The Selkie

by Rosanna Leo

  “Five hundred seventy-five years old. Like I said, I’m the baby.” He grinned and tweaked her nipple.

  A dull pain throbbed in the back of her head, a throb that only intensified each time she glimpsed the soft sheen of his unblemished skin. “You must realize that’s hard to believe.”

  “I understand, Maggie. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  He drew closer and looked at her breast as if he wanted nothing more in life than to suckle at its softness. He licked his lips and Maggie had trouble continuing but she forced herself to forge ahead. “And it’s your … job … to pleasure women?”

  “Well,” he drawled, finally leaning down to lick at her nipple, “I wouldn’t call it a job. It’s fate.”

  She watched as he flicked out his tongue to tease the nipple that was angrily tight and eager for the scrape of his teeth. She wanted to just lie back and let him have her, in every way possible, in ways she’d never even considered before. But the thought of him with other women, maybe thousands of other women, had her reeling with a jealousy she’d never experienced.

  “So what do you do when fate isn’t summoning you?” she asked, and was surprised at the hurt catch in her voice. She pushed his head away from her breast, pulling up the blanket to cover herself. “You know, when you’re not employed as some waterlogged gigolo?”

  Calan looked up from her breast through disappointed eyes. “That’s a good one. I must write that down on my résumé.”

  Suddenly, Maggie was crying. And not just a demure blubber. Her shoulders shook and her throat felt raw, and the sobs had her gut lurching. She couldn’t even blame it on the gunshot or grief or stupid Matthew anymore. It was Calan, just Calan, who was doing this to her, when she’d sworn to forsake all men. Why couldn’t he be a dentist or in middle management in a nice office somewhere? Why did he have to plague her with all these questions?

  She leaped from the bed, pulling the white quilt cover around her. Not knowing where to go, but not wanting to leave, she ended up in the corner of the room. There, she collapsed in a heap of cotton on the floor, and covered her face as she wept.

  Calan rose from the bed, still annoyingly nude, and strode over to her crumpled form. He kneeled next to her, wrestling her hands from her face. “Maggie, please don’t.”

  She glanced up, taken aback by his fervent plea, and was shocked to see how pale he was.

  “Don’t cry,” he begged. “I’ve never been able to endure a woman’s tears, but yours are slicing into me like a shark’s tooth. Please, Maggie.”

  The only response she could muster up was to plop more tears into his naked lap.

  “Why weep, love?”

  “Because one of us is clearly insane!” The pain in her voice shocked her. She hadn’t expected to feel so strongly about Calan, hadn’t expected any of this. And the more time she spent with the mysterious man from the sea, the more she cared about him. It scared her. What kind of future could she possibly have with him? None, she knew, yet she was having trouble envisioning a future without him. “This can’t be real.”

  “Oh, it’s real,” he replied, the lust resurfacing in his eyes as he gazed at her surrounded by his blanket. He grabbed her hand, moving it to his thick, aroused cock. “And this is real too.”

  As Maggie encircled the significant girth of his cock, she stared openmouthed at the magnificent creature before her. And wished very much that she could believe.

  Please, God. Even just a little.

  *

  Calan loved a challenge. Yet he’d never had one. Not as far as women were concerned. The few times in his life that his pelt had been pilfered by some enterprising female, there had been no challenge to whet his own appetite. When women saw their selkie prize, they’d given themselves heart and soul to him, eager to believe the myth. They’d all been so gullible that it had been no trouble stealing his skin back from them.

  Maybe it was something about those Orkney lasses. They were more inclined to believe in magic. From the buxom, human barmaid who’d taken his virginity centuries ago to every last lonely sailor’s wife he’d entertained. They’d all fallen for him, hook, line, and sinker.

  Not Maggie.

  She was different. Maggie wanted him, but railed against the idea that he didn’t fit into her neat, sensible world. Right from the start, he knew her skepticism would make their passion even more fiery, more electric.

  Yet now that he felt her soft fingers on his shaft, he knew his world was being altered as much as hers. He stared down at the beautiful woman below him, the one he’d just finished ripping in two with delicious ecstasy. He’d claimed her heart, he could tell. From the haunted, desperate look in her eyes, and from the impassioned moans that had ensnared his soul.

  And he felt absolutely shackled to her. He’d gone from being her reluctant stalker to her very willing prisoner.

  It was going to be so hard, he realized with a heavy heart, to leave her.

  For, leave her, he must. It was his way. The way of his kind, aside from the unfortunate few who’d been snared by their mates. Of course, Angus wouldn’t describe his relationship with Elsie that way, nor would his parents speak so about their mating. He knew it was possible to love.

  But him? Calan of Kirkwall? Never.

  He didn’t know the meaning of the word. And, he suspected, neither did Jamie, Machar, Breannan, Drummond, and Edan, his other wayward brothers. Angus was the only one so far to have fallen. And when he had, spying wee Elsie Tate that first day, he’d plummeted faster than a boulder sinking in water.

  And he’d never been happier, the great fool.

  Maybe Angus knew something he didn’t.

  He looked down at the gentle way Maggie was swirling her fingers around his cock, endured the shards of painful pleasure as they cut through his body. All thoughts of Angus and the rest of his brothers flew away.

  Fuck, this woman is sweet.

  She was staring at his dick, seemingly entranced. With a tentative shadow in her eye, she finally looked up at him and then moved her hand lower. As she cupped his balls, swirling them with a careful hand, he let out a curse. He’d never felt anything so good, and he wasn’t even inside her yet.

  He just knew she would fit him better than any he’d ever known. Better than Daisy, the barmaid who’d taken his virginity when he was a young pup, back when the sixth King Henry was still on the English throne. Daisy had been plump and willing, but had he loved her? No. Even though he’d developed a begrudging fascination with humans because of her, he hadn’t loved her.

  Maggie would feel better to him than Mary, the lonely wife of a fisherman whom

  he’d entertained back in the early eighteen hundreds. He’d stayed with the buxom wench for four years until he’d found his pelt. And had he loved Mary? No. In fact, after a time, he’d grown tired of her.

  And the gods only knew, of all the selkie maids he’d bedded, he’d never felt inspired to mate with a single one.

  So why did Maggie, an emotionally scarred mortal, suddenly feel so right? He didn’t know why. She just did.

  He looked down at his auburn beauty, at the red curls dancing above her shoulders. At the echoing red curls at the base of her soft stomach, the ones he could see peeking through the folds of the gathered quilt. He took in the red flush on her sweet chest. Heard her labored breathing. Saw the longing in her eyes, a longing she probably didn’t even know was there.

  And knew he wanted her. Badly.

  “Maggie,” he murmured.

  “Do it,” she challenged, her voice raw with desire. “I need it.”

  Damn, he needed it, too. It wasn’t the way he would have wanted, with her eyes still so full of tears. Tears that he’d caused with his so-called outrageous claims. But, by all that was holy, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He needed to feel her swallowing him up.

  He laid her down on the floor and moved the cursed blanket away from her tantalizing body. Her tantalizing human body. Suffering one last moment o
f guilt, he thought of Kyla, remembering what the bastards did to her. He owed it to Kyla to remain strong and aloof.

  Forgive me, Kyla.

  Feeling like a bastard himself, he looked down at Maggie. Shite, she was exquisite, human or not. He stared down into her perfect face, a face made perfect by all its tiny imperfections. The slightly crooked nose. The many freckles. The funny, little red eyelashes, so wet with tears. The pretty, pale lips. He took in the crooked line as her mouth twitched into an awkward grin.

  And realized something was changing in him, whether he wanted it or not.

  The gods help him! Was this what Angus felt?

  He ran a hand down to her pussy, sliding his finger along her wet seam. He got stiffer just feeling this evidence of her need. Cursing, he moved his hand and let his cock brush against her pussy, teasing her, and making himself mad with passion. Slowly, he prodded her with his tip, and she moved her hips to greet him. He wanted to take this slowly, to bring her to a ravenous breaking point, but he feared they were both already there.

  “Calan,” she implored. “Fuck me.”

  And so, he did.

  Calan drove into the warmth of her body, his body exploding with luscious sensation. She cried out and he couldn’t control his own response. He was quaking in her arms, unable to catch his breath. And still he plunged into her again and again until he was seeing stars. Her perfume was all over him, marking him. Her sweet pussy wrapped around him as if it were part of his own body. And her every cry of delirium bound him to her.

  As he felt the explosion rock his body, he held her tighter, breathing against her soft

  neck. Her sex tightened around him as she came to orgasm once again, milking him dry and bringing him to the point of lush pain.

  Oh shit, he wondered as their bodies stilled. Now what?

  *

  Maggie was shivering. All over. And it was magical.

  What he’d done to her … she’d never felt anything like it. When he’d taken her and delivered her the most pulse-pounding orgasm she’d ever had, she’d begun to think maybe he was telling the truth.

  Could selkies really exist?

  She caught herself believing the lie for a moment and looked at him as he pulled out. His eyes were still closed, as if the feeling had been too much to bear. She felt it too. In fact, she’d never experienced anything like it. When Calan had come with her, a circuit inside her had shorted. All the little paths to her heart had been realigned somehow.

  Something had changed.

  He climbed off her, offering her a strangely shy smile, and helped her sit up. He then grabbed a small towel from his bathroom and insisted on tidying her up, wiping her sex with a gentle hand.

  Maggie stared, unable to speak.

  Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he dropped a tender kiss on her lips. He then stood and started to get dressed. She shifted to look at him as he dressed. He leaned over and grabbed his jeans, hoisting them up to his waist, and she swallowed the disappointment she felt in seeing his incredible lower half disappear. Calan was unspeakably gorgeous, fallen angel gorgeous. His dark hair seemed to shimmer with a light of its own. His lips were luscious and his every muscle seemed sculpted by God’s hand.

  Surely mortal men don’t look like this.

  And that mouth. Kissing and licking at her sex with animalistic fervor. No mortal man had ever left her with such a soul-searing need. It had been sheer agony when he’d removed his hands from her body. God help her, she really wanted to start all over again and see if the second time would be as fiery and turbulent as the first.

  But this can’t be right.

  He turned to her, once again clearly perceiving her thoughts. With a sad smile, he reached over to brush a curl off her cheek. “Beautiful Maggie. You still don’t believe, do you?”

  She couldn’t answer. Didn’t know how to answer. She’d never been much of a believer, not even with a grandmother who talked of fairies and gnomes and magical beings who dwelled under the sea.

  How could she believe? God had seen fit to take both her parents, shattering her belief system. And when she’d offered her unquestioning devotion to two men who’d used her, her faith in others had dried up.

  She had to protect herself. She couldn’t let Calan touch her again.

  He breathed in deeply, as if trying to convince himself to be strong, and handed over her wrinkled clothing. “Come. There’s no sense staying here. Let’s go to The Deacon’s Bench. We have to find that pelt and you must be starving. I know I’m hungry.”

  And then he smiled, as if to say, “I’ll make a believer of you yet.”

  “How can you even think of eating?” she asked as she began to move.

  His rakish grin was now back in full force as he watched her reach for her underwear. “Didn’t I tell you? We selkie men have unending … appetites.”

  And despite everything they’d been through, despite the turmoil in her heart, Maggie found herself grinning back as she dressed.

  “I just bet you do.”

  Chapter 9

  Calan pulled Maggie along by the hand and led her toward the busy pub that was The Deacon’s Bench. He was surprised to see it was already nearing six o’clock. Of course, they had begun their day late and then he had entertained Maggie at his home for a time. He grinned at the decadent memory, relishing the lingering taste of her on his lips.

  Oh, what he might do to preserve that taste in his mouth.

  Breathing in deeply to clear his head, he looked up at the pub door and took note of the activity inside. Even through the frosted windows he could see the patrons. By now, the little tavern would be filled with village folk looking for a meaty pie, a rousing song, and a large ale, and not necessarily in that order.

  As they entered, he turned to Maggie. “Did you ever come here with your gran?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied, grinning at her memories. “She used to bring me here for lunch sometimes.” She scanned the pub, raising herself on tiptoes so she could see over some of the heads. “Her favorite spot to sit was at the back, over there.”

  Calan looked in the direction where she was pointing and spied a booth with an actual deacon’s bench. One that looked like it had storage underneath. Fortunately, the booth was vacant. “Let’s go. Do you think we could be lucky enough to find a skin under that bench?”

  “Yeah,” she answered quietly. “That sure would be lucky.”

  He took in the wary, almost rueful darkness in her eyes. Could it be she didn’t want to find the pelt? Could it be Maggie didn’t trust him with the skin now? That had to be a good sign. Perhaps she was starting to believe. He suppressed a grin at the thought. For some reason, the thought of Maggie believing in him made him happy enough to want to clamber up the pub walls and do a jig on the roof.

  Fucking insanity.

  He really wanted Maggie to believe in him. Needed her to become a convert. Despite his every mental protestation, the wee lass had touched him in a way no woman ever had in all his years. And now that he’d tasted her, now that he’d had the honor of savoring her womanly juices on his tongue and feeling them drenching his cock, he could barely think for wanting her so much.

  And not just her body, he was coming to realize. Her heart and soul. He wanted to sit with her for days and find out what sorts of things made her happy, and then make those things happen.

  Angus had once said something like that about Elsie. Had said he’d do anything to bring a smile to her face.

  Is that what love feels like?

  He didn’t know if this was love. In fact, he was fairly sure he wasn’t capable of it. But there was something going on in his heart that he couldn’t explain. Something new. Something exotic and potent.

  No. He wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t allow this thing to go any further. Kyla would be so disappointed. He had to be strong.

  But as they made their way through the pub, Calan noticed the way a couple of half-drunk fishermen eyed Maggie’s bottom. He felt hi
s grown hot in sudden, overwhelming

  rage.

  Love or lust, insanity or reason, whatever it was he was feeling, clearly it was tinged with great jealousy.

  He walked Maggie past the two oglers, his hand firmly around her waist. Nodding to one of them, he snarled, “Olaf Hansen, how’s that wee, pregnant wife of yours doing?”

  When the man noticed the murder in Calan’s eyes, he turned his attention away from Maggie’s behind.

  “What was all that about?” she asked, as Calan led her to the booth in back.

  “Nothing,” he replied, and then forced himself to smile at her. As he sat next to her, he gathered her to him fiercely but bestowed a gentle kiss on her forehead. He lingered there for a moment, his face close to hers, and whispered, “No matter what, as long as you’re with me, I’m the only one who gets to look at your sweet arse like that.”

  She blushed from tip to toe. Good. His jealousy pleased her. He liked that.

  “We should, um, look for the pelt,” she murmured, smiling, her eyes deep blue in the pub light.

  He stood, unable to look away from her. “Lift your bum, before I lift it.”

  Giggling, she stood. He bent over discreetly and raised the lid on the bench. They both peered inside the storage space. There was nothing there but lint, and an empty pint glass that looked as if it had been stowed there months ago. He lowered the lid and Maggie sat down with a smile on her face.

  “Do you know what? I could eat now,” she said sprightly.

  Calan grinned as he sat next to her. She definitely didn’t want to find the skin.

  As they waited for a waitress to approach, they sat quietly, bodies always touching. Calan couldn’t stop looking at her. She was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. The way her eyes lit up when she talked. Her easy smile. The flirty side she tried to keep hidden, but couldn’t. She was bloody perfect. Like most women, she probably had any number of complaints about herself, but she was perfect to him.