by Ann Macela
Both cried out again as lightning coursed through them, but their eyes remained locked on each other’s and their hands maintained the initial contact on their centers. For a long moment, neither stirred. Then the spectrum burst around them, and Clay began to move with great driving thrusts that raised her off the bed. She wrapped her legs around his thighs and, curving like a bow, rose to meet him.
She was drowning in his molten silver eyes, coming apart under the force of his savage possession. And she reveled in it. More, her body screamed. More!
Tightening every muscle she owned when he was fully inside her, she bore up on him, trying to take more, to get closer, to make herself such a part of him and him such a part of her they could never come apart.
The energy rushing between them raced faster, threw off sparks, doubled and redoubled in power.
It was agonizingly painful.
It was excruciatingly exquisite.
They seemed to be melting, flowing together, reaching for something, reaching . . .
Until . . .
There it was, there, there, there.
Fusion.
The light around them changed, became only red, then rippled through the spectrum. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
Silver. Gold. Pure, dazzling white.
Blinded, she screamed, her body arching to his as ecstasy rolled through her like a huge tidal wave and hammered her hips against his.
Her convulsion triggered his own.
The brilliant white light rendered him sightless, but he didn’t need vision to pour himself into her, empty himself, in contractions that went on and on and on. Exhilaration, exaltation, and absolute joy speared through his body, increased with every tight hug in her embrace, and exploded into sheer rapture.
He was certain he was dying. No one could stand this much pleasure and live. When they had touched each other’s center, he had been suddenly filled with a lust that turned his cock into granite and produced an overwhelming need to bury himself in her. His only remedy for the wild desire, his only solace from the potent pain, would be with her, in her.
As they joined and he felt the soft, hot clasp of her body, saw the golden flames in her smoky brown eyes, and shook from the intensity of the energy surge, he knew they would never be completely apart again. The link had been melded in a white-hot crucible and forged into permanence with hammer blows of enormous power.
When sight and sanity returned, he found himself lying on her, his face buried half in the pillow and half in her neck. Her arms lay limp around him, as did her legs. He didn’t want to move. He wasn’t sure he could. He could reach her neck with his lips, so he kissed her, felt her pulse beating with his tongue. Her hands flexed and so did her inner muscles.
The little jolt of electricity resulting from the small squeeze gave him the energy to rise to his elbows. He looked down into her eyes, all smoky again. “Are you all right?”
Francie nodded, although it was difficult to move. She had to clear her throat to speak. “I . . . I think so. What was that?” The knowledge came to her unbidden, but certain, with such a depth and rightness, it could not be denied. “That was power, magical power, wasn’t it?”
“Had to be. When I’ve cast a really powerful spell, I’ve gotten a buzz, but I’ve never felt anything like it. We could have lit up Houston.” He gave her a little kiss, then frowned. “Where did it come from? We woke up hurting, and I remember reaching for you. It started when I touched your center and you touched mine, didn’t it? An energy surge?”
“I think so. It was like we were connected.” She broke their eye contact and looked around, running her gaze over his body. “Clay, I can still see some lights around us. They’re faint, but they’re there.”
He turned his head to the side. “You’re right. Hold on, let me slide off you.” He maneuvered himself and her so they were lying on their sides, facing each other, legs intertwined. He was still inside her, but their chests did not touch.
“Let’s try it again. You touch my center and I’ll touch yours.”
They touched. Both jumped at the slight zap, but they didn’t break contact.
“That was like an electric shock,” Francie said. “And I feel the tingle all over inside. I think the lights are brighter.”
Clay glanced down their bodies. “Yeah, they are.” He studied the lights for a few seconds. “What this looks like to me is a magical aura. I’ve seen one on Daria when she has spelled herself. The lights form sort of a frame, shaped like your body, but standing off it a little. Do you see it?”
Francie raised her head to peer around. “Yes. Take your hand away.” They cut the contact. “That dimmed the lights quite a bit, but not entirely. I still feel, oh, I don’t know, ‘current’ running inside me.”
“So do I. But we’re still connected.” He looked down their bodies to the place where they joined. He withdrew from her slowly. Both caught their breath at the moment of separation. “No current.”
“Me, either. The lights are dimming, but still there. Scoot over until we’re not touching at all.” When they split completely, Francie said, “They just went off entirely.”
“For me, too.” He flopped over on his back and rubbed his chest. “Well, that was the damnedest thing I ever saw or experienced. I know Dad says being soul mates just gets better all the time, but if we go through this every time, it’s going to kill us both.”
She propped herself up on an elbow. “If the imperative’s causing this, it didn’t hurt us, did it? I mean, I feel fine now—exhausted, but fine.” She yawned, a big jaw-breaking yawn that she felt to her toes.
“Yeah.” He copied her yawn, then stretched up and looked at his bedside clock. “Two in the morning. Let’s get some sleep—if the damn SMI will let us.” He lay back down and pulled her into his arms. “Do you see any lights?”
“No. Everything is dark again,” she answered.
“Good.” He snuggled her closer.
Francie felt him fall into sleep. She yawned again, as she considered the previous minutes. What had happened? Except for absolutely stupendous lovemaking, what? The two of them, when literally together, created some sort of “aura” around themselves. Would this continue, or would the lights fade over time? What did the surge of power mean?
Had the SMI done something to her? She didn’t feel any different. Well, no, that wasn’t a correct statement. She did feel different, in a state of absolute well-being. Well loved and in love. As if she was complete, had found her other half. A little hum in her center seemed to confirm these notions.
As for the magic? The lights, the lightning between them? It must have been the SMI sealing the bond between the two of them. Daria had said the First Mating did that very thing. She, Francie, had assumed the process was just one act of lovemaking, but Clay was treating it like it was a series of acts, like a honeymoon. What had he said? “We have a First Mating to enjoy.”
His reasoning made more sense. The First Mating wasn’t one event, but a series. The last event, with the lights and the power, was the culmination of the bonding. Clay had received more power. She had received her soul mate. It was all magic.
As for herself being able to cast spells? She almost snorted in self-ridicule. Such a notion was too fantastic.
She yawned again and felt his arm tighten around her in response to her movement. She couldn’t help smiling even as sleep overcame her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
While Francie slept Sunday morning, Clay ran to the store in the West University Village and brought back bagels and cream cheese. They were lingering over breakfast and the newspaper in his sunny kitchen when he put down his section and regarded his soul mate. He couldn’t help feeling content, appreciative, and, to be truthful, smug. She was his, she was gorgeous, and they mated perfectly, if he did say so himself.
Francie glanced up and raised her eyebrows in interrogation at his look.
“I’m just enjoying having you here,” he said. �
��And I’m happy we can make love without electrocuting ourselves.” They had woken up to sunlight and had made slow, absolutely glorious love—without the fireworks of the previous time.
“Me, too,” Francie said. “Although I did see some colored lights.”
“So did I. But they were much dimmer than before. Maybe the SMI is finally settling down.” He took a gulp of coffee. “I’ve been thinking about those lights. I wonder if anybody else could see them.”
“Clay Morgan, I am not letting anyone watch us when we make love, just to see if they can see lights. I am not an exhibitionist.”
“Calm down, darlin’. We’ll just have to note when they appear. If they show up when all we do is kiss, then it would be all right to show someone, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess,” she answered grudgingly. “Maybe.” She went back to the story she was reading about the Houston Rockets.
Clay grinned to himself. She was so cute when she was disgruntled. He also turned to the paper and began reading a story in the business section about a start-up high-tech firm. The name of one of the founders caught his eye. Walter Somebody. Walter. Walt. The guy in the paper was only twenty-four, so he couldn’t be Francie’s Walt. Clay suddenly burned with the need to know about Walt the Asshole. Would she tell him? He’d never know until he asked.
Clay put down his paper. “Francie, I have to ask you something.”
She looked at him over the top of the sports section and seemed a little startled, a little apprehensive, probably by his tone, but she put down the paper. “What about?”
“Now, I’ll only ask this once,” he said, “and if you don’t want to tell me anything, it’s okay. I don’t particularly want to talk about it, either, but curiosity is eating me up, and after all you’ve said to me, I’d really like to know.”
The expressions on her face ran from apprehension to concern to puzzlement. “What is it, Clay?”
“Who’s Walt?”
“Walt?”
“Yeah, Walt.”
She grimaced. “I was hoping you’d forget I ever mentioned him.”
“I can’t. Not after being compared to him. I assume he’s part of the ‘old mental baggage’ you referred to yesterday.”
She fiddled with her spoon, then her knife, and took a sip of coffee. She was clearly not happy with the subject.
“I swear, I’ll never bring up the name again,” he said, holding up his right hand, palm out.
She put down the paper, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “All right. I’ll tell you. But like you did with me, ask no questions till I’m done. Okay?”
Now he was the apprehensive one, but he nodded. “Okay.”
“You have to understand something,” she began with a soft voice. “I ‘developed’ late.” She waved her hand at her body. “When I was growing up, I was often, usually, taller than the boys, and I was a skinny, scrawny smart kid. I was also basketball crazy. I caught the computer bug early, too.
“In high school, boys became my buddies, either because I could beat them in basketball or because I could help them with their computers.” She shrugged in a self-deprecating motion. “I had no real dates in high school. By the time I entered college, I figured I was destined not to have any boyfriends, ever.”
Clay watched her closely, a little sorry he had asked the question he could now see—despite her feigned nonchalance—how painful it was for her to discuss this, but he had to know. He nodded to indicate he understood her situation.
“So,” she continued, “I decided to make the most of my intellectual abilities. My parents always stressed using my mind over my body. Daddy used to tell me my brain would certainly last longer than my speed on a court. They supported me in basketball, and if I had wanted to go out for the varsity team, they would have been just as proud as they were I was the high-school valedictorian. But I was more excited about and fascinated with computers, and I turned down athletic scholarships for academic ones.”
She flashed him a happy grin. “I met Tamara the very first day at UT, and it was friendship at first sight for both of us. She already knew she wanted to open a fashion boutique and was going after a marketing degree. She was also already a clotheshorse, dressed in the latest fashions. She claimed to be envious of my tall, skinny body, and she helped me learn how to dress for my height. Then . . .”
Clay could picture Francie skinny, but it took all his powers of imagination. Or maybe, he simply liked her as she was now—curvy and definitely not skinny. Liked? Lusted. He confined his response to one word. “Then?”
“Somewhere late during my freshman year, I started developing a female figure. By the beginning of my sophomore year, I had, uh, ‘bloomed.’ Tamara called me a ‘guy magnet’ and claimed when men’s eyes traveled down my long legs and back up to my, uh, top, they almost popped out of the guys’ heads. I felt like I was instantly ‘popular,’ and Tamara talked about beating men off me with a stick. But all my dates turned out to be, at best, back in the buddy category or, at worst, wrestling matches.”
She stopped to take another sip of coffee, and Clay knew the worst part of her tale was coming. Francie wasn’t looking into his eyes, but off into the distance while her fingers fidgeted with her napkin.
“Anyway, by the new year, I had just about given up on finding any man who would see my brain as well as my body. That’s when I met Walt.”
Clay had to restrain himself from growling at the sound of the name. He forced himself to remain calm. She’d never tell him all of it if he acted like a possessive lunatic.
“Walt Gibbons was a tall, blond, good-looking engineering major and a senior. He seemed truly interested in me, my mind, not just its housing. He was kind, considerate, attentive. I guess the correct phrase is the old cliché, ‘he swept me off my feet.’ I was in love, I thought. We became lovers.”
This time Clay couldn’t quite hold in his feelings. Francie jumped, and he disguised the snarl with a cough. He motioned for her to continue.
“One day late in the school year, Tamara and I were in a restaurant on Sixth Street. We were sitting in a high-backed booth, you know, the kind where the back goes up about five or six feet. You can’t see your neighbors, but if they’re talking loudly enough, you can hear them.”
Clay nodded.
“We heard these guys talking in the booth next to us, and we recognized Walt’s voice. I was going to pop my head around the booth and say hello, when one of the others mentioned my name, said something about losing some bet that included me.”
Clay groaned. He had a pretty good idea what was coming. “Francie, you don’t have to tell me any more,” he said, reaching a hand to her across the table.
“No, I started it, I’ll finish it,” she responded and went on in a flat tone, but Clay could hear the anger behind it. “Walt proceeded to brag about how easy I’d been, how much of a disappointment I was in bed, how relieved he was he could drop me now he’d won the bet, and then he talked about his next target. Tamara and I just sat there and listened to it all. After they left, she took me back to the dorm and listened while I cried and raged until I got Walt out of my system.”
The smile on her face told him the memories were bitter ones. He could easily imagine her anger—it was the same outrage gripping him now.
“He called the next day,” she continued, “and I told him I wanted nothing more to do with him and hung up on him. He came up to me between classes, made some cutting remarks while we were standing in front of the student union. I told him off, right there in front of God and everybody, and he left me alone after that.
“During the summer at home, I decided I didn’t need men, especially handsome, charming ones, to whom I didn’t matter as a person. All that type of man wanted to do was use me. I was sufficient unto myself. That’s the story of Walt.”
She took a deep breath, then let it out. “When you and I first met, I’m afraid I automatically put you in the same category as Walt, afraid you’d be like him and I’d e
nd up alone. My fears got the better of me. So I was fighting you and the imperative to avoid going through the pain again. I’m sorry for hurting you and for comparing you to someone who’s not fit to be in the same room with you.” She looked at him with a face full of contrition.
Clay stood and pulled her out of the chair and into his arms. “Thank you, Francie. That’s all I wanted to know. I’ll never ask again.” He kissed her lightly and then just held her, rubbing her back. Her muscles were tight, and he could feel the strain in them brought on by her tale.
He didn’t need to hear any more; he knew what had happened. After what Walt did to her, she had started wearing clothes to hide her body. She had barricaded herself behind those big glasses, too, hoping to force men to acknowledge her mind. She probably thought men couldn’t see past them, but he knew differently. The only ones who had been able to get past her defenses, however, had also been smart enough not to let her know it—the gamesters, for example. He wasn’t worried about Walt any longer, but he had to be sure she understood one very important thing.
He lifted her chin with a finger so he could see her eyes. “Francie,” he murmured, “you are definitely not a disappointment in bed to me.”
She smiled, then the smile grew into a grin, and a sparkle came into her eyes. “Well, I should think not. Not after all those fireworks!” she said with mock indignation.
“Would you like me to go after Walt? Beat him up or something?”
“No, of course not. I have no idea what happened to him, and I don’t care.”
“Okay, but if we ever meet him, just say the word and I will make his life miserable. All it takes is a few spells and every computer he owns, desktop, laptop, handheld gadget, cell phone, watch, car, microwave, hell, I don’t know, his cable connection, all of them will fry completely.”
Francie started laughing and gave him a big hug. “No, let’s just forget him.”
“Okay with me.” He gave her another kiss. “How about if we go to the grocery store? We’re running out of provisions.”
“Fine, but I need to go home and change clothes. I can’t run around like this all the time.” She waved at the robe she was wearing.