Serena's Magic (2 page)

Suddenly he broke the kiss—only to allow his lips to fall upon the blue-veined pulse that beat erratically beneath the touch of his thumb. His hands wandered over the clean slope of her shoulders, caressing the fine lines of her collarbones before heatedly discovering the full weight of her breasts. They were warm and giving; they arched to him, filling his hands, and he held them both tenderly and possessively while bringing his mouth to their hardened peaks and caressing that firmness with tongue and gentle teeth.

All that he could think was that she was pure aphrodisiac; unbelievably sweet; an essence of honey, the nectar of the gods. And he was either in heaven, or dreaming, because she was as passionately eager as he was insatiably hungry. It is bewitchment, he thought vaguely, and if he had been at all sane, he would have laughed at himself because he was a scientist and he had spent his life disproving such phenomena existed.

He could have kissed her forever, tasting that wonderful creamy flesh with its faint scent of roses. But the need in him was too tangible; it was a volcano, screaming within him to explode. Leaned against her as he was, his knee—such a contrast to hers, large and dark with the curled hair that also spanned his chest against her silky limb—wedged further. And like the petals of the rose that were her scent, her smooth thighs glided apart easily. It was a spell; at that point he was certain. She was in the grips of that spell as thoroughly as he. Poised between the long and lithe beauty of her legs, he quickly shed his cutoffs. He wanted to know her thoroughly, to make love forever with time standing still. He wanted to hear her speak, to watch her smile, to know her life … everything about her. It was a spell … the feeling of knowing each other, of knowing it was meant to be. He needed her now, to be within her, to let that urgent desire find release within her … and he could see in her eyes that he did not imagine her responses.

She had become his, his to love, to know, to explore, to taunt to new heights each time they lay together.

Relieved of his restrictive clothing, he knelt between that ivory prison of shapely calves and thighs. He bent to take her lips once more; his hands spanned over her breasts, slid low over her abdomen, skimmed over the heart of her heat. He tore his mouth from hers; her lips were parted and wet from his; her eyes met his. They were misted, still incredulous, hauntingly mysterious, and yet openly giving.

He trailed his fingers lightly but firmly down the length of her inner thighs, taunting and loving, eliciting deeper sensation to heights that matched his own. She cried out at his touch, and a tremor raked through her. Her arms stretched out to him, encircling his neck, bringing her up to where she could bury her head against his neck. Firmly he brought her back to the earth; he entered her with a care that was quickly lost to spiraling passion. It was he who shuddered uncontrollably with that impact. She was sweetly moist, taking him into her with a feminine grace and a shivering, open need that was the most beautiful he had ever known.

He was the fire she had known he would be, and even as the urgent splendor of that storming passion took her higher to oblivious blue skies, she was still a bit in awe. Oh Lord, his size and his strength were awesome. When he had first knelt before her, it hadn’t occurred to her at all that she was behaving indecently, that she should be ashamed of herself for falling into the arms of this stranger.

No, if she had been worried at all, she had been worried that she wouldn’t prove woman enough to handle the pulse and strength of him. But his touch had been all the catalyst needed. She had welcomed him with deep-seated instinct; he filled her, making her insides feel like they would ignite momentarily, her mind delirious, blanketed by a silver cloud of shivering splendor. He had filled her, and she had embraced him with all the innate sensuality he had tapped.

She arched against him, moved with him in the undulations of her own raw need, welcoming each demanding velvet thrust, even as tempo increased wildly to skyrocketing, explosive proportions. She was vaguely aware that she moaned, that she cried out, that she raked her nails over his back and tore her fingers through his hair. But she was mainly aware that he touched her as she had never been touched before. He made her burn with the fire that was within her, catapulting her with driving, agonized hunger up and up so high.

She heard music, in the trees. And it blessed them as did the earth, with the thunderous beat of drums, the melody of flute and strings. It was hauntingly sweet; and its tune whispered that this was destiny; it was right, because such beauty had to be right.

The drums were the pounding of his heart, the whisper the sound of his uneven breath. The crescendo was her cry, mingled with his, as he imbedded himself deeply, filling her with the essence of him. Shudders attacked her in great racking waves as she acknowledged that she had never known such ecstasy, such volatile and ultimate fulfillment that belonged only very intimately between a man and a woman.

For several seconds they lay in a luxurious embrace, savoring that moment, but then, realizing his weight, he shifted, drawing her beside him. They were both content to hold the spell.

She lay against his chest, still mesmerized by its breadth, by the definition of each individual bulging muscle.

Funny, she had always told herself she didn’t care for the muscled type. She thought an abundance of muscles was certainly ugly. But there was nothing ugly about him; his appeal was totally rugged, as if he did, indeed, swing a sword daily, fighting with power and cunning to survive.

His fingers, incredibly light for their length and size, gentled over her cheekbones. “Have you a name, beautiful seductress?” he inquired lightly. “Or are you an illusion?”

She laughed uneasily; speech, as she had feared, had broken the spell. He was still extraordinary, but she was suddenly beginning to realize what she had done.

“Not an illusion,” she murmured, her soft, light tone hiding the nervousness she was feeling within. “A witch. This is Salem, remember? A place for witchcraft and magic.”

“But I don’t believe in magic,” he told her.

“Don’t you?” she murmured. “I assure you, it exists.”

He laughed suddenly, and she liked the sound. It was deep and rich and full. “A white witch, I hope?”

“Of course,” she replied, grateful that he was following the whimsy of the conversation. She had to get away from him, try to analyze what she had done. Dear God, but what could she do? Rise and say “Excuse me, I think I’ll leave now”? He would never let her leave—like that. And reality told her now that they both had lives to return to; that a man such as this was very experienced; she had probably been one in a multitude who had fallen victim to his touch.

Except I doubt few fell as fast, she told herself scornfully, suddenly ashamed. Still, she had no intention of stupidly saying that she never did such things as she had obviously just done. He didn’t believe in witchcraft—how could she explain that she had been under his spell and that it had just been so beautiful and right?

With her senses returned, she wasn’t even believing the situation herself. But she was lying naked beside a man as splendidly formed as a knight of medieval times and his fingers were still caressing her naked flesh and she was still savoring that touch.

Face it, she had just made love with some jock weight lifter, and where on earth did one go from there, especially when confusion was now her reigning emotion?

He was watching her; those deep hazel eyes were reading her too clearly.

“Was there a reason,” he demanded quietly, “that you shouldn’t have made love with me? A husband? A fiancé?”

“No,” she said with a furious blush. “I mean yes.” Of course there was a reason; she simply didn’t do things like this … remotely like this … and, dear God, now he was really staring at her, assuming from her confused answer that she not only did do things like this but that she was a married woman who did things like this. … “I mean, no, I’m not married. …”

His grin slowly returned as he rose to sit, still eyeing her nakedness possessively. “Good,” he said lightly.

She frowned in sudden horror. “Are you married?”

He laughed again, that throaty sound that sent provocative tingles racing down her spine. “No, witch, I assure you, I’m not married.”

He bent to brush her lips with a kiss. “Believe it or not,” he said ruefully, “I happen to have some wine. Would you like some?”

Her brows lifted in query, and he pointed across the pond to a cooler beneath an oak. “Ah, yes, please,” she murmured. If he went for the wine, she could escape.

But he clutched her hands as he rose and drew her to her feet, cradling her body against his. She shivered again with the electric contact; it was incredible how intensely she could feel him, how his flesh, even now, burned hers, how it made her dizzy, ready to fall against him and accept his touch all over.

“Come on,” he murmured, and he set off toward the water with her hand firmly grasped within his. Totally disoriented simply by the feel of his body against hers, she followed without protest. He was comfortable, completely unselfconscious of his own nakedness. He wouldn’t allow her to be self-conscious of her own … and after the way she had responded to him, it would surely be absurd for her to profess modesty now.

But just before they reached the opposite shore, he swept her into his arms again. And there, in the water that reached her midriff, he made love to her again, and once he touched her, she felt powerless to stop him. His attraction was undeniable; she couldn’t attempt to lie to either him or herself. He turned to take her hand, laughing with the devil in his eyes, and bent to kiss. And then his hands cradled her buttocks, lifting her, and she was once more lost to the delirium of his demanding sensuality.

But when he procured the small splits of wine, she laughingly insisted they return to her side of the shore. And as she employed all her wiles to keep from any serious discussion, she feigned a growing exhaustion, until she once more lay against his massive chest wishing that they could speak seriously, that she could invite him home to dinner, that she could get to know him, that she could have him forever.

But she had a man, a very good and decent man, and if he wasn’t already at the inn, he would be there soon. And even if she didn’t know whether she loved him or not, she could never appear before him suddenly with another man. She owed Marc a certain loyalty.

Loyalty! She laughed bitterly to herself. Loyalty! I have been with a man twice whose name I don’t know, and the only excuse I can come up with is a spell?

Her face flooded red with shame, yet still she couldn’t regret the experience. She had never known passion like that before. It had been destiny they should meet, that she should learn just how rapturously beautiful it could be to be with a man.

She suddenly discovered she was crying as she lay against his chest. How she had needed him. Perhaps that had been part of the spell. And it had all happened so quickly.

With the tears sliding silently down her cheeks, she continued to feign sleep. She felt the subtle change in his chest when he too dozed. I can run now, she thought, but I don’t think I can ever escape this encounter.

Her eyes closed as she rested with him, waiting for his sleep to become deep. But then her wait became her own downfall; comfortable, uniquely secure and sweetly exhausted, she slept. When she awoke, darkness had almost thoroughly descended. Only the moon’s glitter upon the pond shed light.

She was alone; her cloak lay around her shoulders.

She jolted to a sitting position, staring around her. There was nothing, no sign of human habitation other than herself.

Shivering, she strained her eyes across the pond. There was no sign of a man with the naked beauty of a barbarian … no sign of anything.

Mystified, she covered her eyes with her hands and groaned. Was I dreaming? She blushed with the thought; surely it was impossible to dream anything so erotic, so full of thought and detail …?

Or am I seeing things?

I’ve gone crazy. I must have gone crazy.

“Oh, God!” she groaned aloud, clenching her teeth. Which would be better? she wondered bitterly: to convince herself she was losing her mind and envisioning things, or realize and accept the fact that she had just made love with a total stranger?

She began to shake. No, she told herself. He had been real. He had been wearing cutoffs. He had offered her wine in twentieth century splits. No one could imagine, or envision, or dream such an interlude.

Marc would tell her that she was recalling things, emotions from the past, that she had been having insight and adding the contemporary pieces with her mind. Marc was the one who believed in spells and ghosts and strange quirks of the mind. He would tell her that she had dreamed up someone’s tumultuous past.

Marc. The man she was dating. The man she supposedly cared for.

She could never tell Marc about this!

If she had been dreaming, she assured herself, it had been a normal dream—one a psychiatrist might have a heyday with—but otherwise normal.

It was dark. They were supposed to be in Boston by ten, and she was late.

She jumped to her feet, drawing her cloak about her. Even without the moonlight, she would have found the almost invisible path between the trees. She started running.

She stumbled, gasping. Her eyes turned upward; a full moon rode the sky.

Witches’ moon was what they called it.

She choked back a little cry and started running once more through the woods she knew so well.

Soon she reached her home, entering the inn by the rear “false” door and following the hidden staircase, Eleanora’s staircase, to her room. She had barely closed the door behind her and started to run her bath when she heard a gentle tap at the door.

“Serena,” Martha Heyer, her housekeeper, chef, and all-around friend and confidante, called softly. “Marc is here.”

“Thanks, Martha!” Serena called out, willing her teeth not to chatter. “Tell him just a few minutes.”

“Sure thing, sweetie,” Martha returned. “But he seems mighty nervous about this dinner. I’d hurry if I were you.”