The Wellspring (13 page)

“Do you really think so?” Yule asked
doubtfully. “I’m not sure I would have enjoyed making an enemy of
the ruthless daughter of a ruthless Magus.”

“She has no claim on him even if she did
invite herself to Atlantis for the upcoming weekend gala.”
Sheirienu’s amusement faded away. “Nearly two weeks before your
surprise visit to the back seat of Prosser’s car she told him she’d
fallen in love with some young diplomat and was finished with
Prosser.”

“As I said, I have no idea how I ended up
in—” Yule wasn’t allowed to finish.

Sheirienu waved a hand, dismissing her
defense. “To say I was happy to hear about their split would be a
serious understatement. And then she sends him a broadcast calling
the young diplomat a heartless cad and whatever else it is she said
to convince Prosser to allow her to come here. Whatever is it about
such women that some men can’t resist, I ask you?”

Yule shook her head, dismayed at the shared
confidences and at being asked her opinion. “I’m afraid I’ve never
been that sort of woman so I don’t know how it works.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t,” the sayer
assured her. “You’re too nice a girl for that sort of nasty
game.

“Maybe she’ll meet someone at the gala?” Yule
suggested hopefully, internally adding, the gala to which I wasn’t
invited, of course.

“You’re echoing a mantra I’ve been chanting
since the bitch sank her claws into Prosser,” Sheirienu
admitted.

Prosser’s pace slowed by then and the women
dropped their conversation while Prosser chatted casually with
Sheirienu about the upcoming broadcast her would present at the
gala. But Yule wasn’t listening to that as she ruminated over her
temporary employer. After they returned to the veranda for a light
lunch of mangos and mahi-mahi she couldn’t resist scrutinizing
Magus Teomond during his distraction of casual banter with
Sheirienu. He seemed to possess a split personality: the stoic
politician with whom she was acquainted, and the genial everyman
who played host at this hearth. It was almost impossible for her to
imagine both facets belonged to the sole man. If someone told her
he had a twin who pretended to be him while on Atlantis she would
have more readily believed the possibility. She couldn’t imagine
either of the personalities behaving foolishly over a woman, no
matter how incredibly breathtaking she was. On the other hand, she
could believe women would behave foolishly over him. She had a hard
time believing that Marissa Snowden was as gorgeous as Sheirienu
purported although a lot of money and a little magic glamour could
transform even the ugliest duckling into a stunning swan, a luxury
not afforded to most normals and magically stunted
spell-casters.

However she temporarily forgot the
potentially ravishing creature due to arrive in a few days when the
subject of magic and spell casting was broached.

Yule happily avoided participation in the
lively debate though she followed the verbal volleys back and forth
across the table. Magus Teomond was of the opinion that while spell
casting could be taught, innate power must be present for it to
have any meaning while Sheirienu argued that a person could be
empowered under the right circumstances and with the proper spells
so it made sense to instruct even the most latent magic folk in
spell-etiquette.

“What do you think, Yule?” Sheirienu asked
suddenly.

“Really, Sheiri, leave her out of this,”
Prosser countered as Yule sputtered on her sip of mango juice.

“Why? It probably means more to her than it
does to us.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t want her magical
prowess debated across our lunch,” he said apologetically, Yule
thought.

“Oh, that’s all right, I don’t have any
prowess at all, if that helps end my portion of the debate,” Yule
inserted lightly.

Sheirienu laughed at that. “Watch your step,
Prosser. She felt the insult in your thoughts just now.”

“I meant no insult,” he denied this.

“Your tone implied she was handicapped and
that discussing her handicap would offend her somehow, but she
embraces her lesser strength and makes up for it with that acidic
tongue.”

“Acidic?” Yule was mollified.

“Don’t look so chagrined, dear, it’s a
compliment,” Sheirienu assured her.

“Okay,” Yule slowly agreed.

“And what about my question?” pressed
Sheirienu.

Yule shifted in her seat. “To be perfectly
honest... I’m supposed to be on a Retreat right now, but I chose to
come here instead because I knew the Retreat would do no more good
for me this time than it had any other time,” she admitted
uncomfortably.

“There, you see?” Prosser claimed
victory.

“Yule, what if your Family Grove recovered
its power tomorrow? What if all of the forgotten, powered-down
Groves were suddenly energized and all of the lesser magic folk
were equal to the most powerful Magus?” Sheirienu cast a
mischievous glance at Prosser. “Wouldn’t you want them to
understand how to manage such power?’

“But that is an impossible scenario,” Yule
politely countered. “No powered-down Grove has ever regained
power.”

“She’s right,” Prosser agreed, but Yule
thought he was enjoying needling the sayer more than having her
support his position.

“Simply because it hasn’t happened yet, or we
just don’t know about it having happened already, doesn’t mean it
can’t happen,” Sheirienu refused to give up her position. “I would
think you’d embrace that hope,” she added, this directed toward
Yule.

“I’ve found it’s best to find contentment in
my skin the way I am,” Yule told her. “If some miracle occurs I’d
embrace it, naturally, but I choose not to spend my time hoping for
things that aren’t likely to come to fruition.”

“Sensible girl,” Prosser commended.

“A sensible girl wouldn’t fight progress for
the sake of a few powered-down Groves,” Sheirienu countered and
Yule flinched.

“Actually, she seemed perfectly sensible
about the matter when I suggested a course of concessions between
the Reclamation Project and the real estate developers,” Prosser
wouldn’t be dissuaded from his assessment.

"You’re such a politician,” Sheirienu scolded
him, but she was smiling. “And you’re stuck with him for three
weeks,” she reminded Yule. “I don’t envy you.”

“Some might,” Prosser retorted, leaning back
in his chair.

Yule smiled at the good-natured insults and
sipped her juice thinking she might enjoy the working vacation more
than she initially anticipated. After a day of taking notes on easy
reader crystals regarding thoughts Sheiri (for Yule now thought of
her and called her such), and Prosser bantered back and forth
through the afternoon, into evening, and over dinner regarding
upcoming political events on the island—and the best strategies
with to deal with each—Yule began to realize this would most
definitely be a working vacation, but one she anticipated would
ultimately bring satisfaction with the fun.

Long after Sheiri’s later departure and sleep
embraced most of the household, Yule found herself lingering on the
veranda, for the gentle evening breeze was soothing, while her airy
room only beckoned her to sleep and she wasn’t quite ready for
that. A nearly full moon with its rim softened by a buttery glow
stood sentry in a sky crowded with stars. The otherworldly sheen
cast the jungle in silver and lead while the path to the beach
stood out in white relief, beckoning her.

“None of that,” she scolded the Moon. “I have
to get up much too early to play any nocturnal games on the beach.
I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She blew a kiss to the glowing disk
then hurried inside and up to her room to use the ensorcelled hand
mirror to tell Hermes all about the day’s events before falling
into bed.

And in her dream she didn’t deny the call of
the Moon.

She hurried down the wide stone steps from
the veranda to the garden and the pea-gravel crunched under her
sandaled feet as she ran without caution to the silver beach as if
she thought she was expected there. By whom?

When she saw him waiting for her she didn’t
slow her steps, running across the sand and flinging herself into
Prosser’s arms, laughing. He hugged her tightly for a moment before
lowering her feet to the sand where an errant rush of low water
surged over her sandals and she made a surprised, amused sound,
dancing back from the water.

“Allow me?” Prosser knelt before her and
gently lifted each of her feet in turn, drawing off the sandals and
setting them aside then looking up at her from where he knelt
making her breath catch.

The perpetually slumberous eyes, the
eternally enigmatic expression, the countenance of an arrogant
aristocrat mixed with almost decadent beauty—How could she resist
him? She reached down and grabbed Prosser by the Armani shirt
collar with both hands, taking him by surprise. But she could tell
by the glint in his eyes that it was a pleased kind of surprise and
the Magus conceded to Yule the role of aggressor for the moment,
allowing her to pull him back to his feet.

Yule couldn’t believe her daring as she got
on tiptoes to lick Prosser’s neck, nibbling at the bronze skin of
his throat before trailing her tongue back up to the wet, waiting
lips and kissing, but pulling back when she felt the man beginning
to get into it, teasing him.

Prosser tried again and this time Yule
granted him a fraction of a moment of vibrant contact then pulled
away again, smiling, unknowing her face was sweetly flushed and her
full pink lips were parted in excitement. This was a dream and in
her dream she was beautiful and bold—and she could see the
determination to have her reflected in this man’s eyes.

He kissed her, hard, and Yule reacted
enthusiastically, pressing herself against the Magus’ broad chest.
It was a brutal, bruising, uncivilized kiss that left Yule panting
after they parted. This was the best dream she’d ever had, and so
realistic! Why had she wanted anyone else when Prosser wanted her
so passionately? Had there been someone else? Yule couldn’t recall
anyone else and thought it strange for the notion to have crept
into her mind.

They parted, gazing hungrily at each other,
and Yule hesitantly reached out to the top button of Prosser’s
designer shirt. She undid it carefully, watching the man for any
negative reaction, delighted when none showed in his dark eyes.
Prosser gazed at her with intense interest about what she planned
for him, but his lips hinting at an amused smile. The perpetual
dominance always evident in his expression would have scared off a
lesser lover, but Yule was determined.

She quickly undid the rest of the buttons,
taking her eyes away from his while focusing her attention on the
material under her fingers, but she felt Prosser’s gaze upon her
the entire time. Finally she opened his shirt and admired his
broad, bronzed chest and the short curls of dark hair evenly
peppered there. She glanced up at Prosser, looking for the
slightest indication of disapproval, but the man merely gazed down
at her with that same arrogance and hint of amusement, unmoving,
allowing Yule to push the shirt off his shoulders, off of his body,
onto the sand

Yule fluttered her eyelashes unconsciously,
the action coquettish, but also innocent in the unplanned
spontaneity of it. She slowly returned her lips to Prosser’s for
brief contact of velvety flesh before she began to trek downwards,
still looking up into his depthless eyes. And Prosser continued to
watch her in silence and without reaction. His silence was
deafening, but also empowering. If he wasn’t saying no, he was
definitely saying yes.

She worshipped at the altar of his bare chest
with exquisite attention, gently chewing the brown nipples and
licking the golden skin. Down and down—until she reached the
enticing indent of his navel where her tongue teased for moment
before she brought up her hands to unfasten the button fly of the
worn blue jeans. She could detect an obvious bulge and was thrilled
to see the effect her labors were having on the man. Moving with
calculated sloth, Yule unfastened this new row of buttons then
spread the supple denim material.

She heard Prosser bite back a groan when she
encountered his stiff erection, unconcealed by boxers or briefs—and
she wondered if the Magus always went commando, or only in her
dreams. Yule had zero experience with oral sex, but she knew the
logistics of it and hoped enthusiasm would make up for lack of
skill.

She licked up and around the length, all
along the underside and the head then sucked it into her mouth,
surrounding it with warmth and wetness. She felt his hands lower to
her head, but while he sank his fingers into her hair, he didn’t
pull or push. His hands were guides, directing her when to speed up
or slow down, and to warn her when he would instinctively thrust
toward the delicious heat of her mouth and the teasing flick of her
tongue.

The sensation of having this man's impressive
member (she certainly knew average sizes from reading stories in
the trashy magazines Hermes had a habit of reading in the bathroom,
and this flesh was not average), in her mouth was better than she
ever imagined it might be. Pulling back, her lips clamped tightly
and she swirled her tongue around the mushroom-like head. Yule ran
her hands up the man’s thighs and decided what she was doing felt
even more taboo because he still had on his jeans. She reached up
and stroked the glistening shaft with her right hand. The shaft
pulsed in her palm and she suckled it back into her mouth until her
lips met her hand then her throat rebelled and she choked, drawing
back and coughing.

Prosser’s throaty chuckle didn’t sound angry.
“Don’t try to do too much the first time,” he cautioned. “We have
all the time there is.”

Yule leaned back a little to examine the
flesh she intended to master. The huge head was aimed straight at
her, like a giant’s accusing finger, and it looked angry at having
been pulled from the comfort of her mouth. She took the throbbing
erection in both of her hands and studied the substantial flesh.
The shaft was a little broader than the head, a thick vein running
across it at the middle. Her small hand could not close completely
around the impatient member; even when she squeezed tightly her
thumb and forefinger wouldn’t meet and although her hands rested
one atop the other the head and a couple of inches of shaft
remained visible. She began to think she might have tried to
swallow more than she could, well, swallow.