A Witch's Beauty

by A Witch's Beauty (lit)

  He was attracted to the woman-Goddess, was he ever-but when he looked at her, he also still saw the child, never truly loved by the mother. Tortured by Neptune, surviving by sheer determination. Her reactions to certain things, like the chocolate and orange, even the way she needed his sexual dominance to give herself permission to feel pleasure, suggested that certain parts of her mind had never been able to develop beyond a child's fear or caution.

  If he coaxed her out, made her believe she was no longer stuck in that wall of the Abyss, that she had more choices, would she trust him to help her find them?

  Mina the witch was capable of taking care of herself physically. She'd been more than a little smug to win that acknowledgment from him. But on the other hand, she'd also held herself back all her life, concerned that the bloodlust would take her over. What would happen if she could let go of that fear? Test it in safe environments? How much further could her power reach? How much more control could she discover? Most importantly, what kind of life could she choose for herself?

  Landing on the roof outside the room where he'd left her, he peered in the window. Alarm registered as he saw the room empty, the covers rumpled. Concentrating, he sensed her below, in the main saloon. Good. In addition to the clothes, he'd also brought her some food. He'd had to restrain himself from bringing her far too much, too much variety.

  She's a Dark Spawn seawitch, David. She's not your girlfriend. I think you keep forgetting not only what she is, but what you are not.

  He winced, recalling his commander's admonition. He had checked in with Jonah, as he'd promised. While one portion of his mind was occupied with his mental report, the other had been caught by the array of turquoise trinkets in an outdoor cart in San Diego, where he'd gone for the first-aid supplies, since it was easier to flash unnoticed through a large urban center. The desire to get her a token of his affection was a thought he definitely hadn't meant for Jonah to pick up as part of their conversation. He really needed to remember that an angel over a thousand years old had little trouble plumbing all corners of his mind once he opened the door to it.

  While the Prime Legion Commander was still feeling understandably out of sorts about how things had played out at the Citadel, David knew there was uncomfortable truth to Jonah's words. Gods, if she knew how to laugh, Mina would probably laugh at his fantasy scenarios for the two of them, things not remotely connected to him being an angel or her being what she was. Just a man and a woman, together. Quiet, uncomplicated.

  It wasn't that he railed against destiny. Being an angel, going into battle behind Jonah, knowing each blow he struck defended and strengthened the Lady, all that was good, was what he was meant to be. He knew that. He treasured the ability to connect to the angels. Soaring up over the clouds and watching the sun burst into glorious color each morning and evening had quickly gone from being one of the initial perks to a basic need.

  But there were things he wanted to share with Mina as well. In fact, he could share that last one, if he could coax her past her fear of heights. He wanted to give her a home. Like a human male would. A place with a fence and an apple tree. Maybe a dog. Would Mina like a puppy? No, maybe a cat. A cat had enough balance of darkness and light. A puppy was way too far on the light energy side of the line, particularly the sunny golden retriever he'd initially pictured. She'd probably turn into a dragon and eat his fuzzy, little yellow body in one gulp.

  His grimly amused thoughts were disrupted as he headed toward the street. He heard voices, piano music. Touching down in front of the saloon, he surveyed the area, all senses on alert, but detected no presence other than himself and Mina. With the exception of a few lizards, a desert turtle and, not too far away, a pair of coyotes who'd stopped to listen, ears pricked forward at the unusual noise of the piano.

  When he peered over the saloon doors that were fairly new, replaced for the film crew's needs since the original ones had been long gone, he was reminded of the ship's hold, the display of skeletal horses running in circles as an alert system. He'd wondered then if they were more than that. What he was seeing now was the answer to his question.

  In her salvaged books there'd been one or two Westerns, probably a way for a freighter crewman to pass the time. It was a surprise to find Mina'd liked them enough to create the world of his teenaged imaginings now.

  Since she lacked actual skeletal remains this time, the images were transparent, ghostlike. Fitting for a ghost town. He wouldn't be surprised if, scattered amid the illusion, the actual ghosts were participating.

  He marveled at her recall of details, but then, he expected that a witch who had to recall the exact words and measurements for spell work and potions wouldn't ever skim a text, even a piece of fiction. Especially if she used it to create worlds like this to exercise her power. Or keep her company.

  The men sitting at the tables wore the myriad outfits of gun-slingers, riverboat gamblers and cattle punchers. Many of them smoked. The clink of whiskey glasses and poker chips was an undercurrent to the conversations. A handful of saloon girls with swiveling hips sashayed around them, their laughter punctuating the environment as they tossed feather-plumed heads, the tight ringlets of their hair grazing mostly exposed bosoms.

  As an angel, he was capable of splicing reality from illusion. But when reality and fantasy blended together so seamlessly, he suspected he might be excused for having missed her on his first pass through the room. He didn't make the mistake for more than a blink, his gaze snapping back to the woman leaning against the piano on the stage.

  Dark blue velvet snugly fitted over her hips, then split high on the thigh to reveal stocking-clad legs, a riveting lace garter with a tiny bow. The skirt's long slit was edged with black feathers, which grazed the top of a pair of laced boots. There was a waist cincher, a modified black lace corset that hugged her waist and fitted just beneath her bosom. Because the off-the-shoulder style was liberally edged with feathers, he got only a tempting hint of the elevated cleavage.

  She had her body angled so all he saw was her unscarred side. When she turned, he saw she'd combined reality and fantasy upon herself as well. She was unscarred, the illusion perfect except for a slight wavering from the energy that a non-angel wouldn't have detected. She looked almost how she would have if Neptune had never made his unfortunate decree. Red, wet lips, thick black lashes over eyes so blue they likely had inspired the color of predawn light.

  David knew Jonah's Anna was probably one of the most physically and spiritually beautiful women he'd ever seen, golden innocence and love just shining from her. But what he was looking at was Woman in all her dark mystery, everything that drew a man and enslaved him to her, just by the fact she breathed and stood before him.

  Air brushed him, causing him to glance down at himself. To his surprise, he discovered his appearance had changed, at least to the eye. He was wearing the classic garb of a gunslinger. Black trousers over heeled boots, gun at his hip and the holster tied to his thigh. Duster coat, charcoal gray vest over a cotton shirt. And a black cowboy hat with braided trim. Bemused, he felt for his wings, found that they were there, shimmering into brief awareness as he touched them, but otherwise invisible. It was a magic the likes of which he'd never seen. Illusion with the weight of reality.

  The lady had invited him into her game. While he was uncertain where this was headed, he knew everything with Mina could be a test, not just a way to pass the time. He was more than willing to play, though he surmised that might be the wrong word for it.

  As a boy, like so many others, he'd mastered the John Wayne saunter that suggested confidence. Not to be confused with a cocky swagger. He used that learned saunter now to shoulder into the doors, just as he would have in his imaginings with his friends, only then he would have prepared for a violent shoot-out. Of course, he'd no doubt this could become just as intensely heated.

  As he stepped in, his gaze locked on hers. He removed his hat, a courtesy to a lady, and nodded.

  Her lips parted, a breath
slipping out that stole his own. Something flickered in her gaze, and then she strolled to the edge of the stage as he navigated the tables, feeling the astounding weight of the gun on his hip. Suspecting it would fire real bullets, he thought it best to keep it out of her reach.

  When she stopped at the edge of the stage, he was there to reach out a hand. Gloves on those slim fingers fitted her wrist and forearm up to the elbow and just beyond like a second skin. Though he could tell no difference between them with the enchantment, he noted she offered the undamaged right hand. Gratified, he also noted she still wore the angel pendant he'd left her, and there was a bouquet of black feathers with a sparkling comb pulling back her hair on one side.

  "I'm in need of some assistance," she said. Her voice was low, throaty, something he knew wasn't affected. Something had stirred her. He wasn't sure if her own magic had stimulated her, or his willingness to step into it without a word to break the spell, but whatever it was, unless a herd of Dark Ones invaded, he wasn't going to do anything to screw it up.

  "Anything the lady desires."

  Mina wet her lips. He had no idea that his sculpted jaw and steady brown eyes, so serious and focused, went perfectly with the character she'd imagined, almost as if David had inspired it. She'd seen those eyes flash dangerously, become as hard as flint or gentle as a father's touch, the way a father's eyes and touch were supposed to be. A gunslinger would protect, killing if necessary, to bring women and children out of harm's way. There was nothing irreconcilable about the warrior's face he showed his enemies or the tender countenance seen by those he protected. Implacability versus infinite compassion. An angel and a man.

  He'd taken off his hat, but now she touched the brim with a light finger where it rested on his chest. She leaned over as she did, so that his eyes couldn't help focusing on the elevated positioning of her breasts in the neckline, one an illusory match for the other. It didn't matter what was charm or reality. She could easily imagine the sensation of his fingers trailing in the cleft between them. Or his mouth.

  Taking the hat from his hands, she guided it back to his head, and he helped, laying his fingers over hers to put it squarely there again. "You said something about assistance." He cleared his throat, charmingly. "How can I help you, ma'am?"

  One thumb caught in the gun belt, the other in the waist pocket of the vest, but his fingers were tensely curled, as if he were doing it to keep from reaching out and touching her. Or rather, that's what she wanted to think.

  "Can you help me off the stage?"

  He nodded, freed his hands and put them to her waist. As she rested her fingers on the broad shoulders beneath his duster, she tried not to think how easy it would be to dispel the spell and feel bare flesh. Real flesh.

  Lifting her, he brought her down to the floor. Close. So her body slid down his, inch by inch, his strength on blatant display as he drew it out and her fingers curved into his hard biceps, one leg itching to hook itself around the back of his thigh, feel the taut buttock slide along the inside of her thigh. Her breasts pushed against the vest, rising even higher, the bodice so low that it was possible to see the pink circle around one nipple. When she reached the ground, his hands were still on her hips, her body against his, so that she felt his reaction, hard and high against her corseted abdomen.

  It took effort to recall her intention. She eased back, a little thrilled when his fingers didn't release her. Then, apparently remembering the role he was playing, his grip eased.

  "It's hard to lace a corset by yourself. It's a little loose. Do you think you could tighten it for me?"

  She turned so his breath was on her nape, the catch of it as the skirt, gathered in back, brushed his groin. "The more curves they can see, the better these boys tend to tip. Above and below." She drew out her words the way she'd heard him do it, that thing he called a Southern drawl, giving them a touch of honey as she imagined Salome would.

  When his hands found the lacings, she shivered. Brushing the top of her buttocks with his knuckles, he began adjusting the ties. "I imagine that's true, ma'am, though I don't think you have anything to worry about on that score." He leaned in, his jaw touching her check, his mouth distractingly close. "Unless you got a man. I think he might have something to say about other men eyeing what's his."

  He was so much better at that Southern drawl than she was. Her breath left her in a gasp, as much because of her reaction to the sexy cadence as the way he drew the laces tighter in one even jerk, making her feel the increase in constriction from above her pubic bone to the nipple area.

  "How's that? Tight enough?"

  Her response trickled down her thigh, dampening the top of her stocking. "Tighter," she said, in little more than a whisper.

  He obliged, and when the jerk came this time, she let out a small moan, particularly when his hand came up under one now highly perched breast and grazed just the top with his finger. So close to the barely concealed nipple she arched, her buttocks pressing into his cock as he moved up to her throat, to the ribbon and cameo choker she wore, the tiny angel just below it. His fingers laid over it, collaring her as he held her back against him, rubbing his cock slow and sure against the seam of her buttocks through the dress. The piano shimmered, her control faltering, just like at the ship, as if David's ability to arouse her could disrupt the simplest magic.

  "Are you wet for me, girl?" His voice, the husky, dangerous voice of a gunslinger, goaded her, daring her to continue to play.

  When she nodded, he guided her hand. "Show me. Take me there. Let me feel your fingers dip into that honey. I've been in the desert a long time."

  She thanked whatever deity or demon might be responsible that he was still close enough to his human roots to remember how to be this kind of man. The long split made it easy to do as he demanded, as did the fact there were no undergarments beneath except the garters. His hand stopped hers along the soaked edge of the stocking, caressing and learning that, before following the garter up, up until he found her, guided both of their fingers in together, her forefinger and his, sinking deep into her as she cried out, trembling with her passion.

  Taking his hand away then, he turned her, his face suffused with a pure male lust that rocked through her before he lifted her, laid her back on the stage. But he didn't ruck up her skirts and drive into her as she expected. Or lay his body on hers. He spread her legs, his gaze intent upon her bare sex, holding her wide and vulnerable for him. Went still, making her self-conscious and almost incoherent with need at the same moment.

  His gaze flicked up to her face, a brief but potent look. "As I said, I've been in the desert awhile. And I've a powerful thirst." Then he dropped to one knee and put his mouth directly on her.

  She nearly came off the stage, but he held her down. Plunging his tongue in deep, he sucked on her, taking in her juices, savoring the taste of her with a muffled growl, flicking the lips with his firm tongue, stroking then plunging deep into her again.

  Twisting and arching, too overcome with the sensation to give her body a controlled purpose or rhythm, she sought a purchase on the flat boards of the stage, digging her fingers into the wood. Her movements and the tight, restrictive hold of the corset freed the one breast, where the feathers teased and caressed it to an even harder point. David's hand clamped over it, squeezed hard and possessive as she cried out again. She was a symphony of discordant whimpers, moans and soft, entreating cries, sharper screams coming from her in bursts.

  It was too much. Oh, gods, it felt so good. His mouth was divinely blessed or the greatest of sins. She wanted to taste it, taste herself.

  "You... Want you." She was astounded she could form coherent words, actually make them come from her throat. It was even possible she'd simply thought it, said it to him in that direct way he could hear but she rarely used because of the intimacy it implied.

  He rose over her, his brown eyes like the fires deep in the Earth's crust. It filled her with liquid heat, threatening to erupt. Gods, his mouth was glistenin
g from her juices, what he'd taken from her, and as she watched, he passed the back of his hand over it like a man who'd just had a satisfying draught of whiskey. As her ankle touched the holster, she let the laced boots, one part of her costume that was pure illusion, disappear so that she could run her toes over the grip of the gun. Finding the steel, the lethal metal, she slid her foot under the thin strap that held the holster to his hard thigh. He bent, his lips touching the inside of her leg again, high up, but when she reached for him, wanting to bring him down to her, he caught her wrist. Holding it away from him, he took his time, one tiny nibble at a time, down to her knee, then back up again.

  "Now," she gasped. "I can't bear it. Please." Her fingers were curled, her arm pulling taut against his hold, wanting to know he could overpower her, that she couldn't stop him or influence him, except by begging.

  "Do you love me, saloon girl?"

  Sixteen

  IF he'd said her name, perhaps it would have called her out of the fantasy enough to dampen the moment. But as if he understood what she was and wasn't capable of doing, he knew the right words. The safe ones.

  He'd made a mistake at the Citadel, but there were mistakes that were perhaps meant to be. Because he now knew more about her than before, and the man was a damn quick study. Before long, he'd have maneuvered his way into the bottom of her soul, God help him in that dark place.

  "You're tolerable."

  He smiled against her flesh, a slow, sexy gesture, and then he bent to put his mouth on her again.

  "Nooo..." She tried to fight him, but he forced himself between her legs and kept her wrists captured in one hand as he worked her flesh, taking her up so close, but not there. Holding her on a pinnacle with his clever, licking tongue, so that she started to gasp as if she'd been running for miles, running away from a pursuit that wouldn't be evaded. Her backside was sore from thumping down on the boards in jerking reaction to the rhythmic manipulation of his mouth.