Cold shower time.
THE COLD SHOWER DOESnothing. Noth. Ing. In fact, I’m back to that cozy night in Sligo, imagining a cold, dreary fog outside, winds howling—and inside, Jared and I are in front of a fire, spooning in a nest of thick blankets.
Shivering from my cold shower, I throw on some pajamas and tell myself to let the fantasy go.
I meant go away, but my brain (traitor) thought I meant “go on.”
When I close my eyes, it’s like I can feel him against me, his thick arm around my slender middle, naked bodies pressed together... His hand plays over my hips. Dips between them.
His lips are on my neck, and his soft voice asks if I feel good as he slowly teases my wetness around my entrance and up to my clit.
He’s a scientist. A researcher. He’s going to learn my body to perfection.
My fingers slide between my thighs as I lie on my back, eyes closed, mimicking the motions I want to feel. Gentle, tender, helpful... until I tell him otherwise. I feel like he’s a person who wants to please.
My fingers begin to increase in tempo, pounding and rocking against my mound as I grind my hips against my hand. I want him. I want to please him, too. Unwrap him like the gift he is...
If he’s really meant for me, that is.
Your magic may wreck a lot of things, but this is one place where it might have helped. Come on. Come on and believe that this might work.
“Come on” turns tocome. Turns to“Come for me, Jared”.Turns from little whispers in my head to full-throated cries that I wonder if he can hear across the alleyway—and I’m too lost in lust and dreams to care.
Notes And Hazards: Courting a Banshee
Ihear Chloe moaning like she is next to me. Right. Next. To. Me. I was in bed when I heard it, and I looked over, expecting to see her lying on the empty pillow beside me. Nope. She’s across the street, but somehow still in my head.
I’m kind of glad she isn’t next to me at the moment, because I’m going to burst. I’m as hard and thick as a log of hardsoppressata. I tried to cool off after she left. I even tried a cold shower. It did nothing but make me think insanely inappropriate thoughts about the woman who sang one song and promptly took over my heart and life. Thoughts about her warm pussy wrapping around me, about our bodies rubbing together until the sweat builds, about us bursting together...
My hand starts pumping, and I’m feeling ways I haven’t felt since my honeymoon, and I can hear her sweet, heartrending song in my mind—and then I hear her moaning again. Soft, at first, then louder. It becomes a shout of “Come for me, Jared!” and I obey, shaking and stunned at how fast and hard it happens.
Did she really say that? Did she scream that into the night, or inside my head?
Doesn’t matter, because it’s not like I can go rush across the street and show her that I’m a good listener. Not until tonight.
“I’D LIKE A DOZEN ROSES, please. And a vase to put them in.” The floral counter in the Fresh Mart is my last stop for the morning. I have a dozen eggs, three kinds of cheese, seventy dollars worth of charcuterie board assemblage, flour, fennel, onion, garlic, tomatoes, basil, oregano, and two pounds of ground beef. My Nana’s recipe (scanned into the family shared drive from the mess of handwritten recipes on scraps of paper, backs of envelopes, and clipped, faded magazine pages) is already up on my tablet, waiting for me to get to work. I’m glad I have the day off. I’m making homemade pasta from scratch.
“Someone has a romantic night ahead of him,” says the little lady who works the balloons and flowers counter in the corner.
“I hope so,” I say with a nervous smile. What about a dessert? We need a dessert. And a salad. “Can you have that ready in a couple of minutes? I forgot something.”
“Oh, ho. Better not forget anything important,” she smiles, unspooling white and purple paper to wrap the roses in.
Anything important. I nod and head towards the bakery, but stop at the healthcare aisle. Do I get condoms?
No. I swerve away, back to the produce. That would be ungentlemanly and super presumptuous.
Come for me, Jared!
Chloe’s screams of delight echo in my head and dance down my spine. “Shoot. Nope, nope, nope.”
I have to separate dreams from reality.
Why? asks my inner wiseass. Banshees and magic spells don’t belong in reality either, but—
“Excuse me, sorry.”
I turn and almost bite off my tongue. There’s a huge, greenish-gray man towering over me—and I’m already tall. His skin is a net of fine scars and stitches. His dark hair is long enough to almost cover circular burns at the juncture of his head and throat. “I— I...”
