Dark Desires - Love That's Out of This World (Xcite Bestselling Collections)

by K D Grace

  After what felt like forever, our orgasms abated and we slumped together. I let go of the cage and wound my arms around Claude’s neck. His head rested on my chest, and my head on top of his, his thick dark hair soft against my skin. I rubbed my face against it playfully as he sighed contentedly into my ample cleavage.

  Nice as it was, the position we were in became uncomfortable, so Claude put me down gently. In the absence of anything comfortable in the room, we sat on our discarded clothes, holding one another. Though the silence was far from awkward, I broke it anyway.

  ‘Well,’ I said, grinning from ear to ear, ‘that was certainly a different use for the cage!’

  Claude chuckled. ‘I guess it was. Now I suppose we should talk about what they’re really for, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, stroking a hand idly up and down his abs, noting that his cock was semi-hard again, ‘we should.’

  I disentangled from our embrace and pushed him flat to the floor, straddling his hips. ‘But there’s plenty of time until sundown. And I know just how we can fill it ...’

  Familiar

  by Sommer Marsden

  My mother was the practising witch of Clara County. Folks came to her for healing and assistance – normal and paranormal. My father was an average guy with no supernatural talents beyond an amazing chicken dish he seemed to make out of thin air and sheer will. His name was Joe and he died of cancer. He died in August. My mother gave into her own heart condition four months later in December. Two days after Christmas, three days before my twenty-fifth birthday.

  On my twenty-fifth birthday my own powers were to take hold. I often asked her why twenty-five, it just seems so old. She told me it only seemed old because I was younger than twenty-five which was too damn young. Then she said ‘Sarah, it’s twenty-five because you’re too stupid to have power before that. And twenty-five is still iffy.’ And then she kissed me on the nose.

  When mum died I inherited enough money to not worry that I’d miss rent or starve, her little yellow Spitfire that had been her prized possession and her familiar, a red cat named Cyrus. And when I say red, I mean it. He’s a red baked brick sort of colour and has eyes that look like uncut emeralds shot with topaz. He won’t eat anything but steak and cheese. He’s an expensive cat.

  So here I sit, on my birthday, waiting for my powers to take hold. Only there’s no one here to help me, I’m pretty much an orphan and I don’t give a good goddamn about my witchy ways. I miss my mother, I miss my father and I am officially alone in the world.

  I could be a country song for all intents and purposes.

  So I do what any smart girl my age does. I drink a bottle of wine and go to bed. Cyrus winds himself around and around me until I feel like the room is spinning and I pin him under my hand. ‘Listen, cat, find a place to settle down or you’re getting the boot.’

  He curls himself into a comma of red fur and starts to purr against my side. I get one sandpaper lick from his tongue and then I’m fast asleep. My body going limp second by second as sleep sucks me under.

  Two hours later I wake in the dark with a jolt. A hand has grasped my ankle and the warmth of a human palm presses to my skin, making me sit up. There’s a flash of green eyes, absinthe coloured eyes that seem to pin me. I’m paralysed, I’m stuck, I’m panicking. And then the paralysis breaks and I hit blindly into the darkness, waving my hands and striking out hoping to hit whatever it is by sheer accident.

  And then Cyrus prances over my lap with his tiny hard paws and my head feels fuzzy and I feel that whatever it was – whoever it was – is gone.

  ‘Fuck,’ I say to the cat and he nuzzles my arm. ‘What was that? Is this what powers are like? If so, I’d like a refund.’

  Cyrus says nothing (duh) and I flop back pushing my hands into my long messy hair. I twirl a thin strand around my finger and then let it go. I do this over and over again – the grown up version of sucking my thumb – until sleep comes back with greedy claws and snatches me down.

  The hands are back not long after but my head is lazy and heavy and I feel like I’m made of warm syrup and sunshine. ‘Whoozat?’

  I hear nothing but what I think is Cyrus purring as the hands, big and warm and strong from the feel of them, part my ankles. The fingers stroke me and my skin pebbles with goose bumps at the soft attention. ‘Hellooooo?’ I sing out because for whatever reason I am very much unafraid.

  A soft tongue follows the firm hands and against my better judgment I sigh with contentment.

  ‘I am dreaming,’ I tell myself. ‘I must be.’

  There is no anxiety this time, only anticipation. Who is this person starring in my dreams? And why do I feel so very alert and so very surreal at the same time? I wiggle a little, the sheets feeling soft and entirely real under the backs of my thighs. The hands that have whispered their way up to my knees also feel truly real. And the lips that press a warm kiss to the inside of my right calf feel like very tactile bits of heaven on my skin.

  ‘It’s a doozy of a dream.’ Somehow, I seem hell bent on talking aloud to myself through this very real waking sort of dream. A sexy one, judging by the way it’s going. ‘And here I am saying something else to myself,’ I say and snicker.

  The laughter rumbles through my belly. I’m feeling very lucid, and yet, I go slack and soft for the ministrations of my unseen dream lover. ‘I haven’t had sex in nine months, one week, three days and umpteen hours,’ I say. ‘But who’s counting?’

  Another kiss lands and it’s above the knee now. A wet stroke of the tongue over tingling flesh and I hold my breath as one of the hands closes around my wrist. I shiver, giving in to the pleasure of his weight, his touch. ‘Aren’t you going to at least say something, dream-person who is making the moves on me?’ I whisper. Another kiss falls on my waiting skin and he’s only an inch or so below the good stuff. Ground zero. The sweet spot where I want so badly at this point for his mouth to be.

  ‘Shhh,’ comes the answer.

  ‘Well that is something. A noise at least,’ I babble. But when his mouth presses to the front of my panties, for I’m sleeping in nothing but panties and an oversized T-shirt, I shut the fuck up.

  I listen for any sound of Cyrus. The thought of my mother’s familiar watching me get it on, even in a dream, is kind of freaky. I don’t hear him and I’d left the door open. Maybe he’s sauntered his red ass out into the living room.

  I wiggle and I shake and when big sturdy hands pin my hips I feel what some might have described, once upon a time, as the vapours. The world seems to move under me and when he hooks his fingers in my panties and tugs, I bite my tongue to sharpen my mind. Dreaming is one thing, this is almost an out-of-body experience.

  I reach out and find a bicep, a forearm, a head full of thick hair. A chest, the indentation of a navel, a hipbone. My hand closes around a cock and my fingers thrill at the contact of hot flesh with mine. ‘This is the best dream ever,’ I say.

  There’s a dark chuckle in the blackness. Not even street light or ambient light from the alarm clock. My room is in utter darkness thanks to a stint on third shift at a convenience store. I’d invested in blinds that would block out the flash from a nuclear detonation. But that is neither here nor there because he’s pressed chest to breast with me and I can feel the steady pounding of his wild dark heart.

  ‘You’re not some robber? You haven’t broken in here to rob me of my … virtue?’ Even I have a hard time pushing the word virtue over my lips. Though I’ve had a long dry spell, virtuous is not an adjective I’d pin to myself.

  I swear I hear him smile. Then he drops me a single word, like a trinket flying from a Mardi Gras float. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  His lips brush mine and his hands tangle in my hair. He tugs just enough for the flash of pain to rocket through me to my heart, my belly, and lower. I arch up and kiss back, wishing so much that the soft lips and warm tongue and tender kisses were real and not a figment of my drunken freshly twenty-five-year-old
mind.

  ‘Please don’t torture me any more. With my luck, you’ll get right to the good part and I’ll wake up.’

  He mumbles something but I can’t hear and I don’t care because he’s flush to me. The smooth steely head of his cock is nudging my wet opening and I hold my breath seeing little flashes of white light in the dark. I’m not getting enough air. I have to breathe. I might go blind, black out, lose it … but funny, I don’t care.

  He grabs hold of my hips and slips into me one solid inch at a time. My body taking in the heated pulse of his cock, his heartbeat seemingly slamming through every bit of him.

  ‘This is my birthday gift to me,’ I tell him. He’s pushed my T-shirt high around my neck and his lips close over my nipple. He follows suit with his teeth. I wrap my legs around him, holding him deep as he thrusts. I’ve heard talk of dream guys, dreamy guys, man of your dreams … I’ve found mine.

  Outside a car door slams, sounding oh so real and oh so improbable in a dream. I touch him – hot skin, thundering heart, stubbled jaw. His lips close over my finger and he sucks it deep. I feel the resounding erotic tug in my tummy, my pussy. My mind reasons that I should stop but when he dips his head, gives me a gentle kiss and then nips my bottom lip just hard enough to trigger the pleasure pain thrill of approaching orgasm, I push my rationale away.

  ‘In for a penny in for a pound.’

  I tug at him, desperate to yank the good feelings in my body closer. To grip my impending climax tight and ride it like some wild thing. But he laughs softly, his breath feathering across my face. ‘Patience is a virtue, Sarah.’

  He licks the tip of my nose and though I think it strange, he’s rocking his hips in a back and forth motion that’s touching off every single needy swollen nerve deep inside of me. I touch his face, stroke his hair, hold him close and at that last moment, he pushes my arms high above my head and holds me there – pins me to my own pillow. He pounds into me, thrusting hard, breathing fast, I catch a flash of absinthe green in the dark, my eyes are half closed, and dream dude dips his head and bites my shoulder just enough. The perfect, spectacular amount I need.

  I’m coming, spiralling down into the rich wave of pleasure, fighting his hands just so I can hold him, touch him. But he traps me fast and his sounds are harsh and loud as he comes right behind me.

  I wait to wake up. I wait for him to go poof. And I wait …

  His head is resting on my shoulder, his hands travelling along my sides, his heartbeat a steady thing trapped between my chest and his. ‘Happy birthday, dear Sarah.’

  I let out what feels like it will be a horrid horror movie screech but instead sounds like a wheeze or a tyre deflating. ‘Oh my God. Geddoffmegedoffmegedoffme.’ I rear back and shuffle scootch backwards on my ass. I flip the light on.

  I get a fast flash of a huge hunky man with nice abs and jet black hair. Flashing green eyes and a slow curling smile. And then … Cyrus!

  ‘Oh my god, this is illegal in all states!’

  He gives me a slow even blink and stares pointedly (for a cat) at the light. I turn it off.

  ‘Now listen to me and do not panic.’

  ‘Cyrus!’

  ‘Sarah I …’

  ‘Oh my God. I’ve had you forever. Not known. Had. You’ve been in my house. You were my mother’s pet!’ I know this is wrong but I say it anyhow.

  ‘We grew up together, in a way. And a familiar is not a pet …’

  ‘I know, I know!’ I hiss. ‘Is this because of my birthday?’

  ‘Yes and I…’

  I flip the light back on.

  ‘… meow,’ he finishes.

  Meow? Shit!

  I flip the light off.

  ‘Stop doing that.’

  ‘Am I drunk?’

  ‘No. This is part of your powers,’ he says. I feel his strong hand on my ankle, patting me. Patting the crazy lady.

  I flip the light on. A paw is where the hand should be.

  I flip the light off. ‘I have the power of hallucination and insanity?’ I ask him, my words thin and high like I’m full of Helium.

  ‘No. You can perceive the true nature of anything. Even a shifter like me.’

  ‘But I thought you were a familiar.’

  ‘I am. But a shifter by design. I chose to help your mother.’

  I humph. ‘Well, what do I do with it? In the dark you’re all yummy and manly. In the light you are … A Cat.’ I growl at him. I’m getting sort of pissed.

  ‘Focus,’ Cyrus says and he plays one big manly (in the dark) finger over my ankle bone. The shiver works from foot to knee to ankle, to girly bits and I hold my breath. I focus on the image of him as a man. The naked, firm, perfect image of him as a manly, studly just-rocked-my-world guy and then I flip the light on.

  There he is. Solid and ripply and smiling. Black-black hair across his forehead, his brilliant green eyes looking into my soul it seems. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m your family. In a way. But I also …’ He dips his head, looking shy and annoyed with himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you,’ he says to my ankle.

  ‘Me!’ I snort it out and then feel bad. And very unladylike.

  ‘I have forever.’

  ‘Did my mother know?’ I ask, feeling shocked and a bit off balance. He’s a cat. Or a man who can be a cat. He is a cat-man and he loves me. Something in my belly warms, something in my chest follows suit.

  ‘Yes. She told me that I couldn’t tell you until …’

  I lose my focus and when I shake my head to clear the cobwebs he says, meow because he’s a fucking cat again.

  ‘Damn. Hold on.’ I go through the whole thing again until he’s a man. ‘Until what?’

  ‘Until you could give consent. Understand, which meant you had to perceive me on your own. For when you could maybe love me back and consider being my mate.’ His fingers close around my calf; I recall the fireball of an orgasm.

  ‘Did I give consent?’

  ‘All the oh gods sort of did it.’

  ‘I need time.’

  ‘And you have it.’

  ‘Will you help me? With my witchy-ness?’

  ‘It’s why I stayed. I was never beholden. I was free to leave whenever.’

  ‘I’m not alone,’ I say to him as if he doesn’t know.

  He touches my hair and kisses me softly. ‘Nope.’

  ‘But my someone is a cat,’ I sigh.

  ‘About that human thing, I can be human whenever I want. You needed to learn to control your perception for when it’s not a shifter you’re dealing with. That was a test to see if you could hold me in human form. I don’t need you to keep me that way. But you, Sarah, can see the inner workings of any soul. That is a gift. A big one.’

  ‘Are there more? Powers, I mean.’

  ‘There are more. Reading intent. Conjuring. Conversing with elementals …’ He smiles.

  ‘I’m scared.’ And I am. Saying it aloud to someone other than myself is nice. He kisses me, nods, doesn’t say anything but his fingers stroke soft circles on my skin until I feel looser and soft and then I kiss him.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say and laugh.

  ‘Cyrus will do.’

  ‘Your hair isn’t red.’

  ‘I chose that colour.’

  ‘Dear goodness, why?’ I take him in hand. Feel his body respond to mine.

  ‘Your mother liked it. She said it matched the kitchen colour scheme.’

  I laugh but feel a blip of sadness. ‘That sounds like Mum. She was super skilled. She was talented and humble and loving. I’ll never be great like her,’ I say. ‘I feel so inept.’

  ‘You’re great too, Sarah,’ he says. ‘You just need a little help.’

  ‘You’ll help me, you’ll help me,’ I chant and his lips are warm on mine. ‘But after we do this again,’ I say and guide him to me. I wrap my arms to his neck, hold him close, feel him slide deep and move in small rocking motions that make me hopeful and somehow brave. />
  I have someone. Someone who loves me. I’m not alone.

  ‘You’re not alone,’ Cyrus says, reading my thoughts somehow.

  ‘Did you just …’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll talk later. We have a long time to figure it all out.’

  ‘Right.’ I tip my body up to take him in. I ride the warm waves of pleasure until I can’t stand it any more and I come.

  Cyrus says in my ear, ‘Happy birthday, Sarah.’

  I smile.

  Then … meow

  I freeze. Horrified.

  ‘Just kidding,’ Cyrus laughs and then he’s groaning out his own release, holding me tight.

  ‘So I guess this job comes with a built in familiar?’

  ‘Only if you want him.’

  ‘One request?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Black hair? It is fierce.’

  ‘Done and done,’ Cyrus says.

  I wind myself around him, letting my heartbeat synch up with his. ‘And a hot pink leopard collar with a bell,’ I say, grinning, waiting.

  ‘Don’t press your luck,’ Cyrus says.

  When he gathers me in hugs me, I’m grateful for my powers. I’m grateful for a guide in this process. I’m grateful to be twenty-five and I’m grateful to have a legacy to carry on.

  ‘That’s good,’ he says.

  ‘You can totally read my mind, can’t you?’

  ‘Maybe just a little.’

  Séance

  by Mary Borsellino

  We found the planchette first: an elongated triangle of dark wood, almost a heart. A little smaller than my palm and lacquered shiny and smooth from years of touches. It was tied on to the same piece of fraying string as the keys to the old woodshed, having been mistaken for some kind of nondescript ornament.

  ‘It’s a planchette,’ Louisa explained to me, recognising it for what it really was. ‘That’s French for “little plank”.’

  Her own set of keys – for the rental car, and the front door of the main house, and our own flat back home in the world beyond a fortnight’s holiday among mist-wreathed country fields – was attached to a pocket knife. She sliced the rotting string apart easily.