Witches of Three_Philomena

by Temple Hogan

  Hell, he didn’t believe that. He was an intelligent man with both feet flat on the ground. She was right about one thing. He had plenty of his own trouble without worrying about her illusions. The truth was, she was as batty as her sisters. He was sorry now he’d agreed to do the job. He shrugged. He could use the money. He’d get it done and be gone from this witch’s lair.

  Chapter Four

  Christ, what was she doing?

  She didn’t need another man in her life right now or ever. She’d had enough lowlifes to last her a lifetime, but Beck Crawford wasn’t a lowlife. How did she know for sure? Well, she didn’t, she just sensed he was a standup guy and when she studied him there wasn’t any kind of negative aura about him to warn her off. He was just a man. So why this sudden, all-consuming passion for him? And how long would it last? She should grit her teeth and tough it out until her fancy changed yet again and she was panting after some other man. Not Beck Crawford. He wasn’t her type. What was she thinking?

  But the memory of his kiss—the masculine scent of him, the feel of his hard body, of his arms gripping her tightly against his chest—was all too appealing to just discard. She’d go find another man she decided, one as sexy and manly as he was, and she’d fuck his brains out. Then she’d be over Beck. What kind of name was Beck anyway? What kind of mother named her baby Beck? Since Phil had no interest or experience with children, she hadn’t a clue what a mother would call her child. Still, she scoffed at his name because it was the only thing she could find to criticize and because she halfway liked the name. It sounded strong and direct—like the man himself. Oh, hell!

  She went upstairs and changed into a lovely, tropical flowered sundress, cut low with delicate pinks, tans and sage green colors, and held up by spaghetti straps and what God had given her as a woman. She tied on strappy, mile high wedge sandals that said fuck me and a floppy brimmed straw hat that shaded her eyes and made them look enigmatic and headed down to the village.

  She stopped first at the bank where she asked to see the assistant manager. His name was John Smith, a solid, regular name and he was attractive with good teeth and flirty eyes, despite the ring on his finger. Maybe his wife had left him or they were separated or had an open marriage or whatever. At least, she’d do some exploring. She wasn’t especially set against bedding a married man. As a witch, she considered herself above such complicated morality. She’d never even considered the pain she might cause some other woman. She’d just never made love to a married man before and didn’t really want to start now.

  John was there and welcomed her with the same come-hither glances he’d given her before. She discussed the possibility of changing some of her accounts to get a better interest rate and all the while he spouted numbers, he held her gaze overlong and managed to look down her dress several times. When his ink pen went dry and he opened his drawer to get another one, she glimpsed a framed picture of a pretty brunette with a big smile and her arm around two small boys. She looked happy. Suddenly John Smith didn’t look so good, after all. Another example of her bad judgment of men! She thought of Beck. She couldn’t imagine him shoving a picture of his wife and sons into a drawer so he could flirt with a client.

  “Thank you for all your information. I’ll think it over,” she said to the bank’s assistant manager and rose from her chair.

  A look of annoyance crossed his face and was instantly replaced by a professional smile. He shook her hand, gripping it a little too firmly for a little too long and she was out of there. This had been a mistake, a big mistake. Out in the sunshine again, she thought of returning home, but Beck would be there with his hands off attitude, his sad knowing eyes and his tall, masculine body.

  Onward, she told herself sternly and slid into her car and checked the gauge. She could always use some gas and have another look at the new guy at Wally’s gas station and body shop. Talk about bodies, his was excellent and his sparkling dark gaze and the assessing way it raked over her was a clear invitation. But he seemed less sexy than she remembered, although he exuded masculine appeal as he helped her put an unneeded quart of oil in her car. She paid, gave him a pretty smile and drove away without a shred of regret.

  She bought plants she didn’t need or want, willingly following the suggestions of the handsome owner of the garden center, and she dropped into one of her favorite hangouts where she was waited on by a dude named Jude as he liked to call himself. Even his hot glances and smooth moves didn’t interest her. She kept thinking of Beck up on the ladder working on her pergola, his tight ass outlined in faded denim, his broad shoulders and six-pack exposed to the hot glare of the sun. She kept remembering the smell of his sweat. Not romantic, but she wasn’t a romantic girl and at the moment she was madly horny for a certain kind of man and Beck was it. Hell, she may have to throw aside her scruples and put a spell on him.

  Disgusted with herself and with men in general, she went on a shopping spree, which usually perked up her spirits. Several hundred dollars later, she headed home. As she was getting her packages out of the car, Beck rounded the corner of the house. He was fully clothed today, with his shirt tucked into the waistband of his jeans. She stared. He was more intriguing with his shirt on than without it. She knew what muscles and angles lay beneath the cotton, and she could imagine what the jeans hid.

  “Need some help?” he asked, pausing beside the car.

  “Uh, no,” she muttered and gathered up her packages. When she dropped some of them, he sprang forward to take them from her. They were close enough that she caught his scent. Man! Not just man. Beck!

  Quickly, she turned away and led the way into the house. He followed and if she rolled her hips a bit as she walked, she couldn’t be blamed. She dumped her packages on the sofa and he did the same then straightened. There was something in his eyes, a light, hard and masculine, that made her heart start as if a hand had reached inside her and gripped it too tightly. She felt it all the way down her body, inside and out. Her mind went numb. She didn’t know what to do next, what to say to voice her need for him.

  His gaze had captured hers and they stood breathing hard as if the chore of bringing in the packages had undone them. He moved first, she met halfway, then they hesitated only inches apart. She could see the flash of doubt then it was gone as he reached for her. There was no such uncertainty on her part. She wanted Beck and he wanted her. That worked out perfectly.

  His mouth against hers made her thoughts scatter. She was all need and want and sensations. His tongue against hers was raspy, dueling, demanding and getting. Her body was on fire. She ceased to exist except for the flaming core that began deep in her woman’s center and blazed upward. Her nipples burned with desire. She wanted their clothes gone. She wanted Beck nude so she could run her hands over his body. She wanted her ridiculous sundress to disintegrate this minute so her nipples could brush against his chest. She moaned and he released her mouth, tearing his lips away with obvious reluctance. He was breathing hard. She liked that. He felt the same as she.

  “I swear if you stop this time,” she groaned, “I’ll put a spell on you.”

  “You already have,” he grunted, the sound of his voice guttural, primal.

  He swept her up in his arms and turned toward the stairs. Rhett Butler and Scarlet O’Hara she thought, then pushed it aside. Phil Spencer and Beck Crawford. Oh yeah, much better. At the top of the stairs, she pointed to her bedroom. He literally kicked the door open and carried her in and dumped her on the bed. She might have been offended but his hands went to her dress, pushing aside the fabric, smoothing over the flesh he exposed, captivating her. From her prone position, she managed to unfasten his jeans then his shirt. She was panting now, shamelessly, without restraint. The best part—so was he.

  They came together in a clash of bodies hungry for each other. How could that be, they’d only known each other a few days, she thought fleetingly, before all thought became impossible. His cock slid inside her as if they’d been made to fit. His movements
were urgent, his stamina amazing, his control only good enough to last until she made her last gasp and tightened against him. She felt the powerful thrumming of his release and her answering response. Every fiber of her body was caught in a vise that she was certain wouldn’t release until she’d drawn her final breath.

  It took a long time to come down, to breathe normally again, for muscles to relax. She tasted his sweat. Every sensation she possessed was filled with Beck, his scent, the sound of his hoarse gasps, the feel of him. Their chests rose and fell together then the movement slowed and they lay as if barely breathing, as if they’d ceased to be. Then he stirred and raised his head. His blue eyes were dark, regretful.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Don’t be,” she said, rolling in on herself against his implied rejection. “I’m not.”

  “I should have taken my time with you,” he said. “A woman like you needs to be appreciated.”

  She brushed the hair from her face and looked at him. “I’m not complaining,” she said with a hint of smile. “Of course, if it wasn’t satisfactory, you could try again.”

  “I plan to,” he answered, “as soon as I recover.”

  “How long will that take?” she asked greedily.

  He laughed.

  “I thought you were sorry you’d made love to me,” she said, sobering.

  “I’m not, although I shouldn’t have,” he answered, turning away from her.

  “Why?” she demanded, leaning over him so he had to look at her. Her breasts rested against his side. His eyes darkened again, with desire, she realized.

  “At the moment, I can’t remember,” he said and reached for her again.

  She dodged aside. “I’m going to shower first,” she announced with a saucy glance over her shoulder.

  “Me, too,” he said, bounding after her. The shower was the most interesting, erotic one she’d ever experienced. Beck soaped her down then she washed his large body, paying particular attention to his hard, jutting erection. Her body ached for him, and he lifted her high so she wrapped her legs around his waist and settled on his cock. Pinned against the shower wall, with warm water cascading over them, she was helpless to move while he pumped against her until she came again, throwing back her head and screaming with every pulse of his culmination. They showered again, dried off and made their way back to bed.

  “I’m not done yet,” Beck muttered as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She might have believed him if his eyes weren’t already closing. They napped and woke and made love again.

  They went slowly this time. He explored her body with seemingly endless fascination then caressed her with his big warm hands until she hummed with anticipation. He kissed every inch of her, starting with her lips, throat, breasts, belly, blazing a trail until he reached her slit. His fingers were eager as they parted her, his mouth hot and hungry as his tongue raked across her clitoris again and again, while she alternated between moaning and crying out sharply with her satisfaction. He was tireless. Somehow her legs were looped over his shoulders and his head was buried in her crotch and she was too weak to do anything but croon with pleasure. When he plunged his tongue inside her, she cried out and arched her back, lifting herself to him. Clasping fists full of his hair, she held him close and thought she might be dying. When she screamed with ecstasy, he raised his head and kissed her hard, smothering her cries and giving her the taste of herself. She had never been this alive, nothing could top this, then he entered her, his long, hot cock slipping inside her, plunging against the sensitive, tight walls of her vagina. He withdrew and she couldn’t bear the exquisite sensation of the movement, then he pushed against her until she left the world she knew and entered one of supreme euphoria. She abandoned all thought she’d had before and reveled in the sheer exhilaration. She felt him reach his peak, felt his semen pumping into her and her muscles contracted, drawing him in deeper, harder, more completely than she’d ever done before.

  They lay with their bodies clenched, their muscles trembling. Her sensations maxed out in a flurry of culmination. She hit the peak, rang the bell, touched the clouds. She knew by his shouts that he was experiencing the same heights. Reluctantly, she began that slow descent that made her want to cry out in protest before she accepted the inevitable. She turned into him, her body like warm liquid molding to his harder form. She was encompassed by him, sheltered by him and felt herself sink into a deep restful sleep.

  She had no idea how long they napped, but she jerked awake when he moved and got out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” she protested sleepily.

  “I have a job to do,” he answered, pulling on his jeans.

  “Don’t go,” she wheedled, but he shook his head, smiling a little.

  “I have a boss who’s rumored to be a witch. I’d better not cross her.” He buttoned his shirt and glanced at her, his blue eyes speculating as he studied her.

  “If you don’t obey me and come back to bed, I’ll turn you into a frog,” she threatened.

  He threw his head back and laughed. She liked the sound.

  “Sorry, boss lady. I have things to do,” he said and gathered up his shoes and socks.

  Plopping on the edge of the bed, he began to draw them on. Without any regard to her nudity, Phil couldn’t resist moving closer to lean against him and nuzzle his ear.

  “What if I command you?” she asked teasingly.

  “No woman commands me,” he answered back and turned his head so their lips met.

  They exchanged short sweet kisses that threatened to escalate into something more, but he broke the embrace and concentrated on tying his shoe. Phil drew in a deep sigh and lay back on the bed with her legs spread.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, moving one cocked knee back and forth provocatively.

  “As sure as I’m standing here,” he said, though he was still seated on the edge of the bed. “Besides, you should have had enough.”

  “I’m insatiable,” she said. “And you’re my sex slave who must do my bidding.”

  He shook his head. “Your sex slave is turning back into a handyman who needs to get to the lumber company before it closes. You’ll have to conjure up another sex slave to do your bidding.” He stood up and looked down at her.

  “What makes you tick, Phil?” he asked thoughtfully. “Why this?” He waved a hand, taking in her bed.

  Phil sat up and met his gaze. “I find you very attractive,” she answered seriously. How could she explain that something about him touched her in ways she’d never known before?

  “Some women get a kick out of sleeping with a wife killer. It makes them feel like they’re walking the edge. Is that how you feel?”

  Anger coursed through Phil.

  “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she demanded, sliding off the bed. Ignoring her nudity, she stood before him, fists resting on her hips and glared at him.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “You’re a little kooky and strange and you claim to be a witch.”

  “I am! Shall I prove it?” She arched a brow in an unspoken challenge.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he asked, as if just now realizing it. “Look, Phil, just because you’ve joined Wicca with a bunch of other women who run around pretending to cast spells doesn’t make you a witch.”

  “I don’t belong to Wicca,” she said softly. “Real witches don’t bother with the wannabes or at least my sisters and I don’t.”

  “Why are you bothering with me?”

  She saw that he was serious. He didn’t understand, didn’t accept the explanation of her attraction to him. How could she explain something to him that she didn’t understand herself?

  She went back to something he’d said earlier. “I know you didn’t kill your wife.”

  Surprise washed across his face followed by a moment of pure joy and relief, quickly replaced by the old stoicism that had become his armor.

  “How do you know that when the police hav
en’t figured it out? I’m still their prime suspect.”

  “I just know,” she answered.

  “Then tell the police. I have often enough, and God knows they still don’t believe me.” He turned toward the door, his tall, strong body conveying a vulnerability that touched her.

  “I’ll prove you’re innocent,” she said impulsively.

  A look of irritation crossed his features. “I appreciate the thought, but don’t get involved.”

  “I want to. I want to help you.”

  “Just because we spent the afternoon in bed together? Get over it. It wasn’t that special.”

  He went out and closed the door behind him. She heard his footsteps on the stairs. His departing words seemed to take on a life of their own, hanging in the air before her, mocking her.

  “It was to me,” she whispered to herself.

  By his very words, he’d pushed her away again. She wouldn’t let him. Damn it, she knew the afternoon had meant more to him than that. She wouldn’t let him get away with that rude dismissal. She raced after him, flying down the stairs without touching them. In the lower hall, she could hear his truck start up. She flew out the door, but he was already hurrying down the long drive. As he turned out onto the street, another car turned in.

  Charlie! How did she always manage to show up at the worst possible times? Aware she’d was standing out on her porch without a stitch on, she plucked a pink lounging robe out of the air and donned it then on second thought changed the color to black to match her mood.