Freeing the Witch

by L. J. Longo

  She’d rather die than hurt him.

  She had no idea what to say to him.

  Porter didn’t mind the silence. He leaned against the door and then stretched his neck from side to side, lazily gazing at her. He hadn’t been so openly charming since that day in the port.

  Emaula shifted a little on her bed, feeling exposed by his hot gaze, but also incredibly sexy.

  He tugged at the neck of his tunic, and the gray cotton pulled away and showed more of his dark skin.

  “You damned tease,” Emaula said.

  Porter grinned and shrugged, then tugged the tunic over his head. He dropped it casually at his feet and leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, smugly.

  “Yes, you’re magnificently made.” Her breath caught a little as she said it. She began to look away, then let herself look, feeling bold and wicked.

  He nodded, accepting her praise.

  “And so modest.” She noticed his little lean jutted his hips toward her, drawing attention to his cock. She knew he did it on purpose when he rubbed his hand over it.

  “Why should I be modest?” He didn’t stop when she gasped and turned away. She could hear the sound of his hand against the fabric. “You’ve been hot for me since you stepped off the boat.”

  Emaula looked back at him. “Well, you’ll make it difficult for me to fall asleep.”

  “Oh, will I?” Porter chuckled. “You don’t have any spells for that sort of thing?”

  “I didn’t think you’d want me to use magic.” Her magic certainly wanted to be used at the moment. Wanted to wrap around him and curl around every inch of his skin to caress and bless him.

  “I’m not afraid of your magic,” Porter said. “Go on. Light the incense or something.”

  Then, as she began to stammer because she didn’t have anything like that made, he reached past the hem of his trousers.

  Her mouth went dry as he fondled himself. Mostly she saw his knuckles through the fabric, but sometimes he’d angle his hand and the rounded tip would bulge against of his loose pants.

  “You’re quite scandalous.”

  “Wolf.” He shrugged. Then asked, innocently, “Why are you still wearing your clothes? You’re not going to turn into a cat or something if you take off your dress, are you?”

  Emaula giggled like a fool then stumbled trying to think of an equally flirtatious reply. Then she untucked the edge of her scarf and unwrapped her hair.

  “That’s right. Beautiful hair. It’s like the moonlight, you know.” He leaned further against the door, stroked a little faster.

  Emaula swallowed hard, resisting the desire to throw herself at the man. Her body ached for touch, but … it had to be in dreams. She laughed to herself. This reality was sweeter already than most of her dreams.

  “Just because I can’t touch you, doesn’t mean I can’t see you.” He looked at her through seductive half-closed eyes. “Please, let me see you, Emaula.”

  Her hands trembled as she unbuttoned the silk at her shoulder. She stood to untwist the fabric and folded it over her arm the way she would have if the man weren’t watching her. She wished he were the one undressing her. She could imagine how hot his hands would be, the way he’d squeeze her breasts and stroke her sides. She left the robe folded on the chair and then quickly unbuttoned the prim collar of her blouse.

  He laughed, and she glanced over at him. Then she smiled. “Am I not doing this right?”

  “You’re very shy. It’s cute.”

  Emaula shrugged. “Mentally abused shut-in” didn’t have the same all-encompassing simplicity that “wolf” did. When she continued to unbutton her shirt—oh he expected her to tug it over her head—he laughed.

  She dropped her hands. “You know … I don’t have to put up with this teasing.”

  “Really?” Porter smirked and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Yeah.” Emaula lifted the magic in her hand, and the light over their head changed to a radiant blue.

  Porter looked up and uncrossed his arms, his jaw slackening a bit with awe.

  “I could put you to sleep like nothing,” Emaula said. “Make you take off my … my … everything.”

  Porter dropped to the ground and sat cross-legged beside the door. “Fine. Do I have to be gentle in the dream, or can I rip it to shreds?”

  Emaula’s voice caught in her throat. He laughed at her again.

  She released the magic, and the light in the room fractured into a spell. It hit him at once, and he slumped back against the wall, like a guard neglecting his duties.

  He looked contrarily innocent. Emaula doubted she’d feel any more confident in her dreams, but while he slept, she quickly took off her trousers and her blouse. She slipped into her nightgown, which was basically naked. When he woke up, he could see more of her…

  Then maybe next time she could be bolder.

  But even as the shards of magic carried her away, she started to have doubts again. He surrendered to the magic so effortlessly. How many times had he done this? And was she any different than the women who had imprisoned him?

  Chapter Four

  This world was one of the witches’ favorites. A red sunset streaked the sky and would grow into a sky full of bright stars. The cool breeze carried the fragrance of the flowering orchards through the café and across the huge bed in the corner. There was no wall to block the view of the deep forest in the valley or the waterfall.

  The waterfall and forest had the familiarity of something Porter had created himself—perhaps some latent memory of a long-forgotten birthplace—but the little café and bedroom had been added later by women who liked their creature comforts. Still, Porter had spent enough time in this romantic little place for it to become his own.

  Though, Porter did notice Emaula’s little touches even before she quite arrived. Apples replaced tangerines in the orchard, for example. He found himself wearing three layers of clothing, more than he’d ever worn in his real life. A tight white shirt with pretty buttons, and a white jacket, and white trousers. It reminded him a little of Ramsay’s uniform with all its buttons, but it fit him perfectly. He could appreciate her fantasy version of his clothes. No doubt he looked very dashing as a Northern man.

  He didn’t like the noose of fabric dangling off his neck. So, he threw that away, unbuttoned the tiny buttons near the top, then turned to determine if all the other details of the world were in order.

  The elegant table setting, the gently wafting mosquito net around the bed, the empty shine of the bar. He swept over behind the counter and pulled out a bottle of unopened, uncreated wine. He’d let her dream up the drink.

  Emaula entered through the orchard and created her own path through the trees. She brought a summer breeze, tinted with the fresh apple tartness and a warm hay smell.

  She dressed in a terrifically impractical but stunning white gown. Mostly lace and magic, so delicately and tightly woven to her breasts that when she gasped, it stretched the blue corset. But it moved effortless and weightless as a flower in water. It’d be easy to tear.

  Emaula reached the orchard’s edge and looked up the path to the rest of his little world. Her mouth dropped in awe. “Oh, Porter, how did you…”

  She caught sight of him, and her words sank away. She liked the costume she’d made for him.

  He leaned on his elbows and grinned at her. “I thought you liked me half-naked?”

  “So did I.” Emaula bit her lip as she studied him. “But I guess there’s some fun in having something to unwrap.”

  He chuckled and offered her the bottle. “Your favorite.”

  As he turned the label toward her, it became a sparkling pink rosé. He’d never had that in real life, but it came up often. It was a very pretty drink.

  She swept up the path. The sun played little tricks with the diamonds and lace on her bodice. She looked like a walking gemstone, and her hair wafted elegantly around her face.

  “That waterfall, the … forest. How did yo
u fashion all this?”

  Porter shrugged and poured the wine for her. “My pack will tell you I live in my own little world. To be honest, I live in about a dozen.”

  He held out the glass. She arrived at the bar, and her dress swirled gracefully around her. She sipped and smiled. “You have an exquisite imagination.”

  Porter beamed. He liked her so much. He’d make a new world for her. It would be all apple orchard, diamonds, and lace. He knew he was too eager, too boyish, and she’d say no, but he asked in complete earnestness. “Can I give you the tour?”

  He wanted to show her the best rock to dive into the waterfall and the best rock to sun herself dry. He wanted her to taste the water and the apples and to feel the wind as they looked over the café at a distance.

  Emaula, as he expected, glanced at the bed and shook her head. “Later.”

  She drank deeply from the wine and brushed past the cafe table. For a moment, she touched the edge as if she wanted to sit down and relish the view and the rosé.

  Take your time. Enjoy this because it’s special. Want to come back with me, because there’s something special between us. Porter had tried not to get his hopes up, but he knew he’d utterly failed.

  She abandoned the wine on the table and moved toward the bed. The way a witch was supposed to.

  When she shyly began to undress, he stopped her. He touched the lace she’d created for herself, the shimmering silk, and the diaphanous fabric. The thing was completely useless and did very little to hide the soft pinkness of her skin.

  “Didn’t you bring me here so I could do this for you?”

  She shivered as he touched her dress, barely brushing his fingers hard enough for her to feel. But the witch was hungry, and her lust beat out her fear. She leaned into him, braced her hands on his chest and kissed him.

  He sighed. He loved to kiss.

  Her mouth tasted clean, sweet, and tart, like her rosé. Her kiss was hot and passionate, deeply sensual as she rubbed her body over him. Like she would give anything to kiss him again. If she had kissed him like this the first time … that would have been the end. He was never very good at resisting pleasure, not even obvious traps like a witch’s kiss. But this was so much better because it wasn’t a trap.

  It was his choice. The world wasn’t oppressively her. He wasn’t just playing a role in her fantasy.

  He dove his fingers into her hair. So soft in between his fingers, sleek and fine. Did it ever knot? She sighed and pressed her diamonds and lace against him, relaxed like she’d kiss him forever.

  Porter ran his hands over her corset. There were no buttons and no ties. He ran his hands over her thighs, gathering acres of floating cloth. There was no bottom to pull it over her head.

  Emaula smirked with wild childish joy and blushed with ladylike modesty. She wanted him to tear it off, and it embarrassed her.

  Porter kissed her neck, and she dipped back, arching her breasts up to him and straining the sparkling cage of her dress. He dug his fingers in between the lace, gripping her breasts, soft behind the stiff fabric and useless stone. As she panted for breath, eagerly awaiting his strength, he gently kissed a path down her collarbone and toward her cleavage.

  He tugged gently, and the lace unraveled as he kissed, uncreating itself under his lips. It parted slowly, zigging one way then the other, and he followed the rift patiently with his mouth. He leaned over to kiss her belly, her side, her hip, then he released his hold on the fabric. The dress fell off her skin, like an avalanche of snow sliding away to reveal the majestic beauty of the mountain beneath.

  Porter looked up at her body and wished he’d seen her in real life. In her fantasy, she was flawless, her hips and breasts curved in perfect slopes, her thighs soft and pale. Someday, he’d like to discover the little inconsistencies of her body and reveal them to her here so he could worship what made her unique.

  She shivered as he knelt amid the cloud of her dress, her hand tremulous on his hair, crunching his curls in her fingers with a gentle fear. For all her magic, she feared something. Porter would find out what it was and he’d destroy it, so she didn’t have to be afraid ever again.

  He kissed her hip, and Emaula let out a surprised little gasp. He nibbled a little, kissing his way to her inner thigh. She kept her legs pressed tight together and tugged on his hair.

  Porter looked up, waiting for her command, for her to express what she wanted or what she feared. Then her hands gentled on his hair and stroked his neck and shoulders. She relaxed and shifted her legs. He breathed deeply, recalling the scent of her sex through the heat of the summer sun and the layers of silk. Now it was here before him, warm, wet, and begging for his kisses.

  She gasped when his mouth contacted the soft blonde hair over her sex, and she flinched. He brushed his hands along her hips and brought her back. Licked tentatively and tasted the wonderful sweetness of her lust. Her delirious shudder was delicious. Porter steadied himself, so he didn’t go too fast, didn’t push her too far too quickly.

  Emaula was special. But for some reason, she didn’t know that. He wanted to show her.

  He caressed and stroked her with his tongue, humming into the folds of her sex while she shuddered and moaned. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Afraid of her pleasure? Afraid of him? He caressed her lower back and her ass, moved his tongue deeper until his whole world was the taste and smell of her sex, a small core of pleasure he alone could provide.

  She melted into him, surrendered to her rising orgasm and gripped his hair and shoulders so hard it hurt. He moved faster and deeper. Too fast. She startled and pushed him away, flinching away from the sensation. He never stopped, but he slowed. Gentle kisses, shy kisses for his shy witch, even when all he wanted was to fuck her with his tongue until she thrashed and begged him for more. But almost immediately, she relaxed again and let the pleasure build again. He waited for her to whine and push his face deeper, demand satisfaction, but she never did. Too polite, too kind to force her will on a man who lived only to serve her.

  So, he made the orgasm creep up on her, lapping just a little faster, gripping just a little harder, venturing just a little deeper. The frenzy took her slowly, turning her shuddering moans into muffled gasps into frantic gasps. She covered her own mouth and held his shoulder as if he were the only thing in the world to keep her upright.

  Just when the pleasure overwhelming her, just when her lust was about to splinter into sweet relief, Emaula shoved him hard away. He nearly fell over, catching himself on one arm, then falling the rest of the way as her magic tugged him down hard. He blinked up at her in amazement. Did she think it would hurt her when she came? Why was her magic so frightened?

  “Stand up,” she commanded, covering her breasts with one arm.

  He tried, but her power anchored him in place. He might have been able to struggle through it, but he had a feeling Emaula wasn’t really into that sort of thing.

  “Your magic is making it difficult,” he confessed.

  Emaula looked deeply embarrassed. “Oh!”

  The weight vanished at once as if her power was a petulant child that had been scolded and ran to hide inside her.

  Porter rose and straightened his suit jacket. She stayed at that distance, covering her breasts and simply looked at him. “So sorry.”

  He stepped nearer and stroked her face gently. “What are you so afraid of?”

  Emaula looked up at him, her lips trembling as she considered her answer. Then she chose silence and tugged at his shirt. The jacket and the undershirt disappeared in her hand, and she revised the world so that he was left wearing something like his own vest. Only white and soft. His trousers returned to his regular low-riding baggy pants.

  “You do like me better half-naked.” He laughed.

  “I’d like you better all naked,” Emaula insisted, with surprising boldness.

  She tore at the vest, and it slithered off his shoulders. He barely had time to let it fall before her hands pushed down his trousers. He
r force unnerved him a little when she kissed him hard and then propelled him onto the bed.

  He went without complaint, sinking onto his back in the soft mattress. But he pulled her along with him, never letting her escape the kiss. Her long hair fell across his face in a gentle golden wash.

  Emaula cooed and straddled him, though their mouths never parted long enough for a deep breath. She rubbed against him as they kissed. Teased his cock with her grinding. She licked his mouth, grazed his chest with the teardrops of her breasts, sucked on his lips.

  He would have kissed every inch of her, but she would not let him leave her mouth. So, he settled for handfuls of her flesh, groping the smoothness of her ass, stroking the slope of her spine, and fondling her lovely breasts.

  The kisses grew hungrier, lasted longer. They panted for breath but were unable to keep their lips apart. Two lovers starved not for food, nor for touch, but for kisses.

  The longest pause between their lips came when she rose on her knees and reached down to take his cock in her hand. She kissed him again, wild and deep, as she brought his cock into her body. She moaned low, satisfied into his mouth. He feasted on her lips, clutched her soft body, steadying her while she rolled up and down his shaft.

  Such perfection.

  She bowed her head back, and for a fiery moment, their gaze locked. Then they both lunged forward, colliding in a kiss.

  She moaned, riding faster, and panted in high, whimpering breaths in between short deep kisses. He gripped her ass, her thighs, her back, growled into the soft openness of her mouth, then smothered her in a deeper kiss and rolled her onto her side, so he could thrust into her.

  Emaula gripped his back in appreciation, then adjusted her hands, digging them into his hair, crushing his mouth against hers, until Porter couldn’t breathe. His world became her wet mouth, her luscious sex, her undulating body.

  Her movements became erratic and uncontrolled. She slipped and gasped on the verge of orgasm. She wouldn’t escape this one. He wouldn’t allow it. He tipped her onto her back, kissed her deeply while she writhed in agony and pulled his hair and whimpered with need.