“Care to buy me a drink?”
“No.”
Sandra blinked. Clearly this man had not learned the script, and without the script she didn’t see how he thought he had a chance. His nose was too big, for a start, and he looked a little shabby, as though he no longer cared for himself as well as he might. And—the thing that would have sent most women to another man first off—he had a warlock’s staff propped against the bar beside him. “All right, then.”
She didn’t care for the smile he gave her as she turned away. It wasn’t quite a leer, and it wasn’t quite a sneer, but it knew far too much and predicted more. She wasn’t going to have another thing to do with him, that was certain.
However, she couldn’t help watching him, noting his hunched shape in the dim light at odd moments. Another woman did approach him, despite Sandra’s forecast, and stalked off in a huff to get her drink from some more receptive patron. For the first time, Sandra wondered about the custom of making a man purchase alcohol in exchange for a chance at going home with her. Had any of them turned out well?
“May I buy you a drink?” sounded at her elbow, a thin little voice that quashed her hopes before she even looked around. Weedy, adenoidal—yes, he was awfully young, and while youth brought enthusiasm, she wasn’t in the mood tonight. She didn’t feel like giving lessons. If anything, she wanted to be taught something new, something different—had she felt that way a few minutes ago, or would she have taken a chance on this eager fellow?
“No, thanks.” She’d learned never to give explanations.
He slouched off to nurse his bruised feelings with a pint before trying again somewhere else. Sandra appraised the rest of the crowd for experience without too much age, trying to find an aura of confidence. Her eyes returned to the wizard. He was solidly ignoring the crowd.
He didn’t fit; that was why she found him so puzzling. This wasn’t the place for warlocks. This was a place for normal people to have a few drinks, swap a few lies, and go home together as though they meant something to each other. This warlock risked rubbing another man the wrong way just by being here—well, perhaps this one didn’t, she reconsidered. He had an air of menace that not many managed, something that made him dangerous despite his thin frame, regardless of the staff. Sandra thought only the most belligerent drunk would decide the warlock looked like an easy victim.
Three drink offers later, all declined, she made a decision and beckoned over the bartender. “What’s he having?” she asked, tipping her head toward the solitary figure at the end of the bar.
“Tea.”
“Tea?”
He shrugged. “Takes all kinds.”
She couldn’t help giving a more direct look to the man who so puzzled her. This time he caught it and raised an eyebrow before going back to his brooding. “One on me, then, though I’ll probably regret it.”
“Right,” said the barman, and she wasn’t sure if he referred to the tab or the regrets. “One tea, if he ever finishes that one.”
“Perhaps a warmer-upper?”
“One of those blokes never needs a warmer-upper.” With a twist of his mouth to indicate what he thought of those blokes, the man dropped another tea bag into another pint mug and poured in water that steamed weakly. Sandra reflected that there was probably better tea to be had within even a block of here, and she definitely brewed better herself. He wasn’t in this smoky, noisy, beer-scented place for the tea.
That was perilously close to thinking of bringing a warlock home with her.
The warlock tipped his head and raised his drink to her, then absorbed himself in the contents, staring into them without drinking. She wondered what he saw that she wouldn’t. The steam patterns certainly couldn’t be holding his attention; she doubted they’d lasted more than a moment before the fluid became too cool, and the warlock didn’t seem to have used magic to heat the cup properly.
Not that she was sure what such a spell looked like. Perhaps that was what he was doing staring into the cup. Perhaps he could create heat by sheer will.
The thought created a tingle she hadn’t expected. To her surprise, she thought she might like for him to create a little heat with her, and the thought made her smile at herself. Usually she was an efficient predatory creature, choosing her prey and dispatching it without sentiment or regrets. This man’s shabbiness and solitude made her want to be warm.
He caught the smile, and she changed it to a pitying simper just to be difficult. This seemed to amuse him. She’d hoped to annoy him into speaking to her. Instead, he pushed away his older tea into a spot the bartender could no longer ignore so easily and, to all appearances, forgot Sandra once more. She thought it looked as though he hadn’t been drinking much of the first cup of tea, either.
She wasn’t the prettiest woman in the bar, but she didn’t feel forgettable. Indignant, she refilled her own whiskey and downed it in one burning pull, paid her tab, then stalked to the ladies’ room. She’d meant only to relieve herself and was distressed to find she was preening longer than usual. Her hair was fine, she told herself. She didn’t need another coat of lipstick, nor was there any on her teeth. She had nothing embarrassing stuck to her shoe, visible to all the world. Her purse did match her outfit. She considered embellishing her perfume, then decided that would carry her across the line she so firmly held for her own behavior. She checked her hair one more time.
Sandra dragged herself back out and resigned herself to leave if no new prey had arrived. One set of spindly legs, one arrogant hairdo, one wedding band on a slightly wrinkled hand—she gave up the new lot and meant to march for the door. Instead, she marched to the warlock. “Change your mind about that drink, then?”
“No.”
It was his voice, she decided. She wanted to hear him say more in that penetrating, quiet voice, even if he continued to say only no. He could control crowds and hypnotize beasts with that voice. “The tea all right?” she asked as though she didn’t know perfectly well it wasn’t.
“Not really.”
Yes, she did like his voice, even on such short and negative remarks. Perhaps that was what had nagged her into coming back to him. What else could she ask to try to draw him out? “Want to come home with me, then?”
What the devil had possessed her? He was only going to say no yet again, and that question wasn’t one that prolonged the conversation. She berated herself for a triple fool as he looked her over from head to toe in an appraising way that would only make the rejection ring the louder.
“Yes.”
“For a better cuppa, I mean.” She stumbled over the lie, knowing it was a lie.
His smile said he knew that, too. “Of course.”
What was she bringing home with her? As she hesitated to go to the door, her gaze took in the long nose, the eyes dark with amusement or something else, the three grey strands in his untidy black hair. He seemed dangerous, and it wasn’t just the staff he’d taken up. His air of disinterest suggested she wasn’t quite human to him. Thinking of the things a wizard could do that she couldn’t made her knees weak—that and a sudden surge of desire that matched and fed on her surge of fear. “We’d best get a cab, then.”
Would he accept a cab or sweep her away by some unimaginable means? It seemed the cab was fine. Secure in the back seat, she shivered, not from the cold, and the warlock graciously offered his arm as shelter for her bare shoulders. She reminded herself that she was bringing him home for a reason and might as well touch him now as later. Fitted cautiously against him, not too forward in her approach, she wondered what he meant to do with her.
The foggy windows flared red. The cab yanked sharply to a halt at a traffic light and someone else’s brakes. The warlock’s hand tightened, keeping her from sliding off the seat. That made it easier, somehow, to let her hand slide onto his leg. Narrow as it was, it felt hard with muscle – of course, he’d probably braced himself by locking his legs. Still, she liked having that firmness under her hand. A coy glance up showed that he was wearing that smile again, the one that was almost a smirk, almost a leer, but not quite either one. His hand slid quietly from her shoulder to her hip.
His fingers were quite long, she thought. With his palm well back, he still touched the crease of her thigh. After a tense moment of desire, she checked the block—still several from her home—and leaned more comfortably against him, letting her hip leave the seat in case he should care to explore further.
His fingers slid from the upper part of her thigh, around, and to the line of her panties through her skirt. She had hoped, but she hadn’t expected, and she couldn’t help a small gasp. His fingers rested ever so lightly on her. She’d never noticed before how much a cab shook and trembled in a short trip. She shifted against her warlock to tell him they were close to her flat. His hand dropped just a little lower and squeezed. Through her clothing, his finger barely entered her.
She shuddered against him, awash in pleasure she hadn’t been ready for, trying not to make a noise that would certainly give the cab driver something to think about. She’d never been so successfully brought off in such a public place before; she’d never had it done so easily before. It wasn’t even her favorite place to be stroked, but now his caressing finger made her arch her back and throb with need. Somehow, though it felt like a climax, it only made her want him more. She ran her hand up his thigh to cover the bulge in his trousers, and the cab yanked once more. Her hand fell forward from her goal; his gave a quick final thrust and retreated. “Your stop,” said the cab driver. She threw money at the front seat knowing it was too much and not caring.
At the door to the building she fumbled with her keys, afraid of dropping them and too numb-fingered to find the lock. Her warlock, who could probably have opened the door in a jiffy with that staff of his, stood back with that damned smile still haunting his face as she simmered and shook. She wanted to open the door; she wanted to throw herself onto him there on the steps. Sense won. She considered teasing him by checking her mail, but didn’t have the patience.
Halfway up the stairs to her flat, he pressed her to the wall of the landing and ran his free hand, the one without the staff, over her, from lips to shoulders to breasts to hips. She expected a kiss and felt oddly disappointed when his mouth instead seized her earlobe. Then his tongue awakened a cascade of tingling sensations that seemed to fall down her neck to her nipples, where his hand rose to find them. She rubbed herself against the bulge in his pants as he caressed her gently. “You can be rougher,” she whispered, wanting him to bite or pinch or at least press.
“You don’t need it,” he murmured back, and she wished she hadn’t distracted his lips even as she thrilled to his voice. She rocked against him, wondering if he meant to take her there on the landing and what the neighbors would think, or do, when she inevitably screamed. His hand slid firmly between them, pushing her from him and against the wall, and his fingers pressed between her legs once more. There he cupped the curve of her and did nothing, letting her strive for what she wasn’t sure she wanted yet and couldn’t help seeking. Once more, his lips and tongue claimed her lobe. She imagined him doing the same things between her legs and felt great bolts of heat rise from his hand as her muscles clamped and shook.
She thought, this time, it might be enough. She thought he might take her far enough that if he let go of her and left, she would be satisfied. He didn’t. Just before the whine broke from her throat, just as the lifting sensation seized her inner parts, he released his hold on her and stepped back. With a tip of his head and a quirk of his lips, he suggested they continue up the steps.
She wasn’t sure she could climb steps. Still, she had no other way to the top. Each movement of her thigh slid moistly in her panties, and she suspected that he, following behind, could smell her excitement with that long nose of his. She hoped he liked that.
At the door, it was twice as difficult to manage the keys still clutched in a death-grip in her hand. A few fumbles later, Sandra gave up. “Here,” she told him, shoving the keys at him. “The one for the flat has the green thing on it.”
He held up the correct key with a questioning look, then slid it easily into the lock. She’d never thought of that as an erotic gesture before. Before he opened the door, though, he gave a meaningful glance to the flat across the hall and seized her once more. Awash in the feeling of his tongue traveling down her neck, she did wonder if her neighbor Ned might be at his peephole, and whether he was enjoying the show.
The warlock turned the key behind her, letting the door slide away from her back and taking her weight in his hand until she caught herself. “Here we are,” he said, and it seemed more an omen than an observation.
“Here we are.” She tried to summon what was left of her sense. They’d come here on an ostensible errand, which she still vaguely remembered. “Should I heat up some water for you, then? I have loose leaf.”
“I think…” he said, and unbuttoned her blouse, then guided her a step backward into the room so they could close the door. She had forgotten all about the door. “I might prefer…” He knelt at her feet, easing the staff to the floor without a clatter, and undid her skirt. “… this to tea.” Her skirt fell to the floor around her toes. Her panties hobbled her ankles. His hands clasping her buttocks, he pressed his mouth to her.
What his tongue had promised against her earlobe, it gave in full between her legs. She buried her fingers in his hair with a moan, sure she would fall and not caring. His hands steadied her as she shook and cried and wished he would put his fingers inside her.
She came hard, the thudding waves of pleasure shaking her to her fingertips. Her hand relaxed in his hair, and she realized too late that she’d probably pulled pretty hard. He didn’t seem to care, flicking his tongue against her in an idle way still. “I don’t even know your name,” she said, her voice feeling rough and weak.
“No,” he said, and pulled away to smile. She was getting used to that wicked little grin that promised fine things. She wondered what he’d been like when he was younger, when that hard, bitter edge to his features hadn’t settled in. She wondered what he would be like as an old man, and startled herself with the wondering. She wondered if he would let her take him to the bedroom yet.
She held out her hand with an answering smile of her own. Oddly, his faded. He took her hand and rose to his feet, but he didn’t leave the staff behind. She stepped out of her abandoned clothes. She was pretty sure her blinds were open, and equally sure she didn’t care if they were. If the world took an interest, the world could see how satisfying a girl was supposed to be done. Woman, warlock, and staff entered the bedroom together.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“No. And would it matter?”
She gave him a saucy look. “It would give me something to scream.”
“You were doing fine without it.” His expression looked deliberately mild.
At the bed, he leaned the staff against the wall. “Is there some reason you want that close?” she asked, trying not to imagine the answer before he gave it.
“Several,” he said. His expression turned stern. She wondered if a secret enemy might burst in her door at any moment. She fitted her bare body against his clothes, her fingers busy in an attempt to bare at least his chest. He trapped her hands by drawing her closer, his breath hot across her ear before he began to kiss her once more. This time his lips brushed at her temple and forehead, hypnotizing her. His finger slid between her legs, caressing the back of her aching opening as he had in the cab, making her spine arch with the unspoken plea that he enter her. Again, he only touched, his body held too tightly against hers to permit her the freedom to undress him. While the last climax had felt rounded and warm, this one was sharper, a biting flash of pleasure, a new flavor for her tactile palate.
“Please?” she found herself whispering against his neck. She licked the saltiness from his skin, enjoying the shiver that passed through him. His finger sent more jolts of edged rapture through her, and she wished once more that he would take her properly. Even if it meant the evening was over, she wanted very much to hear him as he came.
Instead, he once more pushed her gently away, guiding her to the bed before he lay beside her. His hand entered her from the front this time. He licked at her breast, sending what felt like tiny flickering flames through her ribcage, then sucked at her nipple. Two of his fingers filled her, curling and beckoning.
The first movement almost hurt, and the second almost made her feel desperate to pee. The third was glorious. The fourth—she had never heard herself make such a sound before. Her hands fumbled uselessly, but she could no more find his zipper than she’d earlier been able to work the lock. The room seemed to heave with her, and the bed to yawn open to swallow her. She couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t care.
The room went dark with great red explosions behind her eyes. The pleasure went on.
And on.
She was falling, falling into an eternity of hot crimson nothingness and the pulse of a giant drum.
She thought something might be happening to her body. She thought at last her warlock was thrust inside her, moving with the beat of that vast drum, falling with her. She tried to clutch at him and could not. Her body no longer answered her.
At the bottom of forever, comfortable and heavy, she thought to wonder if warlocks even needed to use rubbers. They probably had some special fancy equal. Probably that was the spell he’d wanted the staff for. To hell with it, she decided. She didn’t care if she had warlock triplets and a case of magical crabs when this was over, as long as it was never over.
An awareness that the last thought hadn’t made sense forced her to think a little more. She didn’t manage to put her arms around her warlock as he started to pull away, but she did manage a soft sound of regret. She would have liked to hold him close for a little longer. His thin body had felt so good against hers.
He didn’t take the hint. The bed heaved and jiggled. Eventually Sandra realized he was putting his trousers to rights – he hadn’t even taken them properly off. She hoped it was from haste to get in, not haste to escape. She tried again to reach for him, managing this time to snag her fingers in his pocket. “What’s the hurry?” she tried to ask, but the last word was the only sounded.
He patted her hand and disengaged her fingers, holding on for a moment while he asked, “You had what you wanted?”
She smiled limply. “Quite.”
He shrugged. “I had what I wanted. Is there some point in lingering?”
She fumbled for something to make him stay, some reason he shouldn’t leave yet, and didn’t have one. Memory offered only one silly suggestion. “I hadn’t made your tea.”
“Tea.” He seemed to have forgotten what it was. His laugh, though brief and startled, was pleasing. “Would you want some?”
“The stuff you had before looked dreadful. I thought you might like better.”
“I prefer coffee. Tea is simply cheaper to not drink than, say, brandy.”
“I have coffee.”
He let go of her hand with a smile. He wasn’t leaving because there was something wrong with her. He was just leaving. “It’s a bit late for coffee.”
“I have decaf.” She’d never tried so hard to make some man of the evening stay the night. She still hadn’t learned his name – nor he hers, she realized. What was it that made her want to keep him close?
Now he pulled away, a flicker of something crossing his face. It wasn’t disgust, though she felt she might deserve it for clinging. She thought it wasn’t regret. Fear, possibly? That made no sense. He had come home with her. He had all the power over her and she was still limp with exhaustion. Whatever the quick look had been, it wasn’t that. “Shall I start the water, then? Or is it a machine?”
“It’s a machine. Kind of complicated. I’ll get it in a minute.” That sounded like he meant to stay for at least a few more minutes, and she felt as though she’d won something. She made a few uncoordinated efforts, her limbs still heavy with what he had done to her, with her, through her. “Did you use magic on me?”
“Not at all.”
The smug note in his voice convinced her this was true. Any man would have been proud. She pushed her feet into slippers, realized they hardly suited the moment, then decided she didn’t care. Her robe, at least, was silken and peach-toned, a nice match for how she felt, but the slippers were fuzzy and not at all sexy. Come to think of it, she felt more fuzzy than silky, blurred at the edges.
That was what she had wanted. She had wanted her blurred edges to overlap his.
She shook her head clear and went to make the coffee, aware of him watching her, aware of his little smile. She was never going to discover if it wore well with time, but she could keep him for a few more minutes, her warlock. “Do you like anything fancy in it?” she asked as she shuffled to the kitchen.
“Do you feel up to experimenting?” he answered. “I have a trick or two.”
“Of course you do,” she answered without thinking, then looked back to see how he’d taken it. Smugly, of course, and she was beginning to think she would perhaps get tired of that after a while. He’d earned the right to be proud of himself for one night, though. “Go ahead.”
She handed him the coffee, filter, and basket, then put water in the pot. He started prowling her cabinets looking for heaven knew what, unearthed a small tin, then shrugged. “This’ll do, if you have no almond flavor.”
“I don’t. I’m not much on cooking.”
He nodded once. She guessed from his question that he did do a good bit of cooking, and she wondered if warlocks had any natural advantages in the kitchen. She wondered if warlocks had some secret advantage, one he wouldn’t consider magic, in the bedroom. His long fingers looked graceful as he shook a little cinnamon onto the grounds. She liked watching him, even though he really was not a lovely man. His dark eyes seemed a little too feral and didn’t balance his narrow, long jaw. His nose was still too long even by her generous judgment of the moment, and with his chin almost made a muzzle instead of a typical profile. His ears seemed to have a slight point. She decided the elegant shape was perhaps the best feature of his face. He turned to give her a questioning look, and she realized she’d been staring at him too long for simple coffee-making. She still had a pot of water in her hands.
She put the water in the back of the machine and took the basket from him to fit it in its odd little spot. “It only takes a minute. I hope you don’t want a lot.”
“It’s a perfectly good coffeepot for someone who lives alone.”
She gave him a small smile. “What makes you so sure that other door doesn’t lead to my flat-mate’s room?”
“Your underthings are still in the middle of the living room.”
“Fair point. You’re right. It’s a coffeemaker for one, occasional two – such as now. What did you add? It only smells like good coffee.”
“Cinnamon. It’s a nice little trick I learned by being poor in money and rich in cinnamon.”
She was getting to hear him talk, which she enjoyed. She was getting to know more about him, too, she thought. Apparently he thought so, too, because he found two mugs without speaking another word. “How did you know where those were?”
“I found them before the cinnamon.”
She must have been running the water or more fog-minded than she’d thought. “Sorry about the patterns.”
Hers had a cartoon cat on it; his sported a logo from some corporation she’d worked for two years ago and which had gone bankrupt six months ago. He gave it a vague look, clearly thinking of other things. “It’s all right.”
“Better than the tea?” she asked after a sip. She found it rather good.
He stared into the cup for a long moment, the steam curling up around his face and vanishing. “Never drink tea made in a place that serves beer if you value your life. The coffee is good, yes.”
For all practical purposes he’d made it, so she figured he should like it. “It is.” The conversation was limping badly, and she had no idea what to say to him as he sipped. How’s the warlock business, and by the way, have you decided to tell me your name yet? Do you care that you don’t know mine? Aren’t you afraid to go to places where people get drunk and threaten your sort? Were you really that eager to take one of their women tonight? “Why me?”
He looked her over once more. “I like curious women.”
She gave him a smile, testing her motives earlier that night and not sure she understood them even now. “I like mysterious men.”
“Perfect, then,” he said. He rinsed his mug and put it in the sink, then stalked out. Before she realized what he was about, he’d opened the door, and before she could chase him, he’d closed it. She could hear his tread on the stair. Then he was gone.
She still had half a cup of coffee, and she didn’t want to finish it. When she did, the evening would be over and she would go to bed alone. The thought made her chest ache. The warlock had found something to see in the dark fluid, some wisdom or some hope, and all she could find was her own dim reflection on the trembling surface.