there, and tasted her

  own at the corner of her mouth.

  “They said it was a miracle she even had that second or two of life after she

  landed…that her brain function should have stopped immediately after such a blow.”

  “When…when did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. A minute ago. Four years ago. It's all the same.”

  Eric thought Justin Herne had come to Lilesville to care for his aunt. Sarah realized the truth was more likely that he had come to Lilesville so his aunt could help care for him.

  Justin bowed his head, his face still averted from her, but she saw his eyes close tightly, like his hand beneath hers on his leg. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” He lifted his head, looked at her. “We'd all ride.”

  She nodded. She understood that only too well, and knew he could see that she did.

  She wanted to ask about the child’s mother, but he’d given her enough of his personallife for one night. As a cop she also knew how often the tragedy of losing a child wascompounded by the divorce of the grieving parents, their pain and guilt so large it destroyed their love.

  He let her wipe away his tears, then took her hand, brought it to his chest, held it. “You are kind,” he said. “But, Sarah, I've a fine life. I don't want you to think I'm telling

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  you this to distract you. I want you to investigate Lorraine's death as you feel appropriate.”

  Sarah studied his tired face, the handsome jaw and dark eyes that held so much. “But you still won't tell me all I need to know.”

  “You've already indicated you won't believe me, Sarah. I won't waste your time, or mine.”

  “If you believe she conjured something that killed her, you're right. It makes me question my sanity, being attracted to a guy who thinks ‘the truth is out there’.” She reached up and caressed his jaw. “But you might be as sexy as David Duchovny.”

  “Ah, flattery.” He smiled then, and Sarah relaxed as the sorrow in his eyes receded.

  He curled his fingers in her hair, tugging. “So, if I let you go tonight, are you going to be willing to see me again, or will we be back to 'Herne' and 'Chief Wylde' tomorrow?”

  “I don't know.” He’d been honest with her, so she gave him an honest answer. “I'd like some time to think, Justin. A little space. Let me come looking for you. One way or another, I promise I'll let you know how it's going to be. I won't make you guess.”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” he said, though there was a forced lightness to his voice that suggested it was an effort for him not to push the point. Warmth curled in her stomach at the sound of it, a response to being wanted, desired. She laid her hand inside the collar of the robe, stroking the bare skin over his pectoral. “How long do you want?” he asked.

  Her fingers found his nipple, threading through chest hair, and he caught her hand,stilling it. “Don't distract me,” he said sternly, though she heard the humor in his voice.

  “Okay,” she said. She snaked her other hand beneath his robe and cupped theround curve of his testicles, accessible f
rom the splayed position of his knees.

  “Sarah.” He caught both her hands, laughing then, and took her to the floor, pinning her body next to the gurgling fountain and the altar. “How long, or I swear I'll never let you out of this house.”

  “That's kidnapping, Herne.” She grinned, and raised her legs, wrapping them around his hips. She pressed against his hardening cock, a sure sign she had dispelled his pain, something she recognized was more important to her than grilling him on the case, for the moment.

  “A week,” she said, staring up into his eyes as his touch caressed the rapid pulse in her trapped wrists. He lowered his head to stroke her throat with his tongue. “Give me a week.”

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  Chapter 11

  A day was harder than she expected. Three days were unbearable. Even with thehundred things she was doing to help Chief Wassler with the investigation and thedetails of running her own town, the passions Herne had awakened in her body madeher as physically stimulated as a teenager, coupled with the emotional agony of being hopelessly infatuated with the man.

  Herne did cooperate with the investigation in other ways, helping to calm some of her concerns about his connection to the case. He gave Wassler the name of the woman who'd been priestess at their Beltane Rite on the night Lorraine Messenger was murdered.

  At Eric’s request, Sarah sat in with Wassler on the interview. Linda Egret was anengineer and middle manager at the county nuclear plant. The woman who showed up in dress slacks, soft lavender blouse and heels was far different from the naked priestess Sarah had seen. However, her green eyes were steady and compassionate, and she answered their questions and came up with a similar technical analysis of the ritual depicted in the crime scene photos. She did not dip her toe into the waters of what might have been called or how the woman had died, as Herne had. She had never met or heard of Lorraine Messenger.