Read Do You Believe in Magic? Online
Authors: Ann Macela
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Magic, #Fantasy, #Paranormal, #Romance, #Contemporary
Do You Believe in Magic? (34 page)
Yes, she was in love with Clay Morgan. She might as well admit it. She lusted after his body, she craved his attention, she enjoyed his conversation, she longed for his companionship. She wanted his children.
She needed to be with him, no matter what, forever.
She felt a great calm settle over her as these last conclusions filtered through her mind, permeated her body, and settled in her bones. All her anxieties vanished, and the spot under her sternum hummed. Exhilarating excitement, fiery desire, and almost overwhelming joy mixed into a frothy brew that bubbled in her veins more than the most expensive champagne ever could. She realized she was hugging herself, holding on as if to stop from blasting off into space from sheer delirium.
She had to see Clay. He had said he wouldn’t come to her, so she had to go to him. She had to explain how she felt. She had to . . .
Forget her pride.
Apologize.
Beg his forgiveness.
Oh, God, this was going to be painful.
But he was her soul mate, wasn’t he? It meant he had to forgive her, didn’t it?
She took a deep breath to gird herself for battle. She could do nothing except go find out.
She looked at herself in the mirror as she rose to grab her purse. All she had on were old jeans and a ragged sweatshirt. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she had on no makeup. His sisters must have thought she looked like a bag lady.
She ran a brush through her hair, but when she contemplated taking the time to make up her face, the damn spot in the middle of her chest started itching like crazy.
“All right! I’m going!” She gave it a rap with her knuckles as she walked out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It seemed like only seconds before she was pulling up in front of Clay’s home. Wherever her mind had been during the drive, she would probably never know. She looked around before climbing out of her car. The house, the yard, the block, the neighborhood, all looked quiet and serene in the noonday sun. The little norther had left the sky a bright blue and given the air a crispness not usually found in humid Houston.
Francie shivered as she approached the front door. “You can do it,” she muttered to bolster her courage, but she rang the doorbell with a not-quite-steady finger.
Nothing happened. No sounds emanated from within, no shadow appeared at the front window, no click signaled the locks disengaging.
Disappointment close to despair speared through her, but she refused to give up.
He had to be there.
He had to be there.
As she reached for the button again, the door abruptly opened. The man who was her soul mate stood in the door frame.
He didn’t say a word. His face betrayed no emotion. He just looked at her with eyes of molten silver.
Francie’s mouth went dry. He was so gorgeous, standing there barefoot in jeans worn white with use, an old Renaissance Festival T-shirt stretched tightly over his muscular chest, and his black hair all mussed up. It was all she could do not to hurl herself into his arms, but the stiffness in his posture, the wariness rolling off him in waves, told her they had to talk first. Wasn’t that what the basketball game had been all about—his wanting to talk to her?
Her SMI spot was totally quiet, no help at all in indicating her best approach.
She drew herself together, a little surprised to find her pride had returned. They’d meet as equals. She’d apologize, but she wasn’t going to grovel. “Can I come in?” she asked, thankful when her voice remained steady.
Clay stared at her. He’d been fidgeting all morning, expecting his sisters. Daria had told him they’d be over after seeing Francie. Neither sister had called, and he’d been unable to concentrate on anything beyond conjuring up scenarios about how their mission was going. He’d pictured every possibility from Francie throwing them out to all three becoming such buddies they tried to teach Francie how to cast spells. As if a nonpractitioner who didn’t believe in magic could enchant so much as a match to burst into flame.
Now here she was on his doorstep. She looked wonderful, with those tight jeans and the thin sweatshirt hugging her luscious curves, her blond hair loose on her shoulders and shining in the sun. He wanted to haul her into his arms and hold her until they fused together.
But they had to talk first. Up to and including that damned basketball game, he’d been assuming too much, been overconfident. No more. She was here. It had to mean she had decided something, but what? At least she had the guts to tell him face to face.
She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look sad. Her brown eyes were smokier than usual, and there was a sense of anticipation about her. A spark of hope flared in his chest. Everything would be all right. She was his soul mate, wasn’t she?
Hold on, Morgan, he told himself. You can’t jump to any conclusions with this woman. Look where it’s gotten you in the past. After all you’ve been through, you need to hear her say the words clearly, unambiguously, unprompted. He stepped back from the door and waved her in.
She seemed nervous as she walked stiffly into the living room. She put her purse on the couch and moved to stand in the open area before the fireplace—where he had stood when he tried to explain magic to her. She turned to face him.
Clay stopped at the end of the couch. His hands itched with the need to touch her, so he slid them into his back pockets to anchor them. His magic center, which had been quiet all morning, vibrated for a few seconds, then fell still. The only part of his body that was aching was his heart. It would just have to wait. He’d humbled himself the last time she was here; he wouldn’t do it again. He waited for her to speak.
Francie licked her lips, noticing how his gaze followed the motion before returning to look into her eyes. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He didn’t look angry, thank goodness, just intent. He certainly wasn’t making it easy for her, but then she couldn’t exactly blame him, not after all she’d put them through. She clasped her hands—in back of her so he couldn’t see how tightly she was holding on to herself—and took the plunge.
“Clay,” she started, then had to stop to clear her throat. “Daria and Gloriana came to see me this morning. They showed me some . . . spells . . . some magic.” There, she’d said the word. Maybe it would get easier if she just kept talking. “They turned themselves into a panther and a dragon, and Gloriana made one of my plants grow. I think I was finally convinced when Glori cured my headache.”
She stopped. She felt like she was babbling. She started again. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I do believe now you all can do magic, you are magic practitioners.”
Clay didn’t say a word, didn’t change expression, just looked at her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to show me how you cast spells on the computer. I’ve always prided myself on my open mind, my willingness to investigate new ideas, and my caution not to jump to a conclusion. I did that with you—jumped, I mean—and I apologize for it. Some ancient mental baggage and fears clogged my thought processes and got in the way of what you were trying to tell me. I listened to those old liars instead of you. I know deep in my heart you would never do the things I accused you of. Can you forgive me?”
Clay nodded, a quick jerk of his head up and down. His mouth remained shut.
Francie could feel her hands twisting each other behind her back. Stay calm, she ordered herself. He hasn’t thrown you out. He’s just waiting for you to say the words. The SMI spot tingled—an encouraging stimulation, she hoped.
“Daria and Glori also explained about soul mates,” she continued. “About how Daria and Bent are mates, about what it really means, how some of it works. They wouldn’t answer all of my questions, however. They said I had to talk to you.” She paused, but he still said nothing, although she thought she could see a distinct gleam in his eyes, a hot flame burning in the silver. The SMI gave another flutter, and she knew exactly what she had to say.
“I’ve done some thinking, Clay, even before your sisters came to visit. I’ve been ‘helped’ by what I understand now is our mutual tormentor, the imperative,” she said with what she hoped was a smile, but felt more like a grimace of pain. She tried to keep her voice steady, but she could hear the anguish, the pleading in it. “A lot of thinking and a lot of feeling. I’ve been miserable since we’ve been apart, and not just because of the imperative. I miss you. I want you. I won’t fight it or you any longer. I don’t want to be without you ever again.”
He didn’t say a word.
She took a deep breath. Now or nothing. “To answer your question from the last time we were in this room, yes, I will be your soul mate. Will you be mine?”
A tidal wave of relief flowed over Clay as he growled, “It’s about damned time.” He closed the distance between them in a nanosecond, hauled Francie into his arms, and took her mouth, delving deep, demanding, devouring. When she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, it felt like coming home, Christmas morning, his birthday, and his first successful spell-casting on a computer—altogether, only infinitely better.
How long they stood like that, Clay never knew. He didn’t notice she was crying until they had to loosen their grip enough to breathe and his lips slid to her cheek. “Francie?” he whispered. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no,” she answered, shaking her head but she hiccupped with tiny sobs. “Of course not. Just the opposite. It’s relief. I was so scared you’d say no, and . . .”
“Oh, darlin’,” he chuckled. “There was no chance of that.” He gave her a comforting kiss, ran his hands up and down her back, and felt her catch her breath and relax against him. He gave her a moment, then pushed her away enough to see her face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she answered with a smile. Then she frowned slightly. “So we’re soul mates, right?”
“Yes, we are.” He couldn’t help grinning at the thought.
“What happens next?”
He grinned wider at her innocent question. “Now, Francie, we mate.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Clay kissed her again, softly, tenderly, before she could respond. He didn’t care what she might be about to say. She’d said the most important things, the exact words he needed to hear. They’d done enough talking.
He wooed her with light kisses first. His little butterfly kisses wandered over her face, landed lightly around her jaw, nibbled at her ear, sipped the nectar of her skin. Every time she tried to say something, he kissed her lips until she quit trying.
He let his hands lightly wander here and there over her body, never lingering long. Later he’d touch, or kiss, or taste every inch of her, but for now, it was enough to explore, to luxuriate in the feel of her in his arms. He felt her tremble wherever he touched her. When she spread her hands over his back and pressed those magnificent breasts to his chest, he couldn’t suppress his own shiver.
A faint humming, a low melody seemed to fill the room, and he began to move from side to side in a slow dance—rubbing the most important parts of their two bodies together.
Too much, it was almost too much. Too little, it was definitely not enough. He grasped her hips and pulled her into the cradle of his thighs, into the rock-hard rigidity of his erection. Ah, that was better. She sighed and tilted her hips just right to match his movement. They hadn’t danced together until now, but it was all right. Now was when it counted.
She followed his lead, swayed with him, reciprocated when he kissed her mouth, did some of her own nibbling when he bent to taste the creamy surface of her neck.
Clay slow-danced her across the living room and didn’t stop kissing her even as they climbed up the stairs to his bedroom. Once next to his bed, he abandoned his slow approach to concentrate on serious kissing, his tongue plunging deep, thrusting, claiming, possessing. His, she was his at last. She moaned, twined her arms around his neck, and he felt his blood heat to the boiling point.
Kissing was no longer enough. He needed to feel her skin against his, and he tugged at her sweatshirt. Francie whimpered when he released her mouth to pull the garment over her head, but when she realized what he wanted, she breathed, “yes,” and pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans. Arms tangled as each tried to undress the other, and finally they succeeded to the point where Clay was bare-chested and above her waist Francie was wearing only her bra.
Her pale pink, lace-and-silk, almost-transparent bra.
“Oh, Francie,” Clay whispered, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the material. “If I’d known what you wore under those awful clothes, I’d have had you out of them earlier.” His fingers met on the front clasp and released it, then slowly lifted the sides apart to let her breasts spill into his hands. She filled his hands to overflowing.
He froze, transfixed by the sight of her loveliness—full pale globes topped with peach-colored nipples, already taut, calling to him. He bent and kissed each tip, took one, then the other, in a more thorough caress. She tasted like peaches, too, and he suckled and flicked until each peak curled tight and she threw her head back and moaned. He smiled in rampant satisfaction as he weighed her now-swollen breasts in his hands.
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