Good night. Thanks for dinner.”
“But I know you’re attracted to me,” he said stubbornly.
“So? What if I am?” she yelled. “I’m swamped! I’ve got money problems, I’ve got pet problems, I’ve got Snakey the Sicko Maniac sending me presents from the Crypt. I don’t need man trouble, too!”
“I’m not—”
“I don’t have the time or energy for a boyfriend! I can’t even handle my relationship with my dog right now!”
He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not suggesting—”
“I don’t do one night stands, either. I can’t deal with no strings sex. So where does that leave us?” She answered her own question just as his lips moved to respond to it. “Nowhere! Nothing more to discuss! So? Buh-bye, OK?”
He pulled out his wallet, took out a card and laid it on the counter. “Call me if you get any more presents from the Crypt.”
He headed for the door. Not hurrying, not embarrassed, not pissed. She almost wished he would slam it. It would make her feel like she’d gotten past his guard, scored some sort of a point against him.
He didn’t. She hadn’t. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
The dark pressed hard against her windows now that she had only the gently snoring Mikey for company.
She felt so flat as she brushed her teeth and set the alarm clock. Let down, after all that fizzy tension. Nothing to do but try to get some rest, but she tossed and twisted on her thin pallet.
She felt hot, restless. Tormented by an ache of sensual yearning.
All she needed to make her misery complete.
God, how she wanted her life back. To be Mag Callahan again, with her nice little house on the lake, her web design business that had finally been humming along after years of patient struggling. Her sharp wardrobe, her wine rack, her stained glass lamp, her orthopedic mattress, her Social Security number, her credit cards. Her future.
She wanted her girlfriends. To watch chick flick DVD’s on her big squishy couch while pigging out on chips and margaritas with Jenny and Chris and Pia. She was even nostalgic about the problems she used to stress about. Dates, or lack thereof. Panty lines. Calories. PMS. Tax write-offs. Ants in the kitchen. Mold on the bathroom grout. Hah.
She wanted to cancel out the ugly memories in her head.
She felt so small and powerless. Sex was unthinkable under those conditions, but that didn’t stop her longing to be touched.
Wrecked as she was, she couldn’t even remember how it felt to be confident enough to take on a guy like McCloud. Maybe she never had been. He was so damn big, after all. Ultra-macho. She’d always made a point of staying away from those types. They were way too problematic.
She had to let her sexual imagination run hog wild to encompass the idea of sex with Davy McCloud. The farther from reality, the better. Along the lines of…a barbarian queen and her captured enemy warrior. Yeah. That was just silly and improbable enough to work. Him wearing nothing but a sword belt and a raggedy loincloth over his manly parts. Chained hand and foot, eyes hot with helpless fury. Fresh out of battle, all jacked up and desperate. Yummy. This could be really good.
And herself, sporting lots of cleavage in a teeny weeny chain mail bikini top. A filmy skirt slit up to both thighs dangling from her jewel-studded belt. She dreamed her hair back to its original coppery red, grew it out to instant hip length, slathered on makeup; shadowy bronze tints that made her look feverish and slutty. Like the covers of those fantasy novels she used to devour, except that she was the one brandishing the sword looking tough, and he was the one on his knees, clutching her thigh. The image was so silly, it made her giggle.
Big mistake. The laughter shoved her almost over the edge into tears. She rolled over, pressing her hot face into the pillow, and slid her hand into her panties. She was wet already, squirming around a damp glow of arousal. She didn’t even need the vibrator. She was teetering on the brink of a screaming orgasm just thinking about his eyes.
She shut her eyes tightly, caught her clit between two fingers, and clenched her trembling thighs together. She had to get some relief from this ache. It scared her. Her whole damned life scared her.
The barbarian queen wasn’t scared. She had the power to enforce her slightest whim. Armies at her beck and call. Lucky her.
Exotic images formed, broke, and reformed in her head. McCloud on his knees, his eyes furious. Unable to hide his excitement under that skimpy loincloth. She imagined touching him as she caressed herself, her hands sliding over his tense, straining muscles, his hot face.
He was slick with sweat, trembling. She slid her hand beneath the loincloth, grasped his hard penis and stroked it boldly. He jerked, gasped, arched back in a helpless spasm of pleasure.
Images blurred and shifted in her mind, the myriad possibilities pulling her in every direction. The fantasy refocused. She stood over him naked, legs wide, his face cupped in her hands. Telling him with her eyes, get to work, soldier, and make it good for me if you know what’s good for you.
And it was. Oh, it was. She’d never had a fantasy so clear, every nerve alive and thrumming like it was actually happening. His strong tongue thrust and lapped, sliding up and down her slit and suckling her ravenously, and the glorious feeling was building, higher and hotter, almost there, almost…there…
The tension dropped a notch, and left her dangling. Unfulfilled.
She was furious. This was bizarre. She’d never been so turned on in her life. It made no sense at all that she couldn’t make herself come.
Onward, take two. Segue to the lavish, curtained bed, the light of a flickering fire. He was stark naked now, tied with silken cords to the carved posts. First she went the kinky route and had a bunch of her sexy barbarian ladies-in-waiting teasing and tormenting him to prepare him for the main event. That lasted about a nanosecond. She sent the silly bitches packing. Poof, they disappeared.
This one was for her alone. Every last drop of him.
The silent room was charged with desperate tension. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the low, strangled moans of the man beneath her. He writhed, cords standing out on his neck, muscles hard and flexing with desperate tension against his bonds, but she was merciless. She gripped his penis in her oiled hands, sliding her hands up and down his shaft, swirling and squeezing her fist around the swollen head. Hypnotizing even herself with the rhythmic caress.
It was time. She straddled him, guided his penis to the soft, swollen opening of her sex, and flung her head back with a moan of delight as she forced herself over the thick, throbbing club. Taking him, claiming him. She stared down into his eyes, silently demanding that he acknowledge her supremacy.
He would not. He bucked and writhed, pounding up into her body, but his eyes stared back up, glittering bright and wild and absolutely unconquered.
And the orgasm kept eluding her. She would get so close, heart pounding, ready to fling herself into that well of dark oblivion, and suddenly, whoosh, gone. It evaporated, and he gazed up at her, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. He was doing this on purpose.
Damn him. This was
