“Not at all. It’s the mark of an artist, Anne. The desire—the compulsion—to put a part of yourself into your passion. I suspect you put your soul into your work at the bank too until it was no longer right for you. I admire a mortal who isn’t afraid to give so completely of themselves.”
“A mortal?” Anne grinned at him. “Is that a British thing? Are you excluding yourself from us mortals?”
Paul flushed, turning away. It was very rare he dropped his guard like that, speaking to a mortal as if she were a magical being, an equal. He would need to be careful if he intended to keep his true nature a secret from her. For, though there were mortals who knew of witches and warlocks, who knew of magic in the world, they were rare beings who had the capacity to understand and the ability to keep their knowledge secret. Most mortals would not tolerate magic in their midst—it threatened them and made them unruly. Witches and warlocks had learned discretion and it was second nature—or should have been.
Deciding to couch truth in a joke, he responded, “I, a mere mortal? Heavens, no. I’m a warlock. I can weave magic spells and keep you in my thrall, bending you to my will.” He laughed, his eyes twinkling, his stomach suddenly churning. That had been foolish. Anne tilted her head at him, her expression bemused but she said nothing more.
~*~
Anne lay in her bed, reliving the wonderful day in her head. It had been so long since she’d simply had fun. The constant ache in her heart seemed to have eased at last. And Paul—with a silent apology to Greg, she had to admit Paul was the most handsome man she’d ever been with. His dark hair and dark eyes, his chiseled features and elegant nose, the hint of dark stubble on his strong jaw, the flash of white teeth against red lips when he laughed…
Anne sighed histrionically and then laughed at herself. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she had a rather huge crush on the dashing mysterious Brit. She turned her head to what had been Greg’s side of the bed. “Is it okay? Are you really okay with this?”
She waited for the familiar spirit to drift mournfully into her head but felt only a whisper of melancholy. Was Greg really at peace now? Did he really want her to love again?
Anne recalled Paul’s kiss. They had been sitting side by side on the old overstuffed couch, each with a glass of wine. Paul had set his glass down and had taken hers from her hand as well. Leaning over, he’d brushed her lips with his, his hand moving along her bare thigh where her skirt had slipped.
The kiss had thrilled her—his hand left a trail of desire along her skin as it moved from her knee, pushing the full skirt aside as his fingers teased higher. Anne had pulled away, not because she didn’t want him but because she wanted him too much. Recalling the last time they’d sat kissing on her couch and how she had ended up naked, riding his cock like some kind of wanton slut—Anne didn’t trust herself to go further. Paul would get the wrong idea about her or more accurately, the right one.
Instead she’d stood, brushing down her skirt, adjusting the strap of her blouse, taking a deep breath. Smiling perhaps a little too brightly she had said, “I had such a good time, Paul. Thank you for today.” And dropping the false smile she added, “And thank you for understanding. I have to take this slow, Paul. It’s so new for me. Not just because of Greg but because…” she paused, blushing suddenly as she realized she’d been about to admit how fiercely attracted she was to Paul, and how no one had ever made her feel the way he did. Amending what she’d been about to say, she continued. “Because I’ve just got a lot of things to work through. You know. I need time.”
Paul had smiled, tilting his head as if he were reading her true thoughts along with taking in her spoken words. He had stood as well, saying, “Anne, thank you for a splendid time.” From his pocket he took out what looked like a business card and handed it to her. Anne took the card, not sure for a moment if she were relieved or chagrined he was giving in so gracefully, so easily. She knew that wasn’t fair—she could still recall his dark, burning eyes, their silent pleading just before he’d kissed her. Though as he’d said good night, those eyes were only dark, no passion firing, almost as if he’d cloaked the soul behind them. “Perhaps you would write your number on this one for me?” He’d handed her another card and a pen. She scrawled her number on the card and handed it silently back.
Paul bowed slightly as he took it, always the elegant European. “Call me when you wish—if you wish.”
When I wish… Anne closed her eyes, wishing she didn’t feel trapped by her own fears and insecurities. What if I had said what was really in my heart? What if I’d pulled him to me, pushed his shirt up, pressed my face against that strong, smooth chest, rubbed my breasts against him like a woman in heat? What if I’d thrown caution to the winds and pulled his face down to mine, let him kiss me again, this time not pulling away if his hands strayed over my body…
Anne closed her eyes, letting her own hands roam her naked form, pushing the sheets aside as she spread her legs. Her pussy was wet, hot to the touch, swelling under her fingers as she moaned softly in the darkness, Paul’s strong body rising in her mind’s eye. She licked her lips, imagining his hard cock as she knelt up beside him, taking its girth deep into her throat.
The blanket of rose petals in her dream was suddenly beneath her as Paul pressed her down against them. He kissed her lips, moving down her neck, biting her nipples, pulling them taut with his white teeth as he covered her body with his.
Gliding down, his tongue trailed along her thighs, leaving paths of tingling desire. He teased her, moving from one thigh to the other, his tongue licking along her inner thighs. Her pussy throbbed, desperate for his hot kisses. Grabbing his head, she forced his mouth into position. The fantasy Paul looked up, his eyes dark, his tongue sliding over his top lip. His dark wavy hair had fallen over his eyes and he shook it back, lowering his head to taste her at last.
As Anne feverishly rubbed her own pussy, she felt Paul’s velvet tongue moving in steady circles toward her clit. ”Paul,” she whispered, as she neared orgasm, “Paul, oh Paul! I want you. Oh, oh, oh…!” Paul reared up, grabbing her arms, pinning her wrists above her head against the crush of soft rose petals. As her own fingers entered her body, Paul’s hard shaft slid in as well, making her groan and lift her hips to receive him more fully.
With his image painted on the inside of her mind, his body covering hers, utterly claiming her in fantasy, Anne cried out, her body succumbing to her fingers as her mind and heart succumbed to the man she barely knew yet longed for at that moment with every fiber of her being.
The orgasm she managed to wrest from her body was a pale imitation of what she’d experienced at his skilled and sensual hand, but still her heart pounded, her breathing quickening and then slowing as her hands dropped to her sides in the big, empty bed.
She lay still for several minutes, her mind shut sweetly down, her body thrumming with post-orgasmic pleasure. Finally she glanced at the clock. It was nearing midnight. What was Paul doing now? she wondered.
Paul lay in his bed, staring at the sliver of moon that showed itself in the skylight over his bed. He was naked on top of the covers, one hand under his head, the other lightly stroking his cock.
It would be so easy, he thought, to give her a love potion. Just enough to ease her silly fears about becoming involved with someone again. Just a bit of my secret herbs slipped into her tea and she would be mine again.
He sighed as he gripped his cock more tightly, sliding his fingers up and down the shaft as the delicious memory of the naked woman astride his cock, her hair wild, her face flushed with wanton passion, her breasts tipped pink and swaying softly, formed itself in his mind. God, how he wanted her. How he had wanted to take her tonight. To bend her with magic to his will.
Yet he had refrained. How odd to care what a mortal woman felt or thought about him. And yet he did care. He wanted Anne, but on Anne’s terms. The frustrating thing was she did desire him! Unable to resist, he’d eavesdropped on her thoughts as they’d kis
sed and as his hand had slipped up her satiny-smooth thigh. She had been on fire for him. Her passion was flaming inside of her yet she’d pulled away. She resisted him and denied her own impulses. She sent him away yet again.
Paul thought of the many women he could call right now. Women who had no need of witchcraft to entice them to his bed. He knew he was a handsome man, a man very few women would resist, no matter their circumstance. Was this part of Anne’s appeal? That she rejected him? Was he so shallow, to be challenged by her refusal? Was she simply playing hard to get?
No, he knew it went beyond that, well beyond. Something between them had sparked the moment their eyes had first locked. Something Paul couldn’t explain but nor could he deny.
Paul moved his hand more quickly over his cock, his breathing coming in staccato pants as he closed his eyes, remembering the naked girl, remembering the curve of her breast, her pale throat, the heady lush scent of her sex when he’d tasted her feminine sweetness.
He felt an almost violent impulse as his lust peaked, his cock hard as steel beneath his fingers. He wanted to take what should be his. Throw her down, tear her clothing from her body, force her legs apart. He wanted to press his cock against her silky, sweet wetness, to enter her without regard for her fears or hesitation. With primal lust he would fuck her until he was spent, claiming her body with his, pinning her beneath him as he plundered her sweet, hot perfection.
With a moan Paul arched up, his seed spurting over his hard belly and strong chest. He lay still some moments, recovering himself until his breathing slowed. Into the empty darkness he declared, “I will have you, Anne Wilson Kaliner, mortal woman who has captured my heart. No matter what it takes, I will possess you completely—body and soul. I swear it on all things magic.”
Chapter 7
“This Saturday night? I’d love to go.” Paul had waited two days to call her—a situation that had at once relieved and annoyed Anne. She was glad he respected her need to go slow. Lovers called each other every day—they were not lovers. Had he waited a third day however, she might have broken down and called him herself.
He hadn’t just called for a walk in the park however. Paul had invited her to the Donner Charity Ball—one of the most glamorous events of the season, this year to be held at the Waldorf-Astoria. Paul told her it was a black-tie affair. That meant she had to get a gown—something elegant and understated but dripping with good taste.
Anne grinned to herself. She hadn’t been shopping in ages. She’d lost weight since Greg’s death—too much—but she found she had a better appetite now. She could probably get away with one of her old gowns from when she and Greg had attended the lavish parties of the movers and shakers in the city, but she knew even as she thought this she was going to buy something new. Something never worn for another man.
“How do you know Harold Donner?” she asked. Anne knew of him by reputation but had never met him. She approved of his charitable work for the homeless and for medical research but had never been invited to any of his soirees or fundraisers.
“He’s an old friend of mine from years back. He likes fine art and can afford to buy it. We met at an auction of French symbolist art.”
“He’s supposed to be fabulously wealthy,” Anne said. “I wonder what beautiful starlet or model will be draped over his arm for the ball.”
Paul laughed. “I guess a five-foot-four-inch balding man with a pot belly looks pretty damn good when clothed in a billion dollars.” They’d talked a while longer and Paul had ended the conversation with, “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock tomorrow then. I look forward to seeing you.”
Anne hung up the phone, a smile lingering on her face. She sat in the study, her canvases still piled around her. She hadn’t put away the self-portraits since Paul had looked at them. Did he really see talent in her work? He certainly seemed to know about art.
Anne moved to the old roll-top desk and opened the bottom drawer, feeling for the indentation at the back that allowed her to lift the false bottom. She hadn’t been in the desk since Greg had died. Lifting the wooden slat on the bottom of the drawer, she felt beneath for the soft leather binding. Carefully she pulled it out, the faint lavender scent assailing her nostrils like an old friend. What would Paul think if he saw her reading this. She took the small, much thumbed-through book and sat back down on the loveseat in the corner of the room.
Spells & Witchcraft for Mortals with a Magical Bent by Clara de Absinthe
How intrigued Anne had been when she’d discovered the little tome, half buried beneath of pile of old, musty books. It had been on one of their many antique bargain hunts, this time in Mystic, Connecticut. Greg was bargaining with the owner over a library chair that served as a ladder when it was unfolded. Anne had been idly sifting through the old books when the soft red leather binding had caught her eye. Unlike the other books with their broken spines splotched green with mildew, this one seemed barely touched, its cover of supple leather, its pages gilded with gold, thin as tissue paper but easy to turn and all intact.
She had slipped the book out from beneath the others, intrigued by its title. Anne, who always considered herself a practical woman with no time for nonsense, had a secret poetic sensibility. It manifested itself in her painting but that was as far as she let it go. Yet this book had somehow spoken to her. There was no other way to describe it. She felt it warm in her hands, if such a thing were possible, as if it had finally found a place to go.
She’d flipped open the cover. There was no copyright date but someone had written Isadora Francesca—1824 in a faded, spidery hand on the title page. The book was priced at one hundred fifty dollars, five to ten times more than any other book in the box but Anne didn’t care about price. She wanted the book for its quaint appeal, she told herself. Oddly, she didn’t tell Greg she was buying it. As he continued to haggle with the proprietor, she bought the book from his wife, slipping it into her large bag to examine later.
When they’d gotten home, Greg triumphant with his chair, Anne still didn’t mention her purchase. She knew Greg wouldn’t have minded her buying it but somehow once she’d purchased it secretly, she found she wanted to keep it a secret.
It had been several days before she had a chance when alone to take the book from her night table drawer. Sitting on the bed, she opened it and scanned the table of contents.
Herbs and Gem Stones—The Ten Must Haves for the Novice Witch
The Power of Magical Suggestion
Simple Love Potions for the Inexperienced
Simple Incantations for Everyday Use
Binding Spells
Unbinding Spells
A Word of Caution
Anne, considering herself a cautious person, at once flipped to the section on caution, which noted magic was not a parlor game but a serious business with potentially devastating results. Even a mortal who is only dabbling in the magical arts can unwittingly wreak havoc upon herself and those around her. Use this manual with care. It is not for the weak or the doubting. True witchcraft is contained in these pages, for those with the capacity to unleash it.
Anne was intrigued despite her disbelief in anything magic. She was delighted by the detailed spells outlined on the pages, complete with illustrations of the various herbs and gemstones needed, along with incantations with pronunciation guides to aid in the effectiveness of the charms.
She wondered how one was supposed to come up with all the items necessary to concoct the various brews for making someone fall in love, fall out of love, get rich, become beautiful, wise or younger than their years. Where did one buy myrrh, dried yarrow blossoms, calendula blossoms, wild rose, jasmine, cinquefoil, fennel, carrot seed oil or blue chamomile? Did all “witches” keep a stock of crushed gemstone powders, including rose quartz, amethyst, amber, topaz, turquoise, ruby, tiger’s eye and lapis lazuli? Did everyone’s potions cabinet contain the dried, powdered and pressed animal claws, ears, tails and entrails necessary for some of the less noble spells?
/> Though she knew it was just fanciful, Anne enjoyed poring over the strange spells and charms but never dreamed of doing anything with them herself. What would Paul make of the book, she wondered? Paul had made several allusions to magic, she recalled, even referring to himself as a warlock, though obviously in jest. Perhaps he wouldn’t laugh at her fascination and could appreciate the peculiar book for its eccentricity without judging her for buying it.
With no one to hide the book from any longer, she left it lying out on the desk.
Meanwhile she had a gown to buy. Not to mention matching shoes and an evening bag. Dressed in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, her credit card and cell phone tucked safely in her pocket, Anne ventured out to make her purchases, humming under her breath, unaware of the appreciative stares and glances of the men who passed her, her mind entirely on Paul Windsor.
~*~
“Come in. Don’t you look elegant,” Anne said admiringly as she opened her door for Paul. She’d buzzed him through, allowing him to come up the stairs himself. Now he stood in his tuxedo, the black jacket elegantly cut, emphasizing his broad shoulders and tapering torso. The silk bow tie was perfectly hand tied and the cufflinks and studs were of onyx set in platinum. Paul’s dark wavy hair was slicked back, his cheeks smooth shaven, his cologne hinting subtly of juniper and tangerine.
Paul smiled broadly. “I can clean up nicely when I need to. But Anne,” He paused, taking in the sight of her. She was dressed in a satin gown the color of the ocean, the color of her gray-green eyes. It had delicate shoulder straps, a square neckline and a fitted, seamed bodice cut close to the body, the long skirt flaring at the knees. For the occasion she’d put up her unruly curls, now swept into a French twist held with silver and turquoise combs, her only ornament. Her makeup was minimal but effective, her lips dark pink, her eyes rimmed in a thin line of kohl. “You are going to put all the other women there tonight to shame.”
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