Jessica

Jessica

A woman who under a waxing moon first chooses to bed

Will soon be happy, healthy, wealthy, and wed.

Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips

Was I surprised when Derrick Winters started kissing me?

No.

Was I happy about it?

Yes.

It’s what I’d been willing him to do all evening. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t reading my signals. How much more obvious did I have to be?

But once he finally got the message, he got it good.

For once I was glad that all of my neighbors went to bed right after Jeopardy! They’d be shocked enough if they found out I was entertaining a strange male witch in the house.

They’d have been even more shocked if they’d happened to look through my living room windows and seen what he was doing to me.

And what he was doing to me was filthy . . . which was exactly what I wanted. No sooner had he pulled my body to his and brought his lips down over mine then he was dragging those same lips along the side of my neck, shoving away the silk of my kimono in order to expose the tender skin just above my breasts and then greedily kissing that, too, causing all the nerve endings in my body to detonate. My nipples became hard as rocks, and he knew it. I knew he knew it because I felt a sudden corresponding hardness under the fly of his jeans.

Oh, yes.

If any of my neighbors had happened to be out past their bedtimes walking their dog and glanced through my window at that point, they’d have seen Derrick tugging at the buttons on the front of my pajama top in order to get at those nipples. Eager as I was to have his hands and lips all over me, I had to object.

Boom! That’s what the eruption felt like in my head—and between my legs—when his hand found my breast. If I’d thought his callused fingers on the bare skin of my knee that afternoon had felt amazing, that was nothing compared to the sensations that coursed through me when his callused palm closed over my nipple.

My knees buckled. I couldn’t hold myself up. This was a first for me: I’ve never been brought to my knees by the touch of a man.

But I didn’t mind, and he didn’t seem to, either. Always the protector, he had an arm wrapped around my waist, which kept me from falling to the floor. Instead, he sank gently with me. Thank God we were now below windowpane level.

And thank God for the blue hand-knotted rug I’d bought so many years ago and laid in front of the fireplace. I hadn’t realized how soft the wool was—soft enough for my purposes, anyway. And his, too, it turned out, which appeared to be leaning my body back and caressing and kneading and stroking every inch of it, first through my pajamas, and then, quite suddenly, without them . . . though I had no idea where they’d gone, or how they’d been removed.

I heartily approved of their removal, however, and showed him my appreciation by twining my fingers into his long, thick hair and bringing his mouth down where his hand had been seconds before.

For a moment or two, I thought I was going to pass out from the sensation of his tongue on my bare nipple. I don’t think I’d ever felt anything so good as that searing heat . . . until, a second later, his fingers dipped between my legs.

I died and went to heaven.

Okay, not really. But it felt like it. It felt like my birthday, a gigantic bag of Halloween chocolates, and my first taste of ice cream on a hot summer’s day all rolled into one. Only better.

Especially when I lifted my head and saw that his clothes were gone, too, and that in the warm golden glow of the firelight I could make out every detail of his strong, muscular body, from his long, solid legs to the tattoo I’d been so curious about on the inside of his right arm. It was the symbol of Gaia, the same one we each wore around our neck. Only the one on his arm was entwined with colorful flowers: a bright yellow dandelion for healing, a white orchid for strength, purple periwinkle for protection, silver rue for witchcraft, and deep red poppies for love.

Nice.

But that wasn’t all. His chest was covered with crisp golden hair that tapered down to a V where, oh my God, I very much approved of not only what he had going on where that V tapered to, but also what was happening above it, too, because instead of the ultraflat six-pack too many of the guys I’d dated worked out for, Derrick had something that had become all too rare: a tiny belly. Not a beer belly. Just a sweet little ledge in the exact right place where a witch such as myself might need a little friction . . .

But this was fine, because a few seconds later, that mouth of his had slid down . . . way down, until I felt his whiskered cheeks between my thighs.

And if I’d thought the sensation of his lips on my nipple had felt like heaven, well, that was nothing compared to what I felt when his tongue began to explore the softest—and now wettest—part of me. Gasping, I gripped twin handfuls of the rug, heat from the fire beside us and a fire he seemed to be igniting deep inside me making me certain my heart was about to burst into flames.

But what burst instead was a dam of pure sensual delight. It poured over me like a tidal wave, sweet and cooling . . . and continued to sweep me up in its soft blue peaks as Derrick clung to my thighs with both his lips and his hands.

It wasn’t until a few moments later, when the tsunami had receded, that I became conscious of a chiming. It was the first time a man I’d slept with had rung my bell so hard, I could actually hear it tolling inside my head.

Then I opened my eyes and saw him looking down at me with an amused expression on his face.