Casual Hex

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Still looking, my love,” Ambrose called from the underbrush.

  “What’s wrong with a friendly game?” Leo asked.

  Dorcas eyed his stack of chips and the considerable mound of gold pieces on a stump behind him. “The raccoons have been taking advantage of George’s social nature to steal him blind.”

  “I resent that!” George bellowed. “I win my share of hands, I’ll have you know.” He blew out a puff of smoke.

  “You can’t think I’m here for treasure,” Leo said. “Atwood is one of the wealthiest fairy kingdoms in existence.”

  “Ah, but you’re not in charge of that kingdom yet, are you?” Dorcas decided to try and needle the truth out of him.

  “I will be.” Leo remained unruffled.

  Or maybe he was just smashed. If he’d stolen the beer, that could cause some problems in a crime-free town like Big Knob. Dorcas glanced over her shoulder. “How are you coming along back there, Ambrose, my love?”

  “Still searching,” he called back.

  With a sigh, Dorcas turned back to Leo, who regarded her with a supercilious grin. “If your purpose here is benign, then you shouldn’t mind telling me what it is.”

  “It’s personal. Very personal.”

  “Does it involve anyone in town, magical or otherwise?”

  “Could be.” Leo crunched the beer can in his fist.

  She decided to try a veiled threat. “The Wizard Council won’t be happy that you’re camped out in the Whispering Forest, corrupting the dragon we’re working with.”

  “They may not be happy, but they don’t have a right to keep me out. They don’t have jurisdiction over fairies, and you know it.”

  “But the Wizard Council and the Fairy Council have been working in harmony for years. I’d hate for anything to change that.”

  Leo smiled. “You’re shadowboxing, Dorcas. You know as well as I do that the Wizard Council won’t take on the Fairy Council over a pain-in-the-ass dragon living in a strategically unimportant forest.”

  “Hey!” George stopped dancing and stepped toward Leo. “You take that back!”

  “Which part?” Leo looked unconcerned.

  “Both parts, buddy boy. I have fire, and I know how to use it.” Swishing his tail, he took another step toward the poker table.

  Leo glanced up at the twelve-foot dragon and apparently reconsidered his stance. He held up both hands. “Didn’t mean to insult you, dog. I just think if you want poker games, you should have poker games. I don’t know why you let a witch and wizard tell you what to do.”

  “They don’t tell me what to do.” George slid a glance at Dorcas. “Exactly. They’re helping me get my golden scales.”

  Leo gazed at the cases of beer as if debating whether to open another one. “And what’s so great about golden scales?”

  “Nothing,” Dorcas said, fuming, “unless by chance you want to make a contribution to the world instead of using it as your own personal playground. But you wouldn’t understand that concept, Leo, so I’m wasting my breath. Ambrose, have you found it yet?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Then let’s blow this taco stand.”

  George blinked. “Hey, dudette, I’ve never heard you talk like that.”

  “That’s because I’ve never been this frustrated before.” Dorcas stomped through the snow and retrieved her broom.

  “Wait a minute,” Leo said. “You can’t leave without removing the corpus status quo spell.”

  “Let it wear off.” Dorcas straddled the broom and glared at Leo. “I’m keeping an eye on you. And we will find the other half of Ambrose’s staff. When that happens, look out.” Mounting the broom, she motioned for Ambrose to climb on behind her.

  With a vigorous kick, she sent the broom skyward.

  “That didn’t go well,” Ambrose said.

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “I’ll take a guess that you aren’t in the mood for a little warm-up session in the marital bed.”

  “You would be guessing right, Ambrose.”

  The jury was in, and Gwen could say without reservation that a flesh-and-blood lover was far superior to a fantasy man. For one thing, she was awake for the festivities. When Marc had draped her thighs in his silk shirt, the party had proceeded in a most gratifying fashion. He’d given her two more amazing orgasms.

  For another thing, he was really into cuddling, something her dream lover hadn’t bothered with. Cuddling with him now that he’d taken off his shirt was very satisfying.

  “For a professor, you sure have a lot of muscles.” She stroked his chest, loving the masculine feel of the hair sprinkled across his pecs.

  “I must keep in shape for the research trips.”

  “Those trips sound dangerous.” She brushed her fingers over the nipples hidden beneath the hair and felt them tighten.

  “Oui, they can be formidable, but I enjoy challenging myself out in the field.” He sucked in a breath. “Cherie, maybe you should not do that.”

  She stopped teasing his nipples. “You don’t like it?”

  “I like it too much.”

  As she allowed her gaze to travel below his belt, she could see that. He’d been so good to her. Wasn’t a little reciprocity in order?

  Besides, she was curious about what lay in burgeoning splendor beneath the fly of his jeans. Unless he’d stuffed a sock in his underwear, which she seriously doubted, he had much to offer in that department. She wanted to take the mystery out of it.

  Of course, being somewhat inexperienced at these things, she wasn’t sure how a woman went about suggesting what she had in mind. His use of language had been so exciting, especially delivered with that dreamy accent. He’d made it sound as if he loved her American accent, but she couldn’t imagine that her delivery would be as effective as his.

  Neither could she imagine herself saying the words without stammering. The phrasing equivalent to what he’d said to her would be I want to take you with my mouth and make you come. Could she speak that sentence without messing up? Probably not.

  Yet she couldn’t lie there and let him suffer. After all, he was a guest in her house. She hadn’t been able to feed him dinner, so at least she should offer him a blow job. But she wouldn’t be able to use those words, either.

  Maybe she could be subtle. Slowly she walked her fingers down to his belt buckle.

  “Gwen? What are you doing?”

  She started working on the buckle. “I was thinking that in the interest of hospitality . . .” She left the rest unsaid. He was a smart man. He’d figure it out.

  “Hospitality?” Laughter edged his question. “Would it be something you feel obliged to do?”

  She got the belt unfastened. “I prefer to think of it as a cultural exchange.” She glanced up at him. “Interested?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Great.” She returned her attention to his belt. “Then let me—”

  “I will.” He caught her hand. “Believe me, I will. In the shower.”

  “Uh, I have a hand-held and a claw-foot tub, and that’s the story in both bathrooms. You’re probably used to a regular shower.”

  He cupped her face in his hand and guided her close for a tantalizingly brief kiss. “I am used to a hand-held and a claw-foot tub. I am from France, remember?”

  As if she’d ever forget. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “I agree.”

  Chapter 10

  Leo couldn’t coax the raccoons back to the poker table, and George seemed to have lost interest, as well. This gig had rapidly gone downhill in the past few hours. The night before he’d had it all—the girl, the beer and the poker game.

  Tonight, however, he’d almost kissed a man, although he was doing his best to block that memory. The only positive spin he could put on the incident was remembering that the Frenchman had been alone in the bed. Gwen must have been sleeping down the hall.

  But the Frenchman wasn’t suppo
sed to be in residence at all. Apparently the damned snowstorm had stranded the guy, so Gwen had given up her soft bed to the stranger. That fact made Leo’s jaw clench. He didn’t like the idea of anyone besides him enjoying those smooth sheets and that fluffy mattress.

  On top of that irritation, he’d had to deal with the witch and wizard. He wasn’t in the mood to miniaturize himself, but it grated that he couldn’t until the witch’s spell wore off. He shouldn’t have let her get the drop on him, but he had to admit the beer had slowed him down some.

  He still had the cases of beer, but he wasn’t a fairy who liked to drink alone. And the witch and wizard had put a serious crimp in his poker plans. Maybe the raccoons would come back eventually, and maybe they wouldn’t. That broom dive had been enough to scare the fur off those little bandits.

  He should probably bag this program, take the gold he’d won so far, claim success with Gwendolyn and go back to Atwood. He could say that Gwendolyn now had a man in her bed, which was true. His mother, refreshed after her vacation jaunt, might buy it. Spring was a good time for a coronation.

  So why not do that? Because he wasn’t ready to stop having sex with Gwendolyn, that’s why. He’d missed out tonight, and he was feeling cranky about it.

  She’d become an enjoyable habit he’d like to continue a while longer. He could give her up any time, of course, but why should he deny himself when she was possibly the most responsive partner, magical or otherwise, he’d ever had?

  The answer was simple. He would give her up when he was good and ready, and not one minute before.

  The bathroom off the master bedroom was tiny, which made Marc feel right at home. He had always thought he would get lost in the gigantic bathrooms he had heard were commonplace in American homes these days. Besides, the lack of space meant he had to stay very close to Gwen, and he liked that very much.

  She stepped over to the claw-foot tub with its curved shower curtain rod and shower head mounted on a gliding pole. He noted with satisfaction that the bathroom might be small, but the tub was built for two. He approved.

  “It might take a minute for the hot water.” She leaned down to turn on the faucet.

  Meanwhile, Marc admired the way the silk nightgown draped her sexy bottom when she reached for the faucet. His penis twitched. If he had condoms, he could bend her over the pedestal sink and . . . but he had no condoms. Or a razor, which was another impediment he was unaccustomed to.

  “Do you have a razor I may borrow?”

  She turned. “The kind I use for my legs.”

  “I am not particular.” He rubbed a hand over his scratchy chin. “My beard grows very fast, and I . . . I want to kiss you properly.”

  Smiling, she opened a hand-painted cupboard hanging on the wall above the toilet. “I’d rather you kissed me improperly.”

  He sucked in a breath as her breasts jiggled under the pale green silk and the pendant shifted, then settled back into her cleavage. She was driving him crazy with unsatisfied desire. He wondered if she had any idea the iron control he was exercising to keep himself from taking her, and damn the consequences.

  “You do not have any condoms somewhere in the back of that cabinet, do you?” He doubted it, but no harm in asking.

  She handed him a pink razor and a small can of shaving cream with flowers on it. “Believe me, I wish I did.”

  “Are you taking birth control?” He was becoming a desperate man. He knew he had no health issues, and he doubted she did, so if she was on the pill . . .

  “No.” She blushed. “I haven’t—um, well, there’s been no reason for a while.”

  “I did not mean to pry,” he said quickly. “I just—”

  “I know.” She glanced down at his trousers where the bulge was obvious. She lifted her gaze. “Me, too.”

  He groaned softly.

  They were so engrossed in each other that they might have stood there until one of them spontaneously combusted. The steam swirling around seemed appropriate, considering the heat in her eyes and the fire raging in his veins.

  But when he could barely see her through the fog, he decided maybe they should do something about the situation. “I believe the water is hot now.”

  “Oh!” She spun back to the tub. “Are you ready for the shower, or would you rather shave first?”

  “Fill the tub. A bath will do, as well, and I will shave while you run the water.”

  “That works.” She had to lean way over to retrieve the rubber plug sitting on a little shelf mounted next to the tub.

  God help him, he ogled. There was no other word for the way he concentrated on the hem of her nightgown and watched it rise higher as she reached down to insert the plug in the drain. Dear God. Another inch and he would be able to see . . . everything.

  She straightened slightly while she adjusted the flow of water and tested it with her hand. The view was not quite as agonizingly wonderful, but heart stopping just the same. He imagined lifting the silk and caressing her smooth butt cheeks before he sought the moist spot that was barely out of sight. He trembled at the thought.

  But if he gave her another climax now, he would not shave, or if he tried shaving, he would cut his throat. He wanted to shave, wanted to be able to use his mouth on her without worrying about harming her skin. With a supreme effort, he turned toward the sink.

  The mirror above it was fogged. A man with a cleft in his chin needed to be able to see. Taking a hand towel from a nearby rack, he wiped a clear space in the mirror. Then he squirted some of the floral cream on his hand, smoothed it over his face and began to shave.

  The razor was curved in a way that caused him some difficulties, frustrating his attempt to make quick work of the job. He felt her watching him and suspected she was perched on the closed toilet lid, waiting.

  He decided against glancing over to confirm the fact. Looking at her and visualizing what might happen soon with that sweet mouth of hers only made the delay worse. He could hear her soft breathing and even catch her scent, despite the flowery shaving cream overwhelming his sense of smell. But he was not going to look at her.

  Finally he reached the tricky part, shaving around the damned dimple. Women might like it, but it was a royal pain in the ass every time he took a blade to it.

  “What brand of condom do you like?”

  Zip! He cut himself. He swore softly in French.

  “Marc, you’re bleeding!”

  Yes, he was, and no styptic pencil to stop the flow. How romantic he would look with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his chin. He splashed cold water on the nick and willed the blood to stay inside his body. As if that would work.

  “Let me help.”

  He turned to her with blood dripping down his chin. What a suave Frenchman he was.

  Holding a tissue in one hand, she grasped him by the back of the head. “Lean closer.”

  “I feel like a fool.” He stooped so that she could reach him better.

  “I’m sure it’s hard to shave there.” She stood on tiptoe and got within two inches of his face as she dabbed at the cut.

  “You cannot imagine.” He was close enough to study her full mouth, and the longer he did, the more he ached to kiss her again.

  She dabbed some more and squinted at the cut. “There. It’s stopped now.”

  “I think you really do need those glasses.”

  “For small things, yes.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “So I doubt I’ll need them in the tub.”

  His bark of surprised laughter was followed by an intense desire to finally kiss that saucy mouth in the fashion it deserved. “This is what you get for taunting me.” Without preamble he grabbed her and planted his lips firmly over hers. Nothing else mattered but her mouth and his insatiable hunger.

  He delved deep, wild with excitement at finally being able to fully enjoy the experience again. Ah, this was good. She had lips made for kisses—his kisses. He could not get enough of her.

  He was vaguely aware that she was fumbling with t
he fastening of his pants, but he became fully aware when she reached inside his silk boxers. He groaned and lifted his mouth a fraction away from hers. “Be careful.”

  “Your skin is hot,” she murmured as she wrapped her fingers around his cock.

  “Quelle surprise.” He outlined her lips with his tongue as his heart galloped frantically in response to her touch. “If you continue, my skin will also be wet.”

  “Ready for your bath?” She squeezed gently.

  His vocal cords were tight from the effort of holding back. “I thought you would never ask.”

  She withdrew her hand and efficiently shoved his boxers and slacks to the floor in a show of eagerness. He liked that in a woman. As he stepped out of the puddle of clothes, she stood aside and made a slow survey of his attributes.

  He was used to being naked in front of a lover, but he had never worried overmuch about their opinion of his body. Gwen’s opinion mattered. “Am I acceptable?”

  Her brown eyes flared with desire. “I’m surprised the women of France let you out of the country. You must be a national treasure.”

  He flushed, ridiculously pleased with the compliment. “I think not.” He gazed at her. “And now it is your turn.”

  She started to take off the pendant.

  “Please leave that on.”

  Hesitating, she closed her fingers over the smooth stone.

  “The water will not hurt it,” he said. “The chain is gold.”

  She still seemed uncertain. “But I’ve never worn a necklace into the bathtub. And it doesn’t belong to me.”

  “You said Madame Lowell loaned it to you.”

  “Yes, and she insisted I wear it today. Or yesterday, considering it’s two in the morning.”

  Marc wondered if Madame Lowell would sell the pendant, because he wanted to buy it for Gwen. “It is perfect for you, cherie. When I see the stone resting in the valley between your breasts, I envy it. I want to be that stone.”

  “What a beautiful thing to say.”

  “Please leave it on,” he said softly. “There is nothing sexier than a woman wearing a necklace and nothing else.”

  She gazed at him for several long seconds. Slowly the fire intensified in her brown eyes. Her back arched slightly and her breasts lifted, as if in deliberate invitation.