Dream by the Fire: Winter Magic

by Editor: Michelle Puffer

  “I tricked everyone into leaving me with the whole place to myself,” she replied. “Or I thought I had. I didn’t realize you were staying?”

  David chuckled. “I thought it in my best interest to bow out. Your aunt Linda let me know that your grandmother intended to get me drunk.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes and laughed. “Every one of them is happily married, despite their up-front desperation this week. All talk. Once they’re back in reach of their husbands, they’ll quiet down.”

  “Unwilling to take my chances. I wouldn’t want a broken heart when you all return to the States next week.” He came into the room and crouched to put another log on the fire. His jeans hugged his thighs, and the hem of his t-shirt rode up as he stretched to jab a poker into the pile of wood and cinder. The fire threw a red glow that lit his skin gold. She wanted to lick the dimple at the base of his spine.

  “You’d rather spend one of your last shopping days here, tending my fire?” she asked and immediately blushed. Lately she’d been having a surplus of erotic fantasies, but the suggestive question surprised her because she’d tried to contain her own attraction to him. Unlike her mother and aunts, she didn’t have a lover awaiting her return, and she wasn’t fond of sexual frustration.

  “I don’t celebrate Christmas.” David gave no indication that he heard anything untoward in the question. He stirred the firewood one last time and turned back to her. His beard stubble glimmered ginger at the tips, soaking up the light of the hearth. “Not everybody here does. You find different traditions in the countryside.”

  “Do you honor a different tradition?” The fire beckoned her to shift closer. She stretched out her legs and presented the bare soles of her feet to the warmth.

  “Modranicht,” he said.

  Sophie shivered despite the fire. She had to convince him to keep talking to her in his native language. The guttural growl, the rough slur of syllables, made her fingertips tingle.

  “What does that mean?” She hoped the pop of wood in the hearth masked the stirrings of want that crept into her voice.

  David returned the poker to its rack and stretched out on his side with his back to the fire. He propped his head on his hand and glanced at her stomach. “The Night of Mothers.”

  “I haven’t heard of it.” She tried not to squirm behind her pillow. His expression didn’t tell her anything.

  “It’s losing out to Christmas trees, even here. The goddess Freya is not as universally recognizable as the fat Santa.”

  “Ahh. Is it the same day as Christmas?”

  “It coincides with the Winter Solstice. Freya labored through the longest night of the year until she gave birth to Light.”

  Sophie smiled. “That’s a sweet scene. How is it celebrated?”

  “Like Christmas. Feasting. Gifts, but not to such extent as Christmas. Early to bed, because Modranicht is the dreaming night, and everybody wants a dream that will come true.”

  “Do you?” She tilted her head.

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “What would you like to dream tonight?”

  David shrugged. “It is not like writing a Christmas list.”

  “Christmas lists are only hopes. Do you think the—Modranight?”

  “Modranicht.” He gave extra growl to the last syllable.

  Sophie swallowed a little yearning spark of want. “Do you think the dreams come true because they’re dreamt that night—”

  “Tonight,” he corrected.

  “Do they come true because of the night they’re dreamt upon, or because they’re given by the night?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” Sophie said wryly.

  “Try again. Now I’m curious.” He rolled onto his back and folded his arms beneath his head. The position hollowed his stomach and gave a peek at his navel.

  “Like dream control.” She forced her gaze up from his abdomen and smiled at the intense, studious expression he wore. “If you go to bed thinking good thoughts, you might have good dreams.”

  “I have heard of people who say they can influence their dreams that way, but I don’t believe dreaming is a conscious thing.”

  “Pretend that you do for a minute,” she persisted. “If dreaming can be conscious, can you create your own dream, the thing you want to come true, for the Mother’s Night dream? Or are you predestined to have a dream about something that’s going to happen, whether you want it to or not?”

  “You complicate it too much.” He smiled. “It proves you’re a philosopher at heart.”

  “Or, that I’ve had too much pie and not enough sleep,” she returned.

  “Sleep is good for you at this stage.” His gaze fell upon her stomach again.

  Sophie pulled a pillow across her lap, self-conscious. “I’ll go to bed soon.”

  “The sooner you sleep, the sooner you’ll dream,” he promised.

  “What did you dream last year?”

  David shook his head. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

  “It hasn’t yet?”

  “There are still ten days left for it to happen.”

  “Do you believe it’s going to come true?”

  “Hope is too harmless for me to disbelieve it. What does disbelief do for me that belief doesn’t?”

  “So you do believe.”

  A small smile pulled at his lips. “I hope.”

  “So your dream must’ve been of something good. What would you have done if it had been a nightmare instead?”

  “I do not know. I think I would still hope for truth, because the failure of a dream would indicate lessening magic in the world.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be a mystical faith kind of man,” she said.

  “What kind did you think me?”

  “I don’t know. A flirt, mostly. Shallow.”

  “You have only known me a short time.”

  Mere days. “Not long at all.”

  David stretched and sat up. “No, not long. Not long left in the night, either. I will go to bed. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “No. Thank you, though.”

  “Very well. Sweet dreams,” he said.

  Sophie smiled at the blessing. “You too.”

  His footsteps receded up the stairs. Sophie listened to the fire crackle and the floor creak while David readied himself for bed. She shifted off the chair and crossed to stretch out on the sofa, drawing the wool blanket up around her shoulders and cushioning her head on a throw pillow. Retiring to her room would have been a waste of a wonderful fire.

  David lingered in the forefront of her thoughts. She’d spent the last several days refusing to let herself wonder about him. Her resolve had weakened during their quiet conversation. The lazy heat from the hearth granted unspoken permission to daydream; it didn’t try to remind her that he was European, and she American, that curiosity was foolish, or that she was bordering on “big as a house” and carrying someone else’s baggage. The crackle of kindling instead whispered suggestive questions, and she found herself wondering how German men made love.

  * * *

  “Sophie. Liebling,” he whispered, calling her away from a nap.

  She stretched and rubbed her cheek over his palm. “David,” she sighed. “I’m tired.”

  “Come to bed.” He slid his forearm beneath her shoulders and helped her sit.

  “The fire—”

  “All burned down.”

  “I’m hot,” she complained.

  David kissed her forehead. “It’s warm in here. You’ll be more comfortable upstairs.”

  “Promise?”

  “I do.” He pulled her from the deep, soft recesses of the couch and gently bit her shoulder. “Are you awake enough to walk, or do you want me to carry you?”

  She yawned and stretched against him. “I’m awake,” she said. “Carry me anyway?”

  He laughed softly and drew her into his arms. “If you’d like.”


  “You give the best hugs.”

  “I do?”

  “Mm-hm. You hug me all over, legs and arms and chest and shoulders, everything.” She ran her hand over the distended slope of her stomach and the baby kicked. “Even with this in the way.”

  “Makes you hard to get.” David scooped her up and carefully made his way up the stairs. Sophie clung to his shoulders as he carried her into their bedroom.

  “You woke me up from a sexy dream,” she said.

  David lowered her to her feet. “Show me?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” Sophie went into the adjacent bathroom and splashed cool water over her face and neck. A trickle slid down between her breasts. “Will you bring a nightgown?” she called, unbuttoning her sweater. She shrugged out of the ugly maternity bra and dropped it in the hamper.

  He came to the door and held out a lingerie box wrapped in gold foil. Sophie arched an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “Something for you.” He placed the box on the vanity, moved behind her, and pushed down the wide elastic waistband of her pants. His fingertips drew a line across the upper edge of her pubic hair and tickled the sensitive strip of skin below her pelvic bone. “Wear it for me tonight.”

  Sophie shivered, loving the command in his tone. Such a thrill that his voice could be so rough while his words and touch were so gentle. The contrast spiked her senses, coaxed her nerve endings into hypersensitivity. Her breasts grew even heavier with touch-cravings.

  “Here.” She guided his hands up.

  He palmed her breasts and bit the side of her neck. “Open it,” he growled. His teeth grazed her earlobe, and her fingers got tangled in the bow.

  “I want to taste you.” He licked the hollow behind her ear. “Touch you.” He shifted his weight forward and pressed the proof of his arousal against her bottom. “Come inside you. Tell me about your dream.”

  Sophie peeled the foil wrapping aside and lifted the top off the box. Tissue paper rustled aside, and she pulled out a slinky, swishy length of scarlet satin. A tiny tinkle of bells sang in their small bathroom. Shaking it out, she saw that the ankle-length gown had a high empire waist that tied just beneath the bust. Bells dangled from the ends of the ribbon. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “You’re beautiful. That is merely cosmetic.” He smiled at her in the mirror. “I will admit that I like you painted once in a while.”

  Sophie loosened the gown’s tie, slipped it over her shoulders, and turned to face him. Bells chimed a short song as she looped the ribbon beneath her breasts and adjusted herself in the cups. The gown’s panels fell to either side of her belly, framing the pale roundness with bright color.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t fit quite right,” she said, attempting to pull the fabric across her stomach.

  David brushed her hands away. “It fits perfectly.” He arranged the negligee to reveal her midsection and kissed her brow. His gaze lingered on her abdomen, following the southern path of his petting hand. “I won’t get to have you like this all the time. I want to appreciate your body this way while I can.”

  “Right here?” she whispered, widening her stance. She touched his wrist, guided his fingers lower.

  “No…just here long enough to take the edge off. Tell me about your dream.” His beard scraped the fragile curve of her neck, and she shivered.

  She braced herself against the vanity and tilted her pelvis forward. At the same time, she pushed his fingers between her thighs. David responded immediately, burrowing and stroking and making her gasp.

  “I was dreaming this,” she panted. “Then you woke me up.”

  * * *

  “Sophie.” Her name sounded like a caress, coming from his lips. She had difficulty transitioning from dream to reality. He brushed a tangle of hair from her face.

  Arousal throbbed, fresh and new, in her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to sink back into the dream, but he said her name again.

  “It’s getting cold down here,” he murmured. “You should go up to bed.”

  “I was dreaming,” she said wistfully, regretfully.

  “Something good, I hope.” His voice slid down her spine like warm sugar.

  Sophie peeked up at him. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. What would he do if she pushed his hand down between her legs? Probably freeze in surprise. Too bad. She pressed her knees together and struggled to sit.

  “I don’t remember it,” she lied.

  “Too bad...anticipation is part of the fun of waiting for it to come true.” He rocked back on his heels, putting himself on eye level with her.

  She scooped the afghan onto her lap and avoided his gaze. “What about you?” she asked.

  He pushed the blanket aside and slid his hand beneath her shirt before she realized his intention. The heat of his palm shocked straight to the pleasure centers in her brain; she jerked her head up, meeting his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Wondering.” His thumb drew a circle around her navel.

  Sophie swallowed. “Wondering what?”

  “Two things.”

  “The first thing?”

  He hesitated, briefly, before saying, “Whether you anticipate a reunion with this one’s father.”

  “I don’t,” she said simply. “I wanted a chance and took it, and that was the extent of my relationship with him…a hopeful, successful gamble. We won’t be at the same table again.”

  David’s thoughtful expression told her that he was processing that non-explanation. Sophie hoped it satisfied him. Deeper examinations might turn to labeling her child an accident or a mistake, and the baby was neither of the two.

  “I’m happy you won that chance,” David finally said.

  Relieved, she asked, “And the second thing?”

  “Whether I should accept Matilda’s invitation to go back to the States with her when she returns.”

  “Would you like to go?” She bit her lip, unsure whether she wanted a fleeting fantasy to become something more.

  “I believe it might aid in the fulfillment of tonight’s dreams,” he hedged. He withdrew his hand from her top and squeezed her thigh, then stood. “Think about it,” he said. “I would like your thoughts.”

  “I—”

  “You have several days yet…and several more hours for dreaming. Come upstairs.” He offered his hand.

  Sophie smiled and tucked her fingers into his grasp. “You mean the magic of Modranicht isn’t limited to one dream?”

  “No limits at all,” he whispered, and pulled her to her feet.

  Sugar Baby

  by

  Fiona Shinn

  To Sandpresso—Without you folks, I’d still be wallowing in bad coffee.

  This one is for you

  Chapter One

  Five years of cooking lessons, four years going to culinary school in Paris, another two years of learning under one of the most famous pastry chefs in the world, and it had all come down to this: Me, stuck in Generic Farm Town No. 1, otherwise known as Camden Hills, Vermont. It was a small, picturesque sort of place, and just a month ago, I had loved it here. It’s got the whole untouched countryside with the grazing horses and cows chewing their cud thing going on.

  “Yes, I’d like to order three Christmas cakes. Two of them nutmeg, and the other one, can you make it the cinnamon with the candy-cane icing?” A woman’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts, almost as abruptly as if someone had tossed water in my face.

  Feeling more like a sixteen year old, rather than the twenty-nine that I really was, I managed to muster up a sparkling smile, trying to give off as much Christmas cheer as I possibly could. Listening to Mariah Carey on the radio, crooning about Santa Clauses getting stuck in chimneys, didn’t help much.

  “Of course, ma’am. When will you be here to pick up your order?” I asked.

  Pre-occupied at that moment, the auburn-haired woman held two impatient boys at bay—to keep them from launching spit wads at eac
h other. She caught me staring unashamedly at them and smiled apologetically as if to say ‘boys will be boys.’ I returned the smile, ignoring the pang I felt somewhere in my heart, in the place I tried to forget even existed. Twenty-nine, single, a workaholic, and fifteen pounds overweight. If I wasn’t me, I probably would have felt mighty sorry for the woman I’d become. As it was, I was working hard to not break down and wallow in my own self-pity.

  I was wholly disgusted with myself.

  I watched the happy family leave, the two boys arguing about whatever it was that little boys argued about these days, and then turned away, unwilling to see any more.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  Tania smiled at me from beneath her white chef’s hat, blue eyes alight with the good holiday cheer that I, sadly, lacked. She was a pretty girl, tiny, but filled with so much energy. I always thought of her as the amazing Bouncing Shrimp, the girl who was never in one place for too long. Tania was good for business, her chirpy voice feeling homey in this small bakery, while it seemed people took one look at my long, pinched face, and then apparently decided to keep their questions to themselves.

  I suppressed a sigh, mentally telling myself that no one liked a depressed woman, least of all me. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. If I did, I would’ve corrected it a long time ago, trust me.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just, you know.” I shrugged and then adjusted the kerchief around my neck. Supposedly dashing, the accessory ended up looking wilted instead, which was probably just as well, since I didn’t think I could pull off “dashing” at the moment. “It’s the holidays. Christmas Eve is next week, and you know how everyone’s pairing off with everyone else. But here I am, stuck alone. Hardly seems fair, don’t you think?”