Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Yes. Thank you,” he said with a serious smile. “And just so you’ll know, I’ll tell you that Lucy always had the same options I’m giving you. It was I who was betrayed.”

  He’d gone farther than he intended, and he felt fortunate that Celesta accepted his words without questioning them. Losing another woman, especially this one, would be more than he could stand. Even though he’d spent the past ten years steeling himself against feminine wiles, Celesta was like a painting he couldn’t study only once ... a young woman who attracted him in more ways than he cared to admit.

  Damon glanced toward the stairway, which glowed softly in the darkness. “If you’d rather have me fetch your lingerie and then escort you home, I will. It was a petty trick, stealing your underthings to get your attention.”

  “It worked, too,” Celesta said with a slight chuckle. She followed his gaze up the steps toward what she knew would be another point of no return, her pulse quickening. Damon Frye might be underhanded, but he was by far the most intriguing, complicated man she’d ever met. Appealing, because he was such a challenge. “I ... suppose now that we’re here, it’d be a shame to miss the fireworks.”

  “And maybe light a few of our own?”

  He could feel her smiling in the darkness, and again he kissed her delicate hand. She was truly a treasure, this forgiving young lady, and he vowed that once her mother’s murder was explained and his own past was brought to light, Celesta Montgomery would have every reason to rush into his arms and never let him go.

  He was leading her upstairs now, his footfalls echoing his eagerness. Was it Damon’s magic that had once again changed her no to yes, or her own wayward heart that couldn’t deny him?

  It was too late to wonder. They were both breathless when they bypassed the ballroom, and he hurried her up a short flight of stairs into a small windowed cubicle that seemed to be perched on top of the world.

  Celesta stared around her in all directions. The river glistened like a wide silver ribbon behind the business district and outlying residential areas, which appeared smudgy and indistinct, like a nocturnal watercolor. Central Park was easy to find, surrounded by the glow of its triple-globed gaslights, yet it seemed so far away and insignificant. When Damon raised a few windows, the orchestra’s song drifted in with a lazy, dreamlike breeze that relieved the little room’s airless silence.

  Then he stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his warm breath falling on her neck. The moment was ripe with anticipation, bathed in moonlight and that aching madness she recalled from going to him in the cellar. Would he always arouse her this way, teasing and coaxing her beyond reason before leaving the final move to her?

  Celesta turned to him, her lips upraised, and his kiss continued the spell he’d begun by saying she was free to leave him. The tang of liquor and lemonade made her thirstier for him. She clung greedily, drinking in his heady male essence and refusing to release his mouth until her own was sated, for now.

  “I’m getting dizzy,” she whispered.

  “Must be the altitude—or the fumes from the lemonade I sipped all afternoon,” he said, nuzzling her nose with his. ‘‘Drove me to drink, watching Perkins parade you around. He’s told people you’re engaged, you know.”

  “He has?” Celesta scowled up at him, hesitating. “What’s he after, Damon? I’m not casting for compliments here; I suspect you know things I don’t, being male and all.”

  Frye chuckled and rested his head against hers. “A man would be crazy not to be after you, sweetheart. What was your answer when he proposed?”

  “I refused him. More than once.”

  “Then, trust your instincts.”

  Celesta pulled away slightly to gaze at his moonlit face, wondering how he always came up with such pithy replies. Was it instinct or recklessness that had driven her into Damon’s embrace again? He probably knew, but she didn’t dare ask him. “Where’s my underwear?”

  “Hanging on a nail behind us. Shall I get it for you?”

  “No. I will.”

  He released her, his breath catching in his throat when Celesta began to unbutton her dress. Her wide, white collar caught the moon’s glow as it slipped past her shoulders and hips, revealing underthings that were drab by comparison. As though reading his thoughts, she plucked her hairpins out one by one, with a seductive slowness that made his pulse race. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she was enjoying every second of it!

  “I...I thought you’d like to see me in that scarlet finery again,” she mumbled, sounding like a jittery little girl, yet so, so provocative.

  “It’s all I could think about today,” he breathed. “That, and how good it would feel to have you peel my clothes off and ravish me up here.”

  Celesta’s throat went dry, but it was too late to change course. “All right. But turn around until I’m ready. I’m not exactly used to this, you know.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut in a moment of exultation and did as she asked. The lights below seemed to brighten. He felt himself stiffening, just listening to the hurried rustle of clothes falling to the floor behind him. Damon peeked once, in time to see two lush, ivory hips pointed toward him as she stretched a red stocking over her knee and fumbled with the fasteners on the elastic supporters.

  To keep from mumbling endearing obscenities he faced the park again and hummed along with the song that rose on the breeze. “America, the Beautiful” it was, and when a new verse began he chuckled to himself and sang softly.

  “So beautiful in ruffles red, and drawers the shade of flame,” he crooned. “The sight of you brings out in me a lust I cannot tame!”

  Celesta’s eyes widened. This wasn’t really happening—such a perfect parody on a moment’s notice! But now he was performing the chorus with a fervor that if not patriotic, was inspiring all the same.

  “Celesta, sweet! Celesta, mine! Come warm my lonely bed. Join me tonight in passion’s flight—or Hannibal sees red!”

  She whirled around, trying not to laugh as she struggled into the lacy camisole. “You did not just make that up! Did you?”

  When Damon smiled so devilishly, the cleft in his chin taunting her, he couldn’t be trusted. “Of course I did. You’re not the only writer who ever lived in Hannibal, you know.”

  She crossed her arms. “Maybe not. But Sam Clemens didn’t steal my drawers and threaten to make a flag of them, either.”

  He nearly choked on a laugh, because Celesta had forgotten to put that particular garment on in her excitement. With her ruffled breasts protruding over her arms and her long black hair pointing to a triangle that matched it, flanked by deep crimson strips which hugged her delectable thighs, Celesta was every man’s fantasy come to life. And she belonged to him, whether she’d admit it or not.

  “All right, I confess,” he said in a husky voice. “I made it up this afternoon. Figured they’d play that song sometime tonight.”

  That he’d gone to such lengths to arrange this seduction was somewhat amazing, for she’d heard women complain that their men hurried so when it came to romance. Frye was obviously different. “I suppose you know others? Surely that one song, and swilling lemonade, didn’t take the whole afternoon.”

  “Presumptuous little tart, aren’t you?” He stepped closer, guiding her hands to the front of his shirt. “If you’re lucky, they’ll play ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ Meanwhile, I want my turn. Take my clothes off, Celesta. Take your time about it.”

  Chapter 13

  Celesta hesitated, unable to stop gazing into his hypnotic dark eyes. Beneath her hands, his heart was pulsing like a powerful engine, and she realized its beat had taken over the rhythm of her own body’s respiration. They were breathing together, holding each other captive in yet another fateful moment. It was potent magic.

  “Speaking of tarts,” she mumbled, “poor Patrick found a pit in one this evening. Chipped a tooth.”

  “Serves him right, for taking something meant for me.” She was trembling,
afraid of her own reactions as well as his, so he gently guided her hands into his half-open shirt. “Caress me, sweetheart. You have wonderfully sensitive hands, and I can’t wait to feel them exploring every inch of my body.”

  Beneath the downy hair on his chest she felt warm skin and tiny, hardening nipples, and Celesta came undone. Her fingers flew over his buttons while her lips found their delight along every curve of his upper body. His moans vibrated against her mouth as together they removed Damon’s damp shirt.

  So beautifully bold she was, brazen in scarlet and driving him wild with her eager explorations. Her feathery touch sent goose bumps racing up his back, and her fumbling with his fly buttons was endless, making him feel years younger, yet Frye suspected that Celesta herself was the potion to cure the ills he’d suffered in Fate’s fickle grasp before.

  When Damon stepped free of his pants he could wait no longer. He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her deeply, matching her undulations as she kneaded the halves of his backside. This was moving much faster than he’d intended, because Celesta, in her innocence, didn’t realize how powerful an aphrodisiac she was.

  He released her lips and pulled her close, taking long breaths of the fresh air drifting in the windows. “Let’s slow it down, sweetheart,” he murmured. “There are so many sensations to enjoy, and we don’t want to miss a single one.”

  Celesta held him tightly, dazed by the druglike effect of his virility. “Wh-what do I do now? Do you want me to take these underthings off?”

  “No. This sort of clothing is sometimes more erotic than bare skin ... the whisper of it between us.” He ran the tip of his tongue behind her ear and along the base of her neck, relishing the way it made her writhe against him. Then he chuckled. “They’re playing our song. Can you stand another silly stanza or two, or shall I shut up?”

  She grinned, straining to hear the melody. . . “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” “Sing for me. I like you when you’re silly.”

  Pleased yet feeling a bit awkward, Damon hugged her so that she couldn’t see his expression as they swayed together. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of Celesta’s blooming lust . . . she has such a tempting fanny, she has such a lovely bust. When she wraps her legs around me ... then I simply have to thrust. She’s driving me insane.”

  Her giggle was highest praise, and as she kissed him playfully he didn’t mind skipping over the chorus. “You’re quite a poet, Mr. Frye. Is there more?”

  “I saved the best for last, pretty lady,” he replied in a husky whisper. “As I recall, this is the verse they play more slowly, with a little more expression. I hope you don’t think I’m a horse’s ass.”

  “I think you’re wonderful.”

  The moonlight made soft stars appear in her eyes, and Damon gazed at her, his heart so full he could barely speak. “I’ll watch your green eyes smolder as your love for me unfurls,” he sang in a solemn baritone. “Stroke your skin so soft and ivory, like a moonlit string of pearls. Now I want to run my tongue inside . . . your scented nest of curls. You’re driving me insane.”

  Celesta gaped, suddenly nervous. “You ... want to kiss me there?”

  He ran his finger along her cheek. “Very much,” he breathed. “All the perfumers in Paris can’t concoct a more subtle, intoxicating fragrance than you can, just because you’re a woman, Celesta.”

  Damon nuzzled her breasts through the silk ruffles, running his hands lightly down her sides until they rested on her bare hips. “Balance yourself on this window ledge, and let your head fall back against the pane, if need be,” he suggested in a voice thick with anticipation. “Rest your heels on my shoulders—”

  “But I’ll fall out,” she whimpered, glancing fearfully at the distance between them and the ground.

  “I’ll hold on to your bottom,” he reassured her with a grin. “That little bit of danger makes the pleasure more extreme. But if you really want me to stop, just say so.”

  He was guiding her backward, lifting her slightly so that she was resting on the wooden ledge. The cooler night air was a startling contrast to the heat of his hands, and when he knelt in front of her, his gaze roaming hungrily over her most secret parts, Celesta felt a fierce, wanton decadence coursing through her.

  Her feet found his shoulders. Damon ran his tongue along her inner thigh, his eyes taunting her when he nibbled at the edge of her stocking. She was gripping the windowsill, watching in fascination as he kissed his way slowly up her leg. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought she might die on the spot. And when his tongue found the sensitive nub he’d introduced her to before, she sucked in her breath.

  “Relax, honey. Open for me.”

  Celesta closed her eyes and obeyed, and when the first gentle strokes became more insistent, inching farther inside her, she abandoned herself to the most delicious, quivering pain she’d ever experienced. Her head rolled from side to side on the window glass. Her fingers found Damon’s thick, warm hair, and the moment she put herself entirely in his hands, trusting him not to let her fall four stories, she was overtaken by a wild, primitive throbbing that made her cry out.

  Frye knew her exquisite predicament and pressed on. She was balanced on the precipice, ready to fall over that magical edge into mindless ecstasy—and leading him rapidly down the same path. Celesta’s whimpers echoed in the little room, accelerating as his kisses deepened.

  She shrieked and then exploded—or was that the first of the fireworks? Celesta was beyond caring as she gave in to shudders that made her head thump against the glass and her hips rock uncontrollably. “Damon . . . Damon, stop! I’m falling!”

  He chuckled and grabbed her more tightly, continuing his torture until he was sure she was spent. She could only pant his name now, out of her head, and it was a sweeter set of lyrics than he could ever compose himself.

  When she resurfaced, she realized she was limp against Damon’s broad chest, supported by his strong arms. When had he picked her up? He was rocking her, whispering how lovely she was and how she pleased him, in a voice that could well have come from her own imagination. From behind them, muted and distant, came the keening of rockets and then the muffled pop when they exploded into stars.

  Celesta gazed at Frye, shaking her head. “How is it that the music plays when you want it to, and the fireworks start at your command? Are you a sorcerer, come from another place and time?”

  He kissed her nose, adoring the glimmer of awe in her still-unfocused eyes. “It’s magic,” he whispered playfully, “but I can’t take full credit. It only happens so perfectly when I’m holding you, honey. Believe me.”

  Her grin felt lopsided, but it didn’t matter. “That was an ... overwhelming performance.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He kissed her lightly and let her slide down until her feet found the floor. “The architect in me thinks of that particular opening as a keyhole. There’s more than one key, as you know . . . but I’m just vain enough to think they all belong to me.”

  Was he saying he loved her? She doubted it. Damon wanted her—that much was plain in his dark-eyed gaze and subtle smile. And as she kissed his chin and lightly stubbled neck, Celesta knew in her heart that his declarations, no matter how far astray they led her, were the words her heart was destined to hear. Patrick’s proposals, though seemingly honorable, would always fall short.

  She ran her hand down the contours of his arm, marveling at how perfectly he was proportioned—how sleek and manly he was, bathed in the moon’s golden glow. Damon stood absolutely still, allowing her to study him without seeming the least bit embarrassed about her curiosity. When her palm paused tentatively over his proud, stiff manhood, he rubbed it against her, encouraging her grasp.

  He’d been patiently considerate, pleasuring her first, so it seemed only fair to repay him. “Is this a key in search of a keyhole?’’ she asked, trying to keep a straight face.

  Frye laughed aloud and hugged her. “Do you know where it might find one?”

 
Celesta parted her legs slightly to guide him between them. “I think you’re in the neighborhood. What can I do to make you feel totally incoherent, the way you did me?”

  Her question, whispered in a voice that hinted of her reawakening passion, sent a thrill through him. Not only was she willing to accept his advances, she wanted to initiate her own—a trait few women possessed. He smiled as two colorful starbursts flared in the sky behind her. “You’re missing the fireworks. Turn around, and we’ll watch them together.”

  Celesta faced the window again, reveling in the warmth of palms that stroked her sides and then firmly enclosed her breasts. He was rubbing against her bare bottom, teasing her sensitive nape with kisses so soft they might be an illusion. A muskiness enveloped them, perfume as heady as he’d claimed, and when his tip prodded for an opening she instinctively leaned over to grasp the casement.

  As he slid inside her, Damon wished this precious time alone with his woman would never end. He found himself caressing her feverishly, propelled toward a climax he couldn’t stall for long. “Celesta ...oh, honey, how do you do this to me?”

  He was kneading a breast with one hand, wrapping his other arm around her abdomen as though he couldn’t let go. Their breathing accelerated, echoing in the little room like the puffing and groaning of a steam engine climbing a hill. Sensing his desperation, Celesta gripped the wooden casement and bucked backward, her own frenzy returning.

  Frye rocked against her, driven by a desire like none he’d ever known, until he shot with the blinding force of a cannon. He staggered into her with a groan, and they collapsed against the wall.

  And yet, when he regained some sense of where they were, he realized Celesta was whimpering, frustrated and too shy to ask for help. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded in a whisper. “Anything, and it’s yours.”

  She was too far gone to make light of such an open-ended offer. “Touch me . . . hard. Make me scream again, Damon.”