When I'm With You

by JoAnn Ross

  “Not too badly.” It was getting better. Closing her eyes, she slipped into a warm, sensual fog of need.

  “Tell me exactly how it feels.”

  “Lonely.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll take care of that soon enough.” She heard something rustle, but unwilling to risk losing the fantasy, didn’t open her eyes. “Now lift that tender little bud.”

  It pulsed like a hot little heart against her fingertips as she obeyed.

  “That’s excellent.”

  His voice sounded as if it was coming from far away. Like right after Katrina, when a post-traumatic stress therapist hypnotized her to help her overcome the nightmares that had plagued her. The difference was, the therapist’s goal had been to soothe her. Sloan’s voice was doing exactly the opposite.

  “Now let me see you make yourself come.”

  By this point, she was so turned on he couldn’t have stopped her. Leaning back on her elbows, she lasciviously rubbed her fingers over her soaking clit, driving herself closer and closer to the brink.

  She was panting, one hand on a tingling nipple which had turned diamond hard, the other between her legs, two fingers pumping fast and deep.

  She heard herself begin to moan, and couldn’t care, so caught up was she in her desperate need for release.

  “That’s it, baby,” Sloan encouraged on a ragged groan that had her looking up at him through slit lids. He’d left the chair and was standing over her, naked and gloriously erect.

  All it took was the sight of those long dark fingers curled around his sheathed, rampant penis to push Roxi over the edge.

  She came with a shudder and a sound that was half cry, half sob.

  But before she could come down, while she was still scattered into a million little pieces, she felt his hands against her trembling thighs and he was pushing her legs apart.

  “More.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Want to bet?”

  She cried out when his hot and hungry mouth clamped down on her painfully sensitive clit.

  “Oh, please.” Her hips bucked. “Sloan.” She’d fallen back onto the desk and was writhing beneath the mouth that was sucking on the fiery nub. “It’s too…I can’t…”

  His fingers dug into her thighs, pinning her to the glossy wooden surface as he continued to feast, devouring her with lips and teeth and tongue.

  Just when she was sure she couldn’t endure another moment, another orgasm ripped through her, more intense than any she’d ever experienced.

  “Again,” he said over her scream, not giving her a second to recover before driving her up the steep peak again, even higher this time, to where the air was thin and her eyes went darkly blind.

  The entire world spun away. There was only the painful pleasure between her legs, the thrust of his tongue plunging in and out, and in and out, his teeth tugging on her swollen, throbbing clit, creating a pleasure so acute she could only scream and plead, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own, for him to stop. To never stop.

  Her bare hips were slapping the desktop in a way she knew on some distant level would leave bruises. She was moaning. Sobbing. Cursing, then begging in a way she never would have imagined she, a sexually liberated woman of the twenty-first century, would ever do.

  And then she was coming in a burst of heat and light, a supernova of a climax that had her shattering into a thousand brilliant pieces.

  And even then, even as her screams were still reverberating in the silk-draped room, he wasn’t ready to let her come down.

  “My turn,” he said, lifting her limp and drained body off the desk. Holding her up by her sore bottom, he plunged into her, all the way to the hilt.

  Somehow, she managed to lock her legs around his waist as he carried her into the adjoining bedroom, working her back and forth from the root of his penis to the tip, her soaked pubic curls slamming hard against his groin.

  Once. Twice. A third time.

  She heard the groan rumbling deep in his sweat-slicked chest. Felt the shudder deep in his loins.

  The bed was a four-poster, draped in the same wine silk as the walls. Bracing her against one of the posts, he thrust his hips one last time, his cock surging deep, all the way to her womb, a feral shout of release ripping from his throat as he came with a bone-racking shudder, triggering yet another deeper, longer climax that rolled over her like a tidal wave.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped. “I think you’ve killed us.”

  “You’ll be fine.” He dragged her down, his hot and heavy body pressing her deep into the mattress. “Better than fine.” He kissed her, a long, deep kiss she could feel all the way to her toes. “You’re fuckin’ fabulous.”

  He pulled out of her, rolled over, and wrapped her in his arms, holding her while the tremors subsided and her breathing began to return to something resembling normal.

  “Fuckin’ fabulous,” he repeated against her throat. “And as good as that was, things are about to get a whole lot better.”

  Roxi was too spent to argue with that outrageously confident statement. Which was just as well. Because, she was to discover, as the waxing white moon moved across the night sky, Sloan Hawthorne was definitely not a man given to exaggeration.

  Chapter Eleven

  Having grown up enjoying the tales of pirates using the underground tunnels throughout Savannah to smuggle their stolen booty, Sloan found Hex Appeal, located on the city’s River Street, to be an absolute treasure trove.

  The small space was packed from gleaming wood floor to rafters with a dizzying array of New Age stuff. Claiming the center of the bay window that extended out onto the cobblestone sidewalk was what appeared to a maypole, festooned in colorful ribbons, surrounded by earthenware bowls of crystals that captured the spring sunlight and bounced rainbows around the room.

  Colorful glass shelves lined two of the walls and were crammed with bottles of herbs, candles, and figurines of various gods and goddesses he couldn’t begin to recognize. An overstuffed couch covered with gaily patterned pillows claimed the back wall, and was flanked by two comfortable chairs. A tea set and wicker baskets of what appeared to be home-baked cookies sat on a small brass table, inviting shoppers to linger, while a pretty little sign above the sofa gently warned that unaccompanied children would be turned into toads—or given a free kitten.

  The crush of customers kept Roxi from hearing the brass bell that had announced his arrival, allowing him to watch her undetected from the shadow of a display of handmade straw brooms in the corner.

  Unlike the sexy witch he’d spent the night with, she was surprisingly, briskly efficient. But she certainly hadn’t traded efficiency for the personal touch. On the contrary, proving herself a deft juggler, she somehow managed to pitch the eclectic merchandise, answer questions, ring up the flood of sales, and package the purchases in hot pink Hex Appeal shopping bags.

  She was, as he’d already decided long before he’d dropped her back at her house a little after dawn, spectacular. And, although she might not know it yet, she was his. Not just for last night or today, but forever.

  Reminding himself of Emma’s cautionary words, which had been underscored by Roxi’s own ridiculous three date rule, Sloan decided to keep his intentions to himself. For now.

  If the lady wanted to believe their relationship was all about sex, he wasn’t going to dissuade her. At least not until he’d managed to work his way around, over, or through those emotional barricades she’d erected around her heart.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she glanced up. And amazingly, after all they’d shared last night, blushed.

  He found the tinge of pink brightening her cheeks endearing. Found her actually dropping a pewter unicorn encouraging. She could deny it all she wanted, but he’d gotten to her. The same as she had to him.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” she said as she wrapped some pink tissue paper around a fist-sized piece of quartz.

  He crossed to the counter. “I don’t suppose you’d believ
e I was in the neighborhood.”

  She shrugged, shoulders bared by a snug pink knit halter top. “And just happened to be in the market for a love spell?”

  “That’s not such a bad idea.” Not that he believed in such things, but so long as she did, maybe that might be the means to achieve his ends. He dipped his hand into a bowl of small tumbled stones. “I actually came in to get some perfume blended for my mother—she has a birthday coming up—but a love spell would be cool, too. What would you suggest?”

  “Roxanne.” A woman wearing a flowing purple tunic and ankle-length skirt shoved him out of the way. “You haven’t put out any cannariculi.”

  “Those cookies need honey for drizzling and dipping, which gets messy in the store,” Roxi said mildly. “Which is why I chose oatmeal. Which,” she tacked on over the woman’s snort, “are also a traditional Beltane food.”

  “Perhaps where you come from,” the harridan sniffed.

  “I like oatmeal,” Sloan said. Then, to prove a point, he took one from the tiered plate she’d put by the register with a calligraphic little note that read: Help yourself.

  “Hmmm,” he said around a mouthful of oatmeal and golden raisins, “delicious.”

  The woman looked up at him as if noticing him for the first time, then shrieked. “You are Sloan Hawthorne.”

  “That’s me,” he agreed. “And you are?”

  “Martha Corey.” She glared up at him. Poked him in the chest. “A name you should know well.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sloan exchanged a glance over the top of her head with Roxi, who shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not ringing a bell.” He flashed her a winning smile. “Do our families know each other?”

  “You might say that. In another life.”

  “I see,” Sloan said, not seeing anything at all. They were, however, beginning to draw a crowd.

  The woman turned toward Roxi. “This man is a Hawthorne.”

  “I know,” Roxi replied, appearing as puzzled as Sloan himself was.

  “I wager he’s changed it!” The way she was pointing at him, Sloan expected her to next say, And your little dog, too! “His name!”

  Ah, hell. He’d known he was going to have to tell her, but hadn’t wanted it to come out like this.

  “It was undoubtedly Hathorne,” Martha told Roxi, as well as the customers who were now standing around watching the show. “The judge from the witch trials,” she shrieked again, when Roxi’s only response to that allegation was a blank look.

  Roxi looked up at Sloan, clearly startled by the news, as he’d known she would be after she hadn’t made the connection when they’d been discussing their heritage last night. He’d been going to tell her. Really.

  “Those Puritans?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well.” She blew out a breath. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “At least you can’t say I’ve been boring.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “How about you come to lunch with me and we can discuss it.”

  “I’m busy. This is a holiday weekend for us and—”

  “Oh, for the Goddess’s sake.” A tall, gorgeous woman with braided and beaded black hair, smooth brown skin, and a body that could’ve walked off a Playboy centerfold spread came up to them. “You can be such a workaholic. Hello. I take it you’re the famous Sloan Hawthorne.”

  “I don’t know about famous, but that’s my name,” he said.

  “I’m Jaira Guidnard.” She held out a beringed hand. “But in case Roxi proves herself to be an idiot and turns you down again, you can call me available,” she said with the sugarcoated, flirtatious female aggression that was uniquely Southern. Couldn’t his own mother, happily married for forty years, charm with the best of them?

  He laughed, despite the daggers being shot his way from the old woman’s narrowed blue eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that, sugar.” Jaira skimmed a blood red talon down the front of his shirt. “And if you need a really hot group to sing for your soundtrack, you’ll be wanting to hear the Papa Legba Voodoo Priestesses.”

  “Would you happen to be one of those priestesses?”

  “Why, yes.” She fluttered artificial lashes so thick and long Sloan was amazed she could keep her eyes open. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “The group’s wonderful,” Roxi said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to recommend them while we were having dinner last night.”

  “That’s all right, darlin’,” Jaira said silkily, her gaze going to the little love bite on Roxi’s neck. “I suspect you and Sloan got so caught up in other business, you simply forgot.”

  “That’s pretty much what happened,” Roxi agreed. “Now, although it’s lovely to see you, Sloan, if you’ll just give me some of your mother’s attributes, we’ll get started on her scent. But right now, if you don’t mind, as you can see we’re very busy—”

  “Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” Jaira scolded. “Let the man feed you, Roxi. I’ll hold down the fort here.”

  Roxi glanced around. Sloan was encouraged when she was clearly torn. “Go,” one of the customers said.

  “Go,” a second echoed.

  A moment later the entire store, all except his nemesis, was chanting, “Go, go, go.”

  “All right!” She was laughing as her hands flew up. “Thirty minutes,” she told Sloan. “No more.” She splayed her hands on her hips, which pulled the halter top across her breasts.

  “It’s a date.”

  “The second one,” she reminded him.

  “Actually, it’s only the first,” he said as they left the store for the cobblestone sidewalk crowded with tourists.

  “I must have made quite an impression if you’ve already forgotten last night,” she complained.

  “I haven’t forgotten a thing about last night.” He skimmed a finger over a faint bruise on her collarbone. “Sorry about this.” He vaguely recalled biting her the second—or had it been the third?—time he’d come.

  “Don’t apologize. I enjoyed it. A lot.”

  “So did I. In fact, if it had been a date, it would’ve been the best of my life. But it wasn’t a date.”

  “Excuse me? I just happened to be wearing a dress that maxed out my credit card—which, by the way, I don’t do for every guy who asks me out—underwear that cost more than my monthly power bill, and my best fuck-me heels. We had a candlelight dinner and hot monkey sex afterward. Followed by dessert and champagne, which you ended up eating and drinking off me.”

  “I seem to recall you doing some fingerpainting with the fudge sauce yourself,” he said, then wished he hadn’t thought of that just now, being that he really didn’t want to have to walk all the way down to the park with a boner the size of Texas.

  “Exactly. So, if dinner, sex, and playing paint the penis with fudge sauce wasn’t a date, I’d like to know what it was.”

  “A business meeting.”

  “Wow. It’s true!” She looked up at him with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “Y’all really do things differently in California. If you call last night a business meeting, your Hollywood movie conferences must be full out orgies.”

  “We talked about Morganna over dinner.” He skimmed a hand beneath the long glossy slide of hair, pleased with her faint tremor. Oh yes, they weren’t finished yet. Not by a long shot. “So, technically it was a consultation.”

  “Good try. But it was a date.” They’d already passed three restaurants which were starting to fill up with lunch crowds. “Do you have some place in mind? Other than Six Flags over Sex City? Because as enticing as the idea may be, I really don’t have time for a nooner.”

  “I suspected that might unfortunately be the case. Though, I have to tell you, sweetheart, that shirt is damn tempting.”

  She glanced down at the script running across her chest that suggested, “Get a Taste of Religion—Lick a Witch.”

 
“You’ve already done that.”

  “True. Which is why I intend to go back for seconds. Meanwhile, how does a picnic sound?”

  “Lovely. But again…” She cast a warning glance down at her watch.

  “I had the chef prepare a picnic. I thought we’d eat at the park.” Which was less than a five-minute walk away at the end of the Riverwalk.

  “You’re got yourself a date.”

  He skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. “Consultation.”

  “Date,” she corrected firmly.

  He’d always found that women were suckers for romance. Fortunately, having always been a sucker for women, it was easy to give them what they wanted. Which, in turn, tended to make them generous in return.

  He’d had Roxi Dupree’s body and it was everything he’d dreamed of, and more. Now he had to capture her heart. Which should’ve been a piece of cake.

  Definitive word there, should’ve.

  Unfortunately, whatever fickle fates or gods had decided he belonged with this woman must’ve had one helluva sense of humor because apparently Emma hadn’t been kidding.

  The luscious witch was definitely a hit and run artist.

  It wasn’t going to be that easy to convince her to see the light. As he retrieved the wicker basket from the backseat of the rental car parked across the street, Sloan tried to remind himself that he’d never truly appreciated things that came too easily.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I should’ve told you about my ancestor before that old woman had a chance to out me,” he said as they sat on a bench beneath a leafy green tree on the banks of the river at the end of the short street.

  “You did, in a way,” she said with a shrug. “I mean, you did mention the Puritans. I just never put two and two together. I think the only reason Martha did was because she’s one of those militant hard-liners who spends much of her life living in the past, suffering from ancient grievances. She took her witch name after one of the women who were hung on Gallow’s Hill.”

  “Ouch. I can see where my ancestry might be a sore subject.”