Freeing the Witch Read online

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” He leaned back in the bed, and her magic allowed him to put his arms behind his head. To put himself on display and stretch his chest to tease her. “Step out of that darkness, Emaula.”

  Emaula still hesitated and looked back into her room. She wasn’t sure she wanted him. Maybe she wasn’t sure she wanted to play this game with the kitchen boy. Then she looked back at him and smiled. She closed the door to her room, and Porter breathed a little easier. She’d stay.

  “You know, I … I didn’t even realize I was wearing this.” Emaula swayed a little, fluttering the darkness as if it were a dress. Then she licked her lips nervously. The shadows slipped away from her pale swan’s neck, slithered off her soft, supple shoulders. It hung there a moment, modestly refusing to slide off her breasts.

  He wanted to crawl to her and yank the darkness away, to drag her into his arms and into the bed and fuck her. But the heaviness of her magic pinned him so that even moving his hands from behind his head was too much of a challenge.

  She made a little noise, something between a nervous laugh and a whimper. Then, she stepped forward. She stared at the floor in silence as the shadow elegantly surrendered and left her naked. Yet … somehow modest because she kept her hands clasped tightly before her. Her wrists and fingers twisted in shy knots that cast lean shadows between her full thighs. And her forearms covered the teardrops of her breasts. After a long moment, she lifted her gaze to him with a kind of plea in it, like she wanted him to say something, like she was uncertain what to do next.

  Oh. She’d never done this before. Or if she had, part of her fantasy was that she hadn’t.

  But if Emaula wanted him to take over, why did she keep him pinned down with her magic? He tried to open his arms with an invitation, but the effort was like swimming through gravel. So, he relaxed into the pillows, maintaining a natural smile while he figured out what the fuck this shy, sexy woman wanted. “What are you doing over there if you wanna touch me, Emaula?”

  She blushed and came back to kneel next to him. Raised her hands to touch him, but trembled as if he were dangerous. He tried to lift his hands, to touch her instead. But now, he’d utterly frozen in this cocky pose. Her magic must have liked the look of him with his hands behind his head. He didn’t work to stay in fighting shape like Half-Ear, and he wasn’t as skinny as Sock, but when he flexed his arms and stretched his chest out, his belly muscles tightened. The witch moaned a little, and her eyes wandered over his body.

  Porter smiled wryly and said nothing.

  “You’re a terrible tease, Porter,” she accused him.

  Only because that’s what she wanted. He embraced the role and deliberately ogled her back. Damn, he wished he could touch her. “So? Tease back.”

  Emaula nervously giggled again. Then laid her cool, soft hands on his stomach. Her fingers quaked as if he were forbidden, as if this gentlest graze might kill them both. Porter ached to understand her hesitation, but he worried he’d send her running if he asked. And he did want her. Probably. He’d know his mind better in the morning.

  But he wouldn’t ask about her uncertainty. It’s not like women wanted him for his words.

  The tips of her fingers tickled across his abdomen, traced the soft ridges of his muscles, brushed the curls of black hair across his dark skin. The half-moon of her fingers raked lower until they reached the black sheet. She touched the silk to move it, to see him naked, then drew back. Still, her touch left a little spiral of white that kept spreading. She changed all the unreal elements of the world when she contacted them.

  Emaula stared for a moment at the rise in the sheet below his belly. Porter silently willed her to free his cock, to stroke and touch and kiss it.

  But she was afraid to go down, so her hands went back up, sliding over his ribs and pausing under his pectorals. She wanted to squeeze, maybe to kiss, but she feared even looking.

  Daintily she brushed over his nipples and made a tentative little circle as if she were simply following the path of his hair and not deliberately investigating his erogenous zones. He moaned and arched closer. The woman smiled slightly, and a little more boldly circled her hand over his heart and rubbed his nipple.

  Her other touches stirred a slow flow of desire, a slow crawling like magma. But this nervous flutter struck him like lightning and crackled under his skin. His loud moan startled her, and she trembled but did not move her hands away. He wished she would lean over him and kiss him. Or rub her breasts against him. Or climb on his cock and fuck herself into oblivion. That’d be damned wonderful.

  Instead, her hands traveled up his arms, spreading her little trail of fire. The faint pressure raked up his collarbone toward his shoulders and over his flexed muscles. She dwelt there a moment tracing her fingers over his upper arms, accidentally tickling him as she slipped her fingers down across his soft inner arm and toward his side.

  When he chuckled, she jerked her hands back as if she’d been struck. She was so skittish she didn’t even dare to lift her gaze back to his face. He thought she would apologize, but when she saw his smug smile, she laughed at herself.

  The witch reached out to touch him again. This time her fingers tangled in his hair, gliding just over the surface as if his curls were a foreign jungle. And compared to the river of gold flowing around her shoulder, maybe it was. He tried to lift his hands to touch her hair, but there was no use. She did not want him to move, and so he could not.

  Her hands, bolder now, moved from his hair over his forearms, over his elbows, and down to his sides again. Her gaze constantly traveled over his body, but her hands forged a distinct path down his body. She paused only briefly when her fingertips reached the sheet. Then after making a dry sound of longing, she slowly pushed the silk down.

  The white of her magic spread through the sheet as the black fabric slithered over his hips. Slowly she inched it down his thighs, the silk licking his bare skin like a cool, slick tongue. His cock strained against the sliding silk, and Emaula watched his shaft emerge pressed down by the now white sheet.

  Porter watched her face, enamored with the constant war between her curiosity, her lust, and her timidity. None of the birds in a cage had been quite this careful with him, especially not on their first visit.

  Emaula’s mouth opened with an almost academic interest when his cock finally won its battle with the sheet and sprang away from the silk. Porter smirked as she daintily brushed her fingers over his shaft and studied it, touching the head and tipping the length of it from hand to hand. The delicate touches were almost too studious to be erotic. Until she gave a gentle squeeze and his cock reminded him, in a splinter of pleasure, just how much he could want a woman.

  His growl of desire made her flinch, and then she laughed a little.

  “I think I’m the tease now…”

  Porter looked up at her with her perfect breasts and her beautiful face and her soft untouchable skin. “Yeah.”

  He swallowed the rawness of his desire and tried to soften his growling need. He smiled plaintively. “And here I thought you were a nice witch. Not the kind to torture poor helpless kitchen-boys.”

  Emaula’s smile grew, though she seemed uncertain how to respond. Maybe she was fighting through her lust to speak, too. “What should I do to apologize for the, um…”

  She was just too shy to play this game and stumbled for the right word. “For the … for torturing you?”

  Porter tried again to move his arms. He wanted to cradle her, to kiss her, to tilt her back and lavish attention on her breasts, to take control of this sex and give her the fucking she deserved. Instead, her magic held him still and helpless. “You could straddle me.”

  Emaula looked at him as if he had spoken in another language, then nodded and shifted toward him. She hesitated again, looking at his face as if to ask permission again or maybe to beg for his patience or to plead for further instruction.

  Very cautiously, as if worried she’d break herself on his body if she were not
careful, Emaula crawled over his legs. She kneeled over him, resting on his legs so that his cock pulsed between her thighs. Achingly far from the warm home it wanted so badly. The witch filled her trembling hands with his sides and stomach, but stared at his cock, making it ache and long for her.

  The scent of her sex was maddening. She craved him. How had she controlled herself? How had she not burst into this room and leaped on him? She needed this so badly.

  Would she be angry if he asked to be freed? He tried to form the words to beg her to let him make love to her. No, that was too bold. He should request permission to touch her. He could promise to treat her well. But the words were far away, especially when he could smell the sweetness of her need and feel the wet kiss of her sex just beyond his cock.

  Emaula stroked his face, and he lifted his gaze. Her eyes were so blue he could not tell if it was real or a trick of this dream world.

  “Will you kiss me?” he asked her and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Such a silly request. Porter loved kissing. Few of the witches had any patience for it. Hell, few of the village girls he’d been with had the patience for kissing. Too much in a hurry to see, to touch, to feel his cock inside them. Too afraid that someone—maybe Porter—would stop them from enjoying his body if they didn’t take what they wanted from him immediately.

  But Emaula answered his silly request with a warm smile. She leaned over him to kiss his mouth. Her nearness pressed her breasts against his chest and let her hair fall against his face. Everything about her was so soft and beautiful. He melted into her kiss.

  Her mouth was warm, lips closed in an innocent greeting. When he sighed his longing, she smiled, ever so slightly. He lifted his head to push the kiss deeper. She parted her lips then and closed them over his upper lip. Her tongue grazed teasingly over him, and then she sucked.

  Rapidly he was becoming delirious with need. He arched his hips to rub his cock between her legs, to wet his tip with her slick sex.

  Emaula gasped, startled. Then she shuddered and reached down to squeeze his shaft.

  And lead him into her body.

  Porter groaned his approval and surrendered to the pleasure—not like he’d ever put up a fight against something that felt good. He couldn’t tell which was better, the luscious tight, wet warmth cradling his cock, or the utter ecstasy on Emaula’s face as she took him inside. She trembled with delight and the shiver surrounded his shaft. Her mouth formed a shocked O when he twitched his cock inside her, and she bit her lip to control her expression.

  Emaula forgot her shyness and groped his chest so she could straighten her back and sway her hips back and forth over him. Porter let her play for a while, watching her explore the union between their bodies. Then, when the teasing was too much, he shocked her again by thrusting up, pushing deeper.

  She gasped, startled. Then grinned wildly.

  Emaula imitated his gesture and rode his cock. The witch quickly lost herself to the wantonness of her pleasure. She ground hard, squeezed his shoulders his sides, his chest searching for the best grip on his body. She reveled in his cock, abandoning her nervous glances and her fearful hesitations in exchange for raw sex.

  She gasped and groaned when she began to orgasm. The release electrified her, and she shuddered and danced with each new jolt of pleasure.

  These young witches had no patience. No ability to savor sex. If he could have, Porter would have grabbed her hips and slowed her manic movements, let her melt into one orgasm before he brought her to the next. But since he was trapped, merely a tool for her release, Porter had no control over her frantic ecstasy.

  And little control over his own. This moonlight woman was an overwhelmingly erotic experience. The dance of her breasts, the song of her panting as she discovered new heights of pleasure, the irresistible fragrance of her sex in full bloom. It pushed him faster than he would have liked, but when Porter flooded with relief inside her, Emaula gave a cry of pure and exquisite pleasure tipped off the edge of her final orgasm.

  The dream shattered into pieces. The new whiteness of the sheet filled the whole world and then in the flicker of her exhausted and contented sigh, the darkness returned. For a moment, her blue eyes smiled down at Porter, full of gratitude and affection. Then she sagged. The darkness enveloped her and took her away.

  Porter shuddered the last of his pleasure and sat up effortlessly.

  The warm darkness of his cellar surrounded him now. The earthy aroma of potatoes, the roasted clay wine jugs. The low whistle of the cave and the rustle of the jungle. His trousers were wet with cum, and his arms were stiff from being trapped behind his head. He reached absently for his vest, then left it on the ground. It was too early in the morning to rise.

  He ran a hand over his hair and caught his breath and looked around at the murky darkness of his room. When he realized he was looking for the woman who’d just fucked him, he shut his eyes. She wasn’t here. She was a dream, but of course more than a dream…

  Porter sagged forward and heaved a great sigh. Partly the enormous satisfaction of a great lay, but mostly the empty pang of longing for his missing lover. He wanted Emaula. Wanted her badly to be here and not a figment in his mind. Wanted to know why her magic had pinned him down as if she were afraid of him.

  But mostly he wanted her to be different than the other witches. Wanted her to think he was special and to be here with him in real life.

  But of course, he wasn’t special. He was a pretty face and a decent body. Not a person a proper witch wanted to spend real time with. Just a tool to fuck and put away until the next time her lusts needed satisfying.

  Porter rolled his stiff shoulders and then wiggled out of his damp trousers. Without his clothing, his body crackled and shifted. As a wolf, he felt warmer, calmer, and after returning to that strange dreamscape after so much time, more real. He trotted around his bed and then lay down again and watch at the moonlight shining between the cracks in the cellar door.

  The next time she needed him, he’d be there. He liked her. She was hot, she was nice … more than nice. She was kind, and … well, either way, he didn’t really have much choice, did he?

  Chapter Seven

  Just as she had every day since she escaped her mother, Emaula woke exactly at six AM and wondered why she couldn’t hear Mother’s waking chimes. The realization she was in a foreign bed, in a strange place quickly chased that thought away. She had to control the flutter of fear that told her she was destined to die without Mother to take care of her.

  She quieted her frightened magic and put her feet on the floor. No danger. This was home now. This was Jasprite’s inn. Everything was fine.

  Emaula looked at her spells scattered on the floor and frowned at herself. Well, mostly, everything was fine. Her plan to just peek in on Porter, ogle him a bit from the safety of the darkness had gone terrifically wrong…

  The witch caught herself smiling, a broad, silly leer as she recalled just how terrifically wrong. It was impossible to regret Porter.

  That didn’t mean she could afford to make such a mistake again. She had to work by his side after all. She could never touch him. And Mother … well, it didn’t do to think about Mother.

  So, Emaula rose and dressed in her silk robes and gloves. When she encountered Porter, she’d play ignorant. He’d just had a dream, that’s all. An … intense dream about her. With time it would fade from his mind and mean nothing, and then she’d be safe.

  But she most likely wouldn’t see him until later. Jasprite said the wolves never woke before noon if they didn’t have to. Emaula would have time to investigate the kitchen, to devise a shopping list, to prepare for the guests.

  She’d definitely want potatoes. She’d seen eggs in an ice box and milk, which was a good start. But she hadn’t seen a stitch of pork. And she had to organize her spices … maybe figure out what those red and green powders were in the kitchen. And oatmeal and honey, her favorite breakfast.

  By the time, Emaula pushed ope
n the door to the kitchen, she had a tentative list. She’d have to scrape together something for Jasprite to prove her worth. Something with loads of butter. Pancakes with a light dusting of—

  Porter stood at the corner of the kitchen, pouring water into a massive bowl. “Good morning, Ms. Emaula.”

  “Uh, yes. I mean…” Emaula panicked. She’d had a plan. Play ignorant. Treat him with a cold distance. Not see him until the afternoon. “Good morning!”

  Porter gave her a warm, conspiratorial smile. Then nodded and turned his attention back to the bucket of water. “Sleep well?”

  Damnation. He was such a flirt. It’d be so hard to keep him safe. Play ignorant, stick with her plan. “No, actually. I don’t think I’m used to the sounds of the wilderness yet. Or the heat. I spent most of the night pacing and gathering up my spell-book.”

  “Oh?” Porter looked—was that fear?

  “Yes.” Emaula folded over a page of her notepad, ever so casually writing down the names of the spices she lacked. “There was a peculiar wind, full of strange magic around the witching hour—uh, midnight.”

  Porter hummed attentively but said nothing.

  “It upset all my spells.” Emaula opened a cupboard to look at the bags and bags of rice and very little else. “Well, we won’t be out of rice anytime soon. Anyways, by the time I gathered them all and put into order again, it was nearly three in the morning. I’ll probably nap later in the day. Just the excitement of travel, I suspect. And you?”

  “What?”

  “How did you sleep?” It was probably the best lie she’d ever told, soft and only a bit impatient as if he were a child and not a man driving her insane with lust.

  Porter seemed not to have heard her. Then startled and tried to find his place in their conversation. “There was a wind, you said?”

  “Around midnight. Something magic. From the south.” Emaula lied, with her most innocent expression. “Is that common around here?”

  “I…” Porter scratched his shoulder and then shrugged. “Never noticed.”