“Sheesh, it’s one little bolt of lightning,” George said. “A few megawatts. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m not doing lightning.”
“Then how about this?” George scooped up a boulder the size of a grocery cart and dropped it on the plant, spraying them all with snow.
Ambrose wiped the snow from his face. “Can’t see the plant anymore. I’ll give you that.”
Dorcas decided they’d fooled with this problem enough. “Okay. We’ll tell Gwen a deer ate one of them. But you’ll have to do something about your dragon prints all over the place, George.”
“Love to.” George swished his tail, almost knocking Ambrose to the ground. “Happy now? And don’t forget to power me up.” He held out his iPod. “Do it to it, dudette.”
Dorcas pierced him with her most intimidating stare. “George, I need to know once and for all. Are you playing poker with the raccoons?”
“For the millionth, trillionth time, no, negative, not on your life.”
“We’ve found evidence of games going on,” Ambrose said. “And they only play when they think they can win something from a nonraccoon, which would be you.”
“It’s not me.”
“But who else . . .” Ambrose groaned. “I hope Isadora’s not back in town. That witch is a pain in the tuckus.”
“She’s not back,” Dorcas said. “I’m sure I’d know.” She studied George and had to admit his righteous indignation rang true. “All right, let’s not worry about this any more tonight. Give me the iPod and I’ll charge it up for you.”
The charging took less than five minutes. Then she placed a warming spell on the remaining four plants, said good-bye to George and started back down the path with Ambrose following right behind.
“Something’s going on,” Ambrose said as soon as they were out of George’s hearing.
“Yes, I know. But I don’t think George is the one responsible this time.”
“The raccoons don’t play poker for the hell of it, only if they see some potential gain.”
“I know that, too.” Dorcas thought about the bird she’d been unable to see, even though she’d caught a glimpse of something flying and heard the flutter of wings. “We need to make another trip out here at midnight, and this time we’ll take the broom.”
“It’ll be colder than a pair of frozen testicles tonight.”
“I don’t look forward to it any more than you do, but I think there’s another magical creature living in the forest.”
Although Gwen worried that she didn’t look glamorous or sophisticated enough for Marc, she had no doubt he’d love her little house. Her father had come to this country at the age of six, carrying fond memories of the French countryside. After settling in Big Knob with Gwen’s mother, Rachel, he’d re-created the cottage where he’d been born. He’d told Gwen so many stories of living there that she’d developed a passion for anything French.
Now that the house belonged to her, she’d lovingly preserved the atmosphere. Fragrant bouquets of herbs and flowers from the greenhouse dangled upside down from rough-hewn beams. Textured walls and sturdy furniture contributed to the look, as did copper-bottomed pots hanging in the kitchen. Although the appliances were thoroughly modern, the kitchen gave the impression of rustic living, complete with handmade pottery stacked on open shelves.
But the bedroom was Gwen’s favorite room in the house. A four-poster she’d inherited from her parents was made up with high-thread-count sheets that she’d aged with tea, softened with many launderings, and hand-embroidered to look like heirloom linens. She’d added a feather bed topper to the mattress and mounds of goose-down pillows. She loved going to bed every night and had always slept soundly.
Until this week. These days she put on her nightgown and slipped between the sheets with a combination of anticipation and anxiety. With Marc showing up tomorrow night, she intended to pay close attention to what happened and try to analyze exactly what was triggering her erotic dreams.
She used the word dreams, and yet they seemed so much stronger than that. Hallucinations was more like it. And she had orgasms. Dear God, did she have orgasms—two, three, and one night a grand total of four.
Although her phantom lover had a specific face and body build, he didn’t look like anyone she remembered meeting. He wasn’t a stand-in for any of the movie stars she liked, either. He might vaguely resemble Brad Pitt, but Gwen had never been a huge Brad Pitt fan.
Colin Firth was more her type. She’d watched Pride and Prejudice more times than she cared to admit. Logically she should have created a fantasy with Colin Firth in the starring role.
Her blond dream guy had a swimmer’s build—lean hips and broad shoulders. His smile could turn from angelic to deliciously wicked in a second. He also insisted on calling her by her full name, Gwendolyn, and every time he said it, she trembled with lust.
During the dream she would swear he was really there in her bed, but each time she woke in the middle of the night, her sheets soaked with sweat and her own orgasmic juices, she was alone. She’d gone so far as to get up and check all the locks, but they’d been secure.
Tonight would be different, she vowed. Tonight she’d stay in control. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to sink deep into the feather bed. A plump pillow cradled her head and the soft sheets slid over her ivory silk nightgown.
Although she didn’t count on becoming sexually involved with Marc, especially during this first visit, she hadn’t ruled that out, either. She’d owned the silk nightgowns for years in anticipation of someday having a torrid love affair. Torrid love affairs did exist in Big Knob, but she hadn’t been lucky enough to participate in one.
A torrid love affair with a Frenchman would be far more than she’d ever hoped for. She wanted to be prepared. She wanted Marc to think she wore silk every night, and that she had more sexual experience than her one youthful affair during her college days.
Holding the thought of Marc firmly in her mind, she drifted toward sleep.
Her dream came swiftly as her blond lover appeared at her bedside, dressed as a pirate. Tight breeches showed off his considerable package, and a loose white shirt hung open to his waist, revealing his powerful chest. Miraculously, his blond hair was longer tonight, more in keeping with the costume he wore. His tricornered hat sported a feather and was decorated with the traditional skull-and-crossbones insignia.
Gwen’s blood heated, as it always did when her dream lover appeared. But she didn’t want to want him. She should leave her heart and mind open to the possibility of Marc.
The briny scent of the sea wafted through the room as the man tossed his hat on the bedpost and leaned over her. “Gwendolyn, may I make love to you?”
She tried to resist the lure of him, but he was so sexy, so confident. In the end, she lost the battle with herself. “Yes,” she murmured.
Chapter 3
Prince Leo hadn’t expected to enjoy himself so much, but he could get used to having sex with Gwendolyn every night. She was one hot chick. Or at least she was once she took off her dowdy clothes and ugly glasses. The silk nightgowns were a nice touch, too. He always left them on, bunching them up around her neck during their hot sessions, then pulling them back down before he left her bed.
He’d arrived in Big Knob a week ago, transporting himself by the normal fairy method. He’d simply stood outside the castle at Atwood and imagined himself in the Whispering Forest. The whole process had taken about five seconds. In times like these, when he heard humans complaining about the hassles of plane travel, he was grateful that he had an alternative method for getting around.
Although he disliked minimizing himself, he’d done it when he first arrived in order to flit around and scope out the situation. Being small and airborne had worked for every situation except when that witch and wizard were around. He needed to keep track of them and their scheme to bring some damned Frenchman to town for Gwen. She didn’t need a Frenchman when she had him.
; He’d been eavesdropping on the Lowells this afternoon and had almost been spotted. Good thing he could maneuver like a stunt pilot. The witch, Dorcas, might have thought she’d seen something, but he’d flown away before she could be sure.
He’d decided early on that invading Gwendolyn’s dreams would be the way to conduct this campaign, and after a week he was positive he’d made the right decision. At night her defenses were down, and besides, she had that awesome bed.
He’d perfected dream sex years ago and was proud of his skill. Too bad it wasn’t something he could mention to his mother, so she’d know he wasn’t a complete slacker. But he and his mother didn’t discuss sex.
He’d mastered slipping into a woman’s dream dressed as one of her fantasies. If she was especially responsive, and Gwendolyn certainly qualified, then he could give her several orgasms before inevitably one would be so powerful it would wake her up.
Leo was an expert at knowing when that would happen, and his own climax was exquisitely timed to match her last one. To that technique he’d added another, this one even more difficult and exceedingly valuable.
At sixteen, upon discovering a trap door into a dusty, long-forgotten chamber deep within the castle, he’d come across a trunk containing old books. His father’s name had been inscribed inside the cover of Sexual Secrets for Fairies, so naturally he’d started to read. On page ten, he’d hit gold.
The ancient fairy trick had required hours of solo practice, but as a hormonal teenager, he hadn’t minded at all. When the practice had ended, he’d learned to vaporize his semen. From his first sexual encounter to these nights with Gwendolyn, his partners had been left with nothing but memories.
This ability had served him well over the years, primarily as birth control. But it had also made him quite popular with the ladies. He was free to reveal his secret to the magical ones, who claimed the puff of air greatly enhanced their orgasmic experience.
Nonmagical women couldn’t be told about his powers, of course, so they credited him with amazing self-control. As for oral sex, magical women were more than willing to indulge him since all they had to swallow was a little air. He’d had to forgo the experience with the nonmagical ladies, however. They just wouldn’t understand.
He was so proud of this feat that he’d considered offering classes to other male fairies. Two things kept him from doing it. If he taught others, then he would cease to be special. And then there was his mother. Somehow he couldn’t see her being thrilled with such classes, even though they’d perform a charitable service far greater than anything she’d dreamed up so far.
Still, instead of constantly criticizing him for being such a party animal, she might take the time to notice that he’d created no unwanted pregnancies, no little bundles of peasant joy to embarrass the throne. He had one small concern. He’d been vaporizing for so many years that he wasn’t sure if he could reverse the process. A fairy prince would be expected to produce an heir.
Plenty of time to worry about that, though. At the moment he had the luxury of concentrating on the voluptuous Gwendolyn, who was responding to his initial caresses with her usual abandon. She’d begun to moan and beg him to take off his clothes. She believed in his pirate disguise and he was glad he’d taken the time to use a sea-scented cologne to make the experience more vivid.
So much for that Marc character. Leo wasn’t about to let some guy from Paris horn in now that the program was going so well. He’d bet his retractable wings that another week of good sex would transform Gwendolyn into a babe on the outside, too. She’d have her confidence; he’d have his crown. It was all good.
And this . . . this was very good. He had an erection the size of the Space Needle. He climbed from the bed so he could shuck his breeches and shirt faster.
Then he was back in that cozy bed with a woman who was already halfway to her first orgasm. Tonight he was tired of bunching the nightgown at her neck. He wanted her completely naked.
“Lift your arms,” he said softly.
She obeyed, and he slipped the nightgown over her head. He’d put it back on later when she was limp with satisfaction. “You’re incredible,” he murmured in her ear as he reached between her thighs and slid his fingers inside her wet vagina.
Her question came in a breathless rush. “Who are you?”
“A friend.” And this is what friends are for.
“I need to know.” She writhed against the sheets and gasped as he brought her to the brink. “Please.”
“This is all you need to know.” And he sent her over the edge. “Am I right?”
“Yes!” She arched in his arms, lifting her glorious breasts.
He feasted on them as he withdrew his hand and moved over her. She was still skimming the waves following her first climax, and more than ready for another. Relinquishing the pleasure of her breasts, he entered her quickly and pumped fast, taking her up to the heights again.
“Come for me, you sassy wench.”
She did, making the bedroom ring with her cries.
As the spasms rolled over his aching penis, he gritted his teeth to keep his own orgasm in check. He prided himself on being able to climax on cue, and not a moment before. But when he was buried deep in this woman, he had trouble holding back.
With a groan of surrender, he came. He would have loved to stay and enjoy the aftereffects of his climax, but that would be idiocy. If she woke up and realized he was a little more real than she’d thought, she’d probably start screaming and pop him in the nose.
No, he had to leave, no matter how much he was enjoying this soft bed, and return to his less well-appointed cave in the forest. Grabbing his pants, shirt and pirate hat, he slipped out of her dream a split second before she woke up panting and slick with moisture. He’d go scare up those raccoons and play poker for the rest of the night. He felt a winning streak coming on.
As always, Gwen sat up with a jolt, her body trembling from her recent orgasm. Cool air hit her bare breasts, and she realized she was naked. Had she peeled off her nightgown in her sleep?
Still flushed, she leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp. Her nightgown lay on the bed beside her in a crumpled ivory heap. The covers were in a jumbled mess, and she felt terrific, but a little worried, too.
The blond guy had shown up again, despite her best efforts. Her subconscious must have dredged him up from somewhere, some chance meeting that she’d forgotten. Now she was fantasizing about him in her dreams, and apparently . . . this was the part that made her blush . . . pleasuring herself in her sleep.
She hadn’t known such a thing was possible. Wouldn’t it take more coordination than a sleeping person possessed? Or maybe it was like sleepwalking, only this was sleep-masturbating, complete with ripping off her nightgown and giving herself several orgasms.
She hoped such a thing wouldn’t happen when she was with a real man, like, for instance, Marc. Dear God, she’d die of humiliation if someone caught her doing this. Maybe she’d have to see a shrink, after all.
What a time to have a potential boyfriend coming to town. At least he was French, and they were supposed to be more open-minded. Still, she couldn’t imagine how any man would react if he witnessed something like that.
She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. The air smelled of the sea. The sea? She was hundreds of miles from the sea. Was she truly going nuts, or was someone sneaking into her house wearing sea-scented cologne?
Scrambling from the bed, she took time to pull on her nightgown before making a thorough search of the house. The locks were secure, but they always were. She checked every closet, behind the sofa, behind the drapes, in the shower, behind every door, and under the bed.
The cottage was empty.
Slowly she returned to the bedroom and took another sniff. The scent was fainter, but still there. She’d been to the ocean once with her parents, and this was exactly how it had smelled. Nothing in her house would account for that aroma, either.
But how coul
d anyone slip into her bedroom without her knowing, have wild sex with her, and then disappear? She tried to remember if anyone had a key. She’d had no reason to give one out. Her parents had the only other key, and they were careful about such things. They would never allow a copy to be made.
Locks could be picked, of course, and she supposed these were old enough to make that easy for a professional. Still, anyone picking her locks would have to have amazing skill to get in without her knowing, night after night, and leave with the same stealth. And for what reason? To have great sex with her?
The hairs prickled on the back of her neck. She’d told no one about these dreams because she’d considered them a figment of her imagination. But her imagination had never produced something as realistic as the fresh sea air.
She tried to see herself reporting this to Bob Anglethorpe. Bob was middle-aged, married, and on the conservative side. Gwen pictured walking into the police station with her complaint.
Hi, Bob. I’d like to report a case of breaking and entering. Actually, they didn’t break anything, but they sure did enter, giving me multiple orgasms in the process. This last time, after they left, I could swear I smelled ocean air.
No, she couldn’t make that report. The only person she could imagine confiding in was currently on assignment in Scotland. Her best friend, Annie, was writing a scientific series on mythical creatures and was currently investigating supposed sightings of the Loch Ness Monster.
Annie would listen to Gwen and not judge or think she was crazy, but her friend wasn’t here. That meant only one option remained—to hope that once Marc arrived, these nightly episodes would end.
Gwen glanced at the clock and discovered it was midnight. Automatically she calculated the time difference between Big Knob and Paris, something she’d been doing ever since making contact with Marc. In a few short hours, Marc would board a plane for Chicago.
He’d arranged to rent a car after he landed, so he could drive down to Big Knob. Gwen had been nervous about meeting him, but after this incident with sea air, she welcomed his visit. She had no idea what would happen, except that having Marc show up would change things.
Casual Hex Page 3