Sea Witch (4 page)

She cupped him, shaped him through his jeans, making this little

hum of satisfaction in her throat, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. He

was so screwed. Or he would be soon if he didn’t do something about it.

Her hand explored, setting him on fire, threatening to send his

careful plans up in smoke.

He speared his fingers into her hair, tugging back her head so he

could see her face. She met his gaze boldly, those wide eyes dark with

knowledge and desire, a tiny smile curving that slick, red mouth.

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Why would he want to do anything to derail what could be the best

fantasy sex of his life?

She wasn’t an insurgent or a victim, a Third World prostitute or his

ex-wife. She wasn’t like anyone he had ever known. He could do

whatever he wanted with her. Whatever she wanted.

His blood hammered through his body, thundered in his ears. And

for whatever reason, she wanted . . . him.

Cradling the back of her head, he took her mouth with his. Hot. Her

kiss was sweet and hot, her skin warm and damp with desire. Her hands

left him to reach behind her own back. He fought his disappointment. But

then the tiny triangles of her swimsuit tumbled to her lap, freeing her

breasts to his gaze. To his touch. He covered them with his palms, testing

their shape, their weight, their mind-blowing softness.

She tugged at his buckle, fumbled briefly with his zipper. He pushed

her hands aside to help, standing between her legs as she perched on the

picnic table.

His own hands trembled.
A little overeager there
,
Ace
. Would she

notice? Or would she be too distracted, too revolted, by the purple waffle

weave of scar tissue on his thigh to care about his reactions?

But she didn’t comment on his scars. She shoved down his jeans and

his briefs, freeing his bobbing erection, and squeezed his bare ass. Like

she wanted this. Wanted him, scars and all.

Incredible.

He had just enough brains left to dig in his sagging pocket for his

wallet.

Margred frowned as he pulled out the condom. “We don’t need

that.”

He glanced down at his dark erection, thrusting against the

shadowed curve of her belly, and fought to keep his tone light. “Looks to

me like we will soon.”

She laughed, and his tension eased.

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“I meant, I have no diseases,” she explained.

“Me either,” he said. The Army poked and prodded, tested and

treated for everything. And since his discharge there had been no one.

With one finger she traced from the coarse hair at his groin all along

his length to the blunt, sensitive tip. A different tension gripped him.

“Yes, you look . . . healthy.”

Except for the jagged purple scar running up his thigh, the pins and

plates holding him together, he was fine.

The sight of her slender, stroking finger almost drove the words from

his head. “You could still get pregnant.”

“No,” she said, and stooped, and replaced her hand with her mouth.

His body jolted as if he’d been struck by lightning. Her hair tumbled

over his thigh, brushed his belly, as she took him deep. The hot, wet

suction shut down his brain. Heat built in the back of his head, in the base

of his balls. He was losing it. He was losing control.

Pushing her flat on the picnic table, he gripped her knees. He needed

to be with her. In her. Closer. Now.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He froze.

She slid her arms out of his jacket sleeves and then wriggled out of

her bikini bottoms. He stared. She had no tan lines. No tan at all. She was

all smooth muscles and full curves, her small, pink nipples and thick,

dark bush in startling contrast to her creamy skin.

She lay back and smiled at him. “Now.”

Yes
.

His barriers crashed. His control crumbled. He spread her thighs

wide. She was ready. Wet.

Good
.

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He wanted to make it good for her. He wanted to make it last.

But she gripped him with her sweet, feminine heat and small, strong

hands, and her hips rose to take him, all of him, and the need that drove

him surged and broke. She moved with him and under him with grunts

and little cries, her breasts swaying as he thrust into her. Her thighs

tightened around his waist. Her bare heels rode his buttocks. He clutched

her like a drowning man, his head spinning, his chest heaving. Sweat

slicked them both. He was shuddering, shaking, falling apart. He felt her

crest take her, felt her arch and flow around him, and in the wake of her

release he let go, he gave it up, he gave everything up to her.

He bowed his head, his mind emptied. His body, emptied.
At peace
.

The sound of the surf drummed in his ears like the echo of his

heartbeat. A sea breeze snuck through the trees and tickled his bare ass.

His pants were crumpled around his knees.

He raised his head.

She lay quietly, her sleek, pale body spread out like some exotic

picnic against the weathered wood, watching him with gleaming eyes in

the firelight.

He wanted to give her . . . something. Tell her something. Thank her.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know her.

“Caleb,” he said.

Her level dark brows arched. “What?”

“My name,” he told her. “It’s Caleb.”

Margred did not need to know his name. She did not want to know

anything about him. She chose human males for sex because they had

short lives and even shorter attention spans.

But this one ...

He regarded her with his sad, steady eyes, his hard, scarred body still

lodged within hers, and something inside her softened and opened like a

sea anemone in the tide.

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He had worked her well. Her muscles felt loose and relaxed. The

prickle in her blood was satisfied. She could give him at least a pretense

of interest in return.

“Caleb,” she repeated, testing his name. Tasting it, as she had tasted

him.

He smiled faintly. “Caleb Michael Hunter.”

Michael
, the demon scourge. And
hunter
. . . Unease tweaked her.

She ignored it.

“Those are warrior names,” she observed politely.

“I guess.” He shrugged. “I was in the Guard.”

“You were a soldier?” That would explain the scars, she thought.

And the wounded, wary look in those eyes.

“In Iraq.”

She nodded as if she understood. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His mouth set. “No.”

“Good.” She wiggled under him. “Neither do I.”

Humor lit his face, banishing the shadows from his eyes. “Well,

we’ve got to find something to do for the next twenty minutes, Maggie

girl. You destroyed me.”

She had not.

She could. She could make him respond to her, force him to service

her, empty him out like a clamshell. But his humor pleased her, and his

wry self-deprecation.

Releasing him, she stretched and sat up. “You brought food, you

said?”

He stood unmoving, with his pants around his knees, as she combed

her fingers through her hair. The firelight slid over his strong, man’s

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body: broad, hairy chest; flat, ridged abdomen; heavy genitals. Quite

lovely, really.

“Sandwiches,” he said. “And a bottle of wine.”

“Well, then.” She smiled at him.

He laughed and shook his head, hitching his pants over his hips. “I

thought you weren’t hungry.”

“Maybe you’ve given me an appetite.”

And for more than food.

She did not seek the company of her own kind. She and her mate had

lived apart. Most selkies, like the harbor seals they resembled, were

solitary. Even on land, in human form, they rarely touched except to

mate. As their numbers dwindled and their ocean territories expanded,

they barely interacted outside of Sanctuary, where the king’s son kept

court.

But this mortal male—
My name is Caleb
, he had said— attracted her

like a fire on the beach. She was drawn to the deep sea green of his eyes,

tempted to linger by the timbre of his voice.

I thought we could spend some time getting to know one another
.

Impossible. The less he knew, the happier he would be. The safer

she would be.

And yet . . .

He poked the fire, sending sparks shooting into the dark, and added

another log. He’d brought a blanket, which he draped over the table.

“I should have done this before,” he said.

“Why?”

“You don’t have splinters?”

She laughed. “No. My . . . skirt protected me.”

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He was a careful man, she thought, watching him lay their dinner

like an offering against the plaid blanket. Deliberate. Thorough. Good

qualities in a lover, although his attention to detail could prove

inconvenient. If he guessed . . . If he suspected . . .

But he wouldn’t. Even the legends of her kind were fading from

human memory. Centuries ago, every unwed village girl with an

unplanned baby on the way, every sailor hauled up on shore after a storm,

blamed or blessed the selkies for their situation—rightly or not. But in

this new world, in this new time, the old explanations would never be

believed.

Caleb set a sandwich in front of her. She bit into it, savoring the

textures and tastes on her tongue. Lobster, well . . . She could always get

lobster. But bread was a delicacy. “This is delicious. You made this for

me?”

“I bought it. From Antonia’s.” He popped the lid from a plastic

container and held it out to her. “You ever eat there?”

Her heart picked up a beat. He might not accept the truth, but he was

definitely seeking some explanation. “No.”

“You should. If you’re planning on staying.”

She pretended not to hear the question in his voice. “What is this?

Shrimp?”

“Tortellini salad.” But Caleb was not so easily deflected. “Where do

you live, Maggie?”

She hooked a shrimp from the container and licked her fingers. His

gaze narrowed on her mouth. Either he remembered her lips, her tongue

on his body, or she should have used a fork.

“Not so far away. Though I was born in Scotland,” she said. That

should satisfy him. It was even mostly true.

“Scotland,” he repeated, pouring something into her glass. Wine, she

guessed, from the bottle and the scent: fruity, tangy, smelling of earth and

yet not unpleasant.

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“The Orkney Islands. Off the north coast.” She lifted her chin, daring

him to disbelieve her. “I like to travel.”

“How long are you staying here?”

But she wasn’t trapped so easily. “I haven’t decided.”

He grinned unexpectedly, the lightning expression at odds with his

serious eyes. A knot hitched in her belly. Desire, yes, but something

more, something . . . else. “Maybe I can help you make up your mind,” he

said.

Oh, this was a dangerous game they were playing. She liked it.

She sipped her wine, tilted her head. “Help me stay? Or help me

go?”

Their gazes locked. Without speaking, he stood and moved around

the table. Removing the glass from her hand, he set it on the blanket,

lowered himself to the bench beside her, and pressed his mouth to hers.

He smelled of wood smoke, soap, and sex, and tasted like the wine, cool

and earthy. She opened her mouth wider to take more of him in,

frustrated when he broke their kiss to press warm lips to the arch of her

eyebrow, the curve of her cheekbone, the hollow of her jaw. Could he

feel her pulse under his lips?

“Stay,” he murmured.

She flushed, flooded with the familiar awareness of her own

feminine power and the novel thrill of his seduction.

Of course she would not stay.

Her kind never did, unless they were tricked or taken, stripped of

their pelts and their power to return to the sea.

But it was sweet to be wanted so.

His mouth cruised her neck and shoulder, leaving her nerve endings

alive and shivering in its wake. She tipped her head to give him better

access, and he pulled her close, half hauling, half lifting her onto his lap.

His chest was muscled, solid against her shoulder, his flesh hard and

eager against her hip. He ran his hands over her, learning her, exploring

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breast and belly and thigh, as she lay sprawled across him like kelp over

the rocks, warmed by the sun, moving in the tide. She was all open to

him, naked and open, and he was tucked away, zipped behind stiff denim.

He spread her with his fingers, pressing down, pushing in. Quick as