by DC Thome
His eyes sparkled light sunlight dancing on clear blue water. “You’ll laugh if I tell you why I followed you.”
Sitting up produced a wave of dizziness that made my stomach feel like an egg with a sloshy yolk. “Ugh. I could use a laugh.”
“I followed you,” he said, “because I’m in love with you.”
I laughed. He cocked his head.
“Sorry for laughing,” I lied, “but why would you be in love with me?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Define ‘lots.’”
“Three.”
I laughed again. “What? My big ballookas and to-kill-for ass?”
His eyes swept up and down my body. “That’s three reasons. Also because you’re smart and funny and kind.”
“So we’re up to at least six,” I said. “But how would you know if I’m smart and funny and kind?”
“There was the long conversation we had the other night at the Cozy Coven.”
Someone’s really going to have to fill me in about that night.
“And you’ve counseled so many of my shifter friends,” he said. “It’s probably a safe bet to get into a relationship with someone who’s so good at saving other people’s.”
Smart and funny and kind is so not my counseling style. “Gambling has a bad reputation for a rea—” He interrupted me with a kiss. On the lips. Not a long kiss, but not a peck. And it felt different. Warmer. Softer. More meaningful.
The kiss ended and I kept my eyes closed a few seconds, then reluctantly decided it was time to face reality. I opened my eyes to a close-up view of a big smile. Reality, I reminded myself. “What exactly happened last night? How did we end up sleeping here?”
“The pink bubble thing absorbed the energy you tried to destroy it with. When it started pulling you in, I could tell you were getting weaker, so I…moved you out of the way.”
“Were the bears hurt?” My eyes narrowed. “Were you hurt?”
His gaze darted to red lines on his hip. I reached for them. “Ooh—that thing burned you!”
He turned his body. “It’s nothing.”
“It looks serious!”
“It’s not,” he said. “When I’m in my lion body, I can sit in the sun all day. Really.”
I gave him the look all women use when they want to baby a man who won’t let them.
“Anyway,” he said, “we were talking about you. By the time I got you away from the monster, you were unconscious. I picked you up by the scruff”—I have a scruff?—“and carried you here.” He looked around. “I call it my den. I come here when I need a little peace and quiet.”
“It is a peaceful place.” I rubbed my neck. “What happened to the Orgasmism—and the bears?”
“Orgasmism?”
“The bubble-monster thing. I went to Assjacket yesterday to see a rabbit shifter named Roger.”
“The sex therapist?”
“How come everyone knows this guy?”
“He’s got a big…reputation. But why would you—”
“Because it attacks people when they’re doin’ what comes naturally.”
He frowned. “This Roger said it’s an Orgasmism? I’m pretty sure that’s a made-up thing.”
I crossed my arms. “You’ve seen the movies.”
He cleared his throat and looked back at the books. “Just the first two. Or three. At stag parties.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, this Roger said a real Orgasmism could come into being under the right conditions.”
“The Solstice. The storm. Sabbat Hill.”
And true lovers. I nodded.
Hunter shrugged. “You disturbed the Orgasmism—or whatever—enough to let the bears go. They were fine. Didn’t even have to summon Brigid.” He winced. “Sorry to bring her up. I know you two don’t get along.”
“It’s cool. She can do things I can’t.”
“The Orgasmism retreated into the woods,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave you alone; your ugly—I mean, unusual-looking—dog didn’t seem like it would be much help if the Orgasmism came back for you.”
Abigail looked up from her crotch. “Hey! ‘Help’ is my middle name!”
I scowled. “You missed a spot.”
“She’s a feisty one,” Hunter said. He shook his hair back when he laughed, making him look like a rock star bending from the stage to sing only to me. A broad-shouldered, naked rock star who’s also gentle enough to carry a passed-out woman to his leafy love nest in the forest to keep her safe.
“You stayed up all night?”
“I’m a lion: nocturnal.”
“Oh, right.” I bit my thumbnail. “Hunter, at any time during the evening, did we”—I paused to gather my courage—“did we do anything?”
“Like what?”
“Fuck.”
His eyes widened and he reared back. “Absolutely not. You were unconscious!”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily a factor.”
“No. I mean, it’s not like I wouldn’t like to have fucked you, but a man has to behave honorably. Even if he is a lion.”
So there’s a gentleman attached to that schlongolius maximus. Which, by the way, was getting more maximus by the second. I put a hand on his knee. “I appreciate your good intentions,” I said. “But I still don’t believe you could be in love with me.”
He leaned in closer. “I could feel it on Sabbat Hill. The connection between us. It was physical, of course, but there was something deeper…”
I kept my face from giving away how much my heart was speeding up. Do go on…
“Going up there with Spur and you started out as a lark,” he said. “Sexy. Crazy. Forbidden. Until the thing with the sparks.”
“What ‘thing with the sparks’?”
“The blue ones crackling on my skin, and the pink ones on yours—moving from me to you and you to me. I’d never seen or felt anything like that.”
Now I had the Dickquisitors’ attention. Except for the most recent one to pass out and land on the floor feet-up. No. 8, I believe. There’s always one.
“These sparks,” No. 3 said eyeing my figura generosa, “appeared on exactly which parts of your body?”
“And regarding this schlongolius maximus,” No. 4 said, “could you be more specific?”
“Enough!” The Dork High Doucheberry tapped his gavel. “Please, Miss La Strega, proceed.”
Chapter 7
Hunter wanted to see me home. Such a gentleman. If I could pick a guy to fall in love with me, it might be someone like you.
“That’s sweet,” I said, “but teleporting is as safe as it gets. Besides, the Orgasmism doesn’t seem to do much during the day.”
“I’d be happy to spend the day with you.”
Taking in his regal nakedness, I patted his cheek. “I have clients to see and research to do. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“See how smart you are?”
“If that was a compliment, thank you,” I said. “If it was sarcasm, then fuck you.”
Hunter laughed. “I just need to be ready in case you end up going mano a mano with any jiggly bubble monsters again.”
And I’ll probably need all the help I can get. I kissed Hunter on the cheek. “Okay, Abigail, let’s go.”
She was still going to town on her nether regions. “A few more seconds.”
“You’re clean enough.”
“I said—”
“Suit yourself.”
And with a twitch of my nose, I was back home.
***
I smelled like a horse—no offense to horses intended—so I filled the bathtub with ridiculously bubbly water, jumped in and stayed there for half an hour. The warm water soothed my aching muscles, restored my spirit and freed my mind to consider what I’d learned. There was no doubt: I had brought the Orgasmism into existence. Or, more accurately, Spur and I had. But Roger the rabbit shifter said that only true lovers can create an Orgasmism. Hunter told me he was in love with me, but how did that
fit into the picture? We didn’t even really know each other. And while I thought he was a decent, thoughtful, courageous guy, I couldn’t say I loved him.
Could I?
I splashed at the bubbles and told myself to focus. Knowing how the Orgasmism had come about, so to speak, didn’t make the path forward any clearer. I had no idea how to defeat the monster I’d foisted upon the world—with or without Hunter’s help. Time for some serious research.
As I sloshed to my feet, Abigail bumped open the bathroom door with her snout.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” I said.
She glared at me. “You know I abhor nature. Why did you leave me in that horrible field?”
“I did it to help you.”
“How did leaving me there help me?”
“By letting you confront your irrational fear of sunshine and grass. And learn how to manage your time better.”
“You’re the one who said I needed to clean up.”
“I’m also the one who said it was time to go.” I grabbed a towel and stepped out of the tub. “What’s the big deal? You made it home in one piece.”
“Oh, yeah? What about this!” She turned around and stuck her butt into the air to show me a small burr snarled in her fur.
“Poor thing! You must be suffering horribly!” I wrapped my towel around me and retrieved Abigail’s brush from the medicine cabinet.
She arched her back and hissed. “You’re not coming after me with that instrument of torture!”
“I thought dogs loved being brushed.” I put the brush back into the cabinet.
“Okay! Sheesh! You may use the hair-ripper, but I will not enjoy it, and I may slice you with my claws.”
I took out the brush and sat on the edge of the tub. “Claws? Or paws?”
Abigail hopped into my lap. “Fuck you! Just get the prickly Spike Monster of Death out of my ass.”
I brushed around the burr until Abigail was almost asleep, then I used short, gentle strokes to free the menace. When I stopped brushing, she bolted awake, scowled and said, “Do it, already!”
“Too late.” I held up the burr. “You didn’t even feel it.”
“Like hell, I didn’t.” She leapt to the floor and licked her tail end.
“So,” I said, “I need to figure out how to defeat this Orgasmism thing. I won’t ask you to help, but do you have any suggestions?”
She flipped me off with her stubby cat paws and kept licking.
“Real mature.”
“You have a shitload of books at your office,” she snapped. “Maybe if you actually read one, you’d learn something.”
I pointed the brush at her. “I’ve read those books! Most of them, anyhow.” The brush wavered. “Okay, two of them. Not all the way through, but…” Fuck. I let the brush drop. “Abby, if I go to work early today to look at the books, would you go with me?”
“No.”
“I could zap you into the middle of another field—or a swamp. How would you like to spend the rest of the day in a swamp?”
Abigail harrumphed. “If you didn’t have such a warm, squishy lap…I’ll be waiting for you on the couch. With my privates on your favorite pillow.” She stalked out of the bathroom, her burr-free butt high in the air.
I finished drying and put on a horribly inappropriate halter mini dress with cross straps and a keyhole front that exposed my canyonesque cleavage. I figured the ruched fabric didn’t scream “ho on the make” as much as practically every other piece of clothing I owned. My battered business jacket needed to be seriously cleaned—if not burned—so I put on a sheer black mesh shrug and hoped my clients wouldn’t recognize it as Item No. 362438 on SlutStuff.com.
I went into the living room, where Abigail was doing exactly what she said she’d be doing, while ignoring me. “Ready to go, Abigail Barker?”
She planted her hiney on the Missoni and glared at me. “I’ve decided to accompany you,” she said. “Not because you threatened me, but because I pledged to assist you no matter what, and I’m a dog of honor. But I’ll be in a really shitty mood, and I won’t like it.”
“So noted,” I said, “you irresistible little hairball.” I held her up to my face and rubbed my nose into her fur before twitching us to the office.
***
I poked my nose into a book or two before my first clients arrived, a peafowl shifter couple, followed by an open slot. Unfortunately, the cock and the hen were so proud that it took way longer than I’d anticipated to shame them into cooperating. I had no time to read before a pair of porcupine shifters, Pokey and Fluffy Quill, checked in. Even in their human form, they looked kind of cute—short and round, with beady eyes and blunt noses. And more long, spiky hair than a 1980s dance-pop synth band.
“So, Mr. and Ms. Quill, why are you here today?”
Pokey glowered. “It’s her fault.”
“We don’t assign fault in therapy, Mr. Quill. May I call you Pokey?”
“Call me whatever you want—it’s not a sticking point.”
Good to know. I turned to the female. “What do you say, Fluffy?”
“I’m not great at putting things into words, but I’ll take a stab at it,” she said. “He wants more sex than I do.”
“That’s not uncommon,” I said.
“She’s never horny,” Pokey groused.
“I am, too,” Fluffy retorted. “Every year, starting in late August, for exactly one month.”
Pokey folded his arms. “See what I mean?”
“How much more intimacy would you like, Pokey?”
“Starting mid-August would be nice. And going into October a week or two. If I have to get a faceload of quills beating off other males, I want my money’s worth.”
Fluffy looked down and sniffled. I pushed a box of Kleenex her way.
“Everybody stay calm,” I said. “Let me check something.” I conjured The Healer’s Guide to Witches, Shifters and Other Magical Beings and asked it to turn to porcupines. Ah. “So, Fluffy, every August you climb a tree and release musk, and Pokey, you scramble onto a lower branch and fight off other testosterone-flooded males until she’s ready to fuck your brains out.”
“I never take more than a few days!” Fluffy blew her nose. “And I’ve never bitten him or tried to sweep him away with my tail. Although, there’ve been times…”
“But when she’s finally ready for the old in/out,” Pokey interjected, “we do it three, maybe four times over one hour—and then it’s, ‘See ya next year!’”
“You realize,” I said, “that you’re both describing standard porcupine mating behavior.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pokey grouched. “But the need to seed builds up.”
“What would you like to change?”
“Five or six times in that hour would be nice.”
Fluffy sniffled again. “All you care about is speed: Stick it in and finish quick so we can do it again.”
“Again,” I interjected, “standard porcupine mating behavior. But you two also have human natures. And the ability to transcend animal nature to work things out. Have we uncovered anything that you could use to reach a loving compromise?”
They pursed their lips and stared in opposite directions.
“Goddess humping a garden gnome!” I yelled. “You’ve got ONE DAY to work off a year’s worth of libido! Don’t fucking waste it getting prickly over crap like whether you do it four times or six!”
The porcupines faced each other, pointed and yelled, “I told you!”
“Knock it off,” I said. “You two obviously have something good going, or she’d choose a different mate every year, right?”
Pokey looked down. “Yeah.”
“And he obviously thinks you’re the greatest thing since shredded pine bark, Fluffy, so once you do the yearly hokey-pokey, could ya, for fuck’s sake, give him a lousy going-away hand job?”
They looked at each other and their gazes caught.
“Would you like a going-away hand job?” Fluffy said
.
“That would be great,” Pokey answered. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t mind in the least!” Fluffy fell into Pokey’s embrace, burying her face in his chest. “My hands are small, but I’ll do my best.”
“Um, Fluff…”
“Yes, Pokey?”
“Would you also mind…” He looked down.
“Oops.” She pulled back, several strands of her grey-streaked hair embedded in his neck. “I was overexcited.”
“It’s okay,” he said, pulling out the spines. “I can’t wait to see your cute butt hanging from a thick, leafy branch.”
“You know,” I said, “that’s still six or eight weeks away.”
“I know,” Pokey said. “The anticipation is half the fun!”
They bumped noses, got up and waddled out the door. I followed them into the waiting area—and got a surprise: Hunter sat in a chair with Abigail on his lap. She was asleep, her head hanging down over his knees and her tongue hanging down from her head.
“Hunter? Why are you here?”
“Keeping watch over you.”
Fluffy stopped and grinned. “Ooh! Sounds like true love!”
I frowned. “We haven’t gotten that far.”
“I have,” Hunter said.
Fluffy got a faraway look in her eyes. “Has he drenched you with pee from head to toe, mounted you from behind and humped you like a motherfucker?”
“Um…book!” The Healer’s Guide to Witches, Shifters and Other Magical Beings appeared before me, already open. I scanned the page and sighed in relief. Perfectly normal porcupine mating behavior. “Not exactly.”
“Don’t worry,” Fluffy said, “the day will come.” She patted my shoulder. Pokey grinned and gave Hunter the thumbs-up sign.
As the door closed behind them, I looked at Hunter. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Yeah, that’s one conversation I’d rather unhear.” Carefully cradling Abby, he rose to his feet. “I’m more into growling and biting.”
Bite! I pulled my hair back and checked my neck in a mirror near the coatrack. “You didn’t bite me on Sabbat Hill.”