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“Do you?” Something flashed across the face he’d shaped to please her, an emotion so fleeting she couldn’t discern it. “Let’s go.”

She was already tilting her head to accept his mouth. There was no need to really go anywhere. All they had to do was will it, and desire shaped their surroundings. His mouth closed on hers, hungry, and his hands pulled her close. His body was hot, the lines of it matching hers. His leg nudged hers apart and she gasped into his kiss as his thigh rocked against her.

“Shape it,” he murmured against her lips.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered, clinging to his shirt as the world swirled around them. “I can’t do both.”

His deep laughter rumbled around them and the faint hint of walls hung with silk closed off around them. “Can’t fuck and shape at the same time?”

He didn’t sound like he was mocking her. Tovah slid a hand beneath his shirt to find rock-hard abs and higher up, a chest smattered with hair. She wanted his shirt to open at the buttons, and it did.

“See?” He dipped to mouth her neck, biting gently. Tovah arched herself to give him access. “You’ve got more skill than you realize. You just need practice.”

It was the same thing Spider always said, and Ben, and Tovah fought a frown. “I know,” she murmured, winding her fingers into his hair. “I’ve only been able to shape for a few years.”

Strong hands gripped her ass. “What happened?”

Small details were appearing, one by one like stars in a twilit sky. A bed, covered in smooth sheets and clusters of pillows. A fireplace with crackling flames that danced with hues of blue and green. A table laden with plates of clustered grapes, wedges of cheese, glasses brimming with wine. This man was good. Very, very good.

Tovah smoothed the shirt from his shoulders, preferring to do the work herself rather than willing it to go. A package unwrapped slowly was so much more fun to open.

“I was in an accident,” she answered after a moment.

“A bad one?”

“Bad enough.” She stopped to look at him. He’d grown better looking, his features sharper and hinting at a famous movie star she admired. “How about you?”

“Always been a shaper,” he breathed, and asked no more questions.

Oh, how much easier it was without the courtship dance. Anyone who said women didn’t treat sex the way men did was full of shit, she thought as she pushed her partner back toward the bed he’d shaped for them. Right now, all she wanted was to touch and be touched.

And it would be good, because she could shape it that way. She could have anything she wanted, a dozen lovers in as many minutes. They could screw upside down in the air, if they were talented enough. They could come a hundred times, over and over, without having to stop.

It wasn’t real, after all. Her body was safe at home in bed, faithful pooch Max beside her. In a few hours the alarm would go off and she’d wake and live her life. For now, all she had to do was be.

“Lie down,” she said. “I want to look at you.”

Obediently, he lay back against the cushions, one leg cocked to give her an unobstructed view of his crotch. The dark pants tented as he put his hands behind his head. Watching her.

“Gorgeous,” the man murmured.

Warmth trickled through her. She felt beautiful. Tovah eased her palms down her stomach, only a little flatter here than in the waking world, and into the waist of her jeans. She undid the zipper and hooked her fingers to slide down the faded denim. Her hesitation was brief and unnecessary, but she had to remind herself of that before she could push the jeans all the way down two smooth, perfect thighs and over two finely formed shins. It was only a moment’s hesitation, but she hated it anyway.

The man either hadn’t noticed or he’d ignored it. He shifted on the pillows, inviting her closer with a glance and the slide of his tongue along lips that had become fuller. Tovah crawled toward him to ease the button on his pants open and nudge down his zipper. His pants came off without an effort, no catching or pulling, and she followed their path with her mouth as she pushed them down past his feet.

She ran her hands over his calves, feeling muscles tense below her fingertips. Up over his thighs, covered with crisp hair. His hips, jutting just enough to provide a sweet edge for her to stroke. The flat plane of his belly.

She stopped when she got there. “Very nice.”

He lifted his hips a little at her approval. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Most men put more effort into representing that than anything else.” Tovah closed her fingers around his length.

“Sweetheart, are you saying I should’ve put more effort into my prick?”

She laughed at his amused tone and stroked him until he groaned. “I’m saying I appreciate your attention to detail and realism.”

“In other words—” his voice had taken on a rough rasp, “—I haven’t given myself a porn star’s cock.”

“Mmm. I’d say not.” Her breath quickened a bit as she touched him.

“I happen to enjoy that my dick isn’t the only part of me that matters,” he told her even as he thrust into her hand.

Tovah looked at him. “Is that so?”

He sat up suddenly, swiftly, with a grace that seemed so natural she knew instinctively he’d move that way in the waking world, too. She shivered, thinking of that. His hand slid into the hair at the back of her neck and curled around it. He pulled her closer until his breath painted her face.

“Yes. That’s so.”

He kissed her slowly. He nudged her mouth to open without urgency. His tongue smoothed along hers. He tasted of mint and smelled faintly like burning leaves and lavender, a combination that should’ve pushed her away but instead somehow dove straight to the pleasure center of her brain and left her gasping.

When his hands came up to caress her sides, fingers trailing along bare skin, Tovah sighed. Her fingers slid through his hair, getting darker as she watched. His hands anchored her hips as his mouth worked against her flesh.

“Good?” He looked up at her with a grin that said he knew well enough how good it was.

“Very.”

Tovah was no stranger to pleasure. She’d always had a strong libido. Sex was as necessary to a healthy lifestyle as exercise and eating right, and she’d never lacked for it…until a few years ago. Then things had changed, all of everything.

The man’s hand drifted to her left knee and squeezed. Tovah jerked in surprise, looking down at him kneeling on the bed, between her legs. Both of them.

His mouth glistened. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She ran her hands over his hair again. “Come up here.”

If he had any objections to being told what to do, he didn’t show them. He stretched out on his back again, and she crawled up his body to settle herself on his hips. She stroked him a couple times, drawing out the anticipation.

He let her do what she wanted, his eyes dark and slightly almond-shaped now. The flicker of candles caught her eye, then the flutter of sheer curtains blowing in an unfelt breeze. Every detail was crisp, layers of reality so perfect she had to stop for a second to be certain this was, in fact, not the waking world. She looked around, then down at her partner, but could find no anomaly. He kept everything still.

“You’re very good,” she told him.

He grinned and gripped her hip. “It gets better.”

“Nothing weird,” she warned as she lifted her body to guide him inside her.

“No.”

They both groaned when he slid inside her. She rested briefly, eyes closed, accustoming herself to being filled. When she opened them, he was smiling.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re beautiful.”

Tovah bent to put her mouth close to his. This close she could see green flecks in the deep brown of his eyes, could count each hair in his finely combed brows. His breath gusted over her face.

“Every woman is beautiful when she’s making love,” she whispered.

His hand nudged between them to press against her. “This is true.”

Their bodies thrust and moved together without the awkwardness of gravity or misplaced timing. Her body tensed, pleasure like sparks jittering through every nerve as her climax filled her. Every time she moved, his hand rubbed her until all she wanted to do, all she could do, was moan and rub and thrust and grind.

She cried out, rocking on him, and the bed became a boat. The ocean swirled around them. Waves crashed but didn’t wet them. Cradled by the sea, they swam in the depths of their orgasms. His came moments after hers. She laughed again, feeling free and glorious and sated.

Afterward, as she lay with her head on his chest while the boat he’d shaped rocked gently beneath them, she asked, “What’s your name?”

His hand moved over the length of her hair. “What’s yours?”

She looked up at him but saw no point in lying. “Tovah.”

His only answer was a half-tilted grin.

Time tugged at her. It passed differently here, but her body’s needs still tied her to the waking world. A silk-covered wall had reappeared, and on it the exit light had begun blinking. She was waking up, probably just a minute or two before her alarm blared as seemed to be her habit lately.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

He leaned up to kiss her mouth, then one bare shoulder. “I’ll see you again.”

“Will you?” Pleasure sparked through her. “How?”

“I’ll find you,” he promised.

This time, she was the one who disappeared.

The witchwoman was angry. She was angry a lot. Sometimes at the dogman, more often at the boy, but often she was just…angry. Her fury got bigger and smaller but never really went away.

She was angry now because he’d run away from the dungeon. He’d escaped. He’d thrown his ball and it had bounced. He’d followed it. But he hadn’t really gotten away.

Unlike the dogman that snorted and snuffled and bit, the witchwoman could be quiet. Sneaky, even. She could stalk and find the boy no matter where he went or what he tried to do. He could tell it made her feel good to make him afraid. She liked it.

The boy moved along the edge of a black sea that smelled of burning leaves and the prickery plants in his mommy’s garden. The water curled around his toes. It was cold. Kicking at it, he made foam. His steps left imprints on the black sand behind him. He looked in front of him. The witchwoman was there, the dogman at her side.

A guy wearing brown corduroy pants hiked up to his shins stood on the beach between them and the boy, staring out to sea. Every now and then he plucked a rock from his palm and tossed it into the water, where it disappeared. The waves were gentler around his ankles than they’d been to the boy’s.

They were alone, no gulls or fish or crabs around them. The wind smelled of salt. The water wasn’t black now, nor the sand. The man had made this beach for himself. The boy could tell this made the witchwoman mad too, but she covered it with a smile as she greeted the man.

He showed no surprise when he turned to look at her. The salt-smelling wind pushed his hair back from his brow. He didn’t smile. He threw another rock into the water, where it sank without a splash.

“Hello, stranger,” the witchwoman said.

She slipped toward him with soft feet that barely creased the sand beneath, the dogman on all fours at her side. The man noticed this, looking at the ground and then at her. His arm cocked to throw another rock but stopped. He lowered his arm and put the rocks into the pocket of his pants. If he saw the boy he didn’t show it.

“Hi.” He didn’t sound friendly.

“Hi.” She gestured at the water, then the sky. “Lovely place, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It
was.
”

The boy’s stomach twisted, waiting for her to rage, to scratch and pinch. Instead, she kept the smile. “That’s not very nice.”

The man watched her without moving. His eyes flickered. The boy heard his pulse throb and saw it beat at the base of his throat. The witchwoman laughed. The man was afraid. She’d lick that fear like melted butter from the tips of her fingers.

She wasn’t like the dogman. No snapping teeth for her. Yet when she stepped toward him, the man stepped back.

“Are you afraid of me?”

He nodded without hesitation. “I think you want me to be, don’t you?”

“You’re smart.” She stepped closer. “I like that.”

“No,” he answered. “I don’t think you do. Not really.”

“Come closer to me, sweetheart, and let me hold you.” She gestured, still smiling. “Let me give you something pretty.”

The boy had heard that many times and had believed her, too, but the man here was older and smarter.

“I don’t want it.”

She took this as an insult, and the smile became a grimace. She hissed through bared teeth. The wind whipped dark strands of hair about her face, and the hissing grew louder. She clapped her hands to her head. When she pulled them away, dozens of tiny twin dots marked the flesh. The snakes that had been her hair had bitten her.

“You think you’re clever?” she cried, moving closer as the man moved away. “You think this is smart?”

Eyes fixed on the serpents wreathing her hair, the man shook his head. “No. But you want to scare me. I must need to be scared. Don’t I get to choose how?”

“No!” Her shout echoed around them.

Black sand sprang up beneath her toes and under the boy’s feet, though the man still stood on golden. The water lashed at her, rising in its tide as her anger rose from her gut. She reached for him, but he danced out of her way too easily.

“You think because you can change things here, you have power?”

She advanced. He retreated. She got him on his knees in a second with one hand on his wrist and the other bending his hand back. No tricks, just speed and strength and desire.

“I don’t need tricks,” she sneered, pushing him harder.

He cried out in pain. His head bent, and she used her knee to nudge his face none-too-gently upward. He wasn’t crying, the way the boy would’ve been. Her hair hung around her shoulders again.

“You think this is yours?” She bent his arm harder, until he squirmed. “It’s not. This is mine. My place. My time. And you are just a player in it for my pleasure.”

Incredibly, though she bent his wrist so far the bones creaked, he shook his head. “It’s not real. This isn’t real.”

“It’s real, sweetheart.” The witchwoman’s voice dipped low and hard.

He shook his head again. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his lips skinned back from his teeth, but he still tried to deny her. She leaned over him, driving him back onto his heels.

“I need to dream this,” he said under his breath. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

“Who told you that?”

He looked up at her, face creased. “Spider.”

She broke his wrist. And then his arm. He screamed and dropped to the sand when she let him go. He held his injured arm close to his body, curled like a shrimp. She kicked him in the kidneys, just for fun.

The boy stepped forward and, growling, the dogman got between him and the man curled on the sand.

“Who the hell is Spider?” The witchwoman’s voice rose and her hands moved, nails growing, getting ready to pinch and claw.

The man only shook his head, moaning into the sand, heedless of the way it filled his mouth. He pushed with his feet to get away from her and even managed a few inches before she reached to grab his hair and yank his head upright.

“Answer me,” the witchwoman said. “Or this gets nasty.”

“Spider is a guide.” He moaned. Sweat had broken out on his face. He cradled his wrist and turned his head to heave.

A guide? The witchwoman bent to spit into his face, but a figure in the edge of her vision stopped her. She looked up.

The boy.

“Don’t do that,” he said, swallowing his own fear. “Don’t do that anymore.”

She dropped the man’s head into the sand and stepped over him to walk toward the boy. “Hello, sweetheart.”

The boy shook his head. He carried the red-and-white ball. “You shouldn’t hurt people like that.”

She moved closer. “I’m not hurting anyone, sweetheart. It isn’t me.”

“Stop.” The boy backed up a step. The ball grew smaller and he put it in his pocket.

From behind her stepped the dogman, growling. The dogman stank of meat and blood and earth, all overlaid with the same sour stench of burning leaves. She shrank from it in disgust.

“Look what you’ve done,” she said to the boy. “Hurry, hurry, run and scurry. I can’t hide you now.”

The dogman growled louder. Saliva dripped from its muzzle to stain the worn denim jeans, the grotty work shirt. Its hands were dark with grime. The witchwoman pointed at the rope coiled on its belt, and the hammer.

“Look, sweetheart. It’s got its tools.”

The boy stared without moving. He felt her wanting him to do it, to make the chaos, to bring the world to its knees around them, but he didn’t do it. He would not give her what she wanted, though the dogman snapped and snarled. Even though she pinched and grabbed.

“Don’t I always take care of you?” she asked again as the dogman moved toward the boy. “Don’t you trust me?”

The boy’s mouth tilted on one side. Too late, she realized he’d tricked her. She looked to the sand, fully black. Her plaything had vanished.

“Get him,” she muttered to the dogman. “Bite him. Make him bleed.”

The dogman moved forward. The boy held up his hands. He cried out. He covered his face.

The earth shook, and this time, the witchwoman smiled.