PRIDE & Punishment

PRIDE & Punishment

God, Cora Jameson tasted good. Like the sweet, spicy ginger candies she loved so much. That, mixed with the heat of her mouth, was intoxicating.

Pip Jones pushed their protest signs to the floor, hearing the poster board and plastic handles hit the floor with a clatter, before she hopped up on the table. Leaning down to bite Cora’s bottom lip, Pip wrapped her long, pecan-colored legs around the Cora’s bared, aspen-shaded waist. Pip smiled against the shorter woman 's lips when Cora’s hands moved higher up her thighs, lifting her skirt with them.

“Rainbow panties?” Cora laughed and brushed her finger against the brightly colored satin.

Pip shrugged and arched into the touch. “Well, it is PRIDE.” Her breath hitched when Cora's finger dipped beneath her panties' elastic hem. “The most wonderful time of the year.”

“Not so much this year.”

Pip straightened a bit at Cora’s bitter tone. Not that she blamed her. Not when, earlier this month, just in time for PRIDE, President Rosen announced his plans to strengthen religious freedom laws. At the expense of women, people of color, and the LGBTQ+ community. Laws that, under the guise of protecting people of faith, sought to strip people of their civil liberties, their freedom, their homes, their healthcare, and their dignity. Pip, as a black, bisexual woman, understood that bitterness and the beaten down look in Cora’s eyes all too well.

It was why she’d come here, with her walking shoes on and her protest sign in hand, at eight in the morning—an ungodly hour on the Sunday of PRIDE weekend—still sore and weary and a bit hung over from Saturday night’s festivities, to the parking lot of her local CLPA, Civil Liberties Protection Association, to protest the present administration and to protect something no one should ever have to: her right to be.

She’d never been a particularly political person. Sure, she’d grip and debate about the state of the world on occasion before, but her world felt different now, since Rosen took the White House. On the campaign trail, he’d sworn to “Make America Rise Again,” bringing it back to a decade where people who looked like her were seen as different. As less than. Watching the president’s announcement on her phone that morning, on her way home from work, had made her feel so alone. So isolated and almost attacked by her own country. By her home.

It wasn’t right. 

Even last night, thrashing and losing herself at the dance clubs with Harlan and Max, it’d felt different this year. Instead of a joyous celebration of community and progress, every movement and note had felt like a burst of emotion. A mad mix of rage, hurt, and defiance. She’d made sure each swing of her hips and shimmy of her breasts were a writhing, grinding middle finger to Rosen and his conservative cronies. Even surrounded by the thick throng of sweaty, swaying bodies filling the club, even while she’d danced with her friends in the deafening dark, Pip had felt hotly rebellious but still alone. It’d reminded her too much of her younger days in high school and college, proud in her heart of who she knew herself to be but stuck in the shadows of the closet.

But, this morning, from the moment she’d parked—three blocks away from the site because she couldn’t find any available spaces closer—something had changed. Looking around in the early sun’s light, Pip has seen pink pussy hats, homemade signs, and rainbow flags and prints everywhere she went. As she’d walked closer to the march meet-up, she couldn’t help but smile.

She’d been surrounded by strangers united by the same defiant desire for dignity. Those like her who refused to have their humanity had been denied gathered in one spot.

It’d felt like coming home again.

The sudden feeling of inclusion and welcome had washed over her, overwhelming her. She’d felt like smiling and crying at the same time. It hadn’t taken long before she spotted familiar faces—friends and lovers from her queer and kinky spaces—in the crowd. Max and Danielle, the kink community organizers were out with bullhorns leading the crowd in protest chants. Elin and Kat were selling PRIDE merchandise—beads and bandanas and tote bags—at the CLPA tables. Even Rand, a cop who’d always been so careful to keep his personal and professional life separate, had a rainbow hanky tucked into the back pocket of his jeans while he talked to the march’s uniform officers on duty.

And then there was Cora. Beautiful in her intricately tied rope crop top, a swirl and twist of color twining around and binding her breasts, offering peeks and teases of tattoos along her body. Pip hadn’t been able to take her eyes off Cora as they marched together, hoisting their signs and chanting in unison. It’d been so hard to wait until the march at least started to die down a bit before dragging Cora off to an abandoned storage room in a nearby parking garage.

But, now, that Pip had her here, she was not going to let that sense of bitter isolation creep back in.

No. PRIDE was about community. About connection. She wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from her.

So, she tucked her fingertips between the ropes of Cora’s top and tugged the woman closer. “Well, you were well on your way to making my PRIDE pretty damned wonderful.”

Cora let out a breathy laugh, heat rising again in her eyes. “Oh yeah?”

Pip nodded her head. “Uh-huh. Wanna keep going?”

Cora tilted her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know if you’ve earned it.”

Pip snorted. “Says Miss Strolled in at Noon. I’ve been here, marching my butt off, since eight!”

“Marching your butt off, huh?” Cora arched her eyebrow. 

Pip barely had time to gasp before Cora gripped her by the waist, tugging her off the table. But her finger tangled in one of the colorful CPLA necklaces draping down Cora’s chest, causing the string of plastic beads to break while Cora flipped her so she was bent over, belly-down ass-up. 

Cora tsked. “Look what you’ve done.” She bent down and retrieved the beads. “Each of these cost me a dollar.”

“I’m sorry.” Except Pip wasn’t sure she was. Not while Cora trailed the beads over the patch of skin revealed between the hem of her shirt and the band of her skirt. Besides, Cora had, like, ten of them around her neck.

“You should be.” Cora sighed disappointedly as she let the long string of beads to pool in a cool coil against that heated bit of flesh. “Breaking things and lying to me.”

“When did I lie?”

“Right here.” Cora tugged the band of Pip’s skirt until both it and her rainbow panties slid over the toned cheeks of her ass. “You told me that you’d marched your butt off.” Cora murmured low as she caressed Pip’s ass. “Looks like your butt’s doing just fine.” She pinched one cheek and chuckled. “Better than fine.”

Pip giggled and wriggled her ass a bit beneath Cora’s touch. “Better make sure.”

“I think I’d better.” She trailed her fingers over Pip’s back, tapping her fingers gently over the long column of her spine. “The question is how.” She let out a wicked laugh that had Pip craning her back and neck to see what the other woman was up to. Cora reached around her neck and took off the beads still hanging there. She gathered the ends in her hand, letting the strings flow out one side, before she struck her forearm with the makeshift flogger.

Pip pushed up onto her hands. “You can’t be serious.”

“You know me.” Cora’s grin widened toothily while she caught the beads now sliding down Pip’s butt. “This is my serious face.”

Yes, it was. Pip’s pulse raced at the determined expression on her face and the playful light in her eyes. God, yes. “But not too hard though.” Even plastic beads could leave welts, if swung hard enough, and Pip didn’t really want to deal with the hassle of marks at the start of swimsuit season.

“Understood.” Cora nodded. “But first,” she said, setting aside her beads, “we need to tie you up.”

Of course. Pip snorted at the incorrigible rope top. “Well, it’s not as if you don’t have enough rope.”

“Psh.” Cora waved her hand toward her breasts. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to do this? There’s a reason I didn’t show up until noon.”

She shook her head. “No, we can do better than that.” Then she reached for the collar Pip had around her throat. “Perfect!”

Pip rolled her eyes. “Beads for a flogger, a collar for cuffs. You’re practically kinky fairy godmother.”

Cora smirked and nodded, grabbing Pip’s wrist in one hand at the small of her back.  “Except, in this case, my wish is your command.”

Pip snickered until she felt Cora’s grip falter. She looked back again, wondering at the hesitant look on the woman’s face. “What's wrong?”

———

Cora sighed and rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. She had no idea how to explain why this suddenly felt wrong. But, looking at Pip’s beautiful, soft, clove-shaded wrists held tight in her own pale, tapioca white hands...it all just felt tainted.

“Cora?”

Cora released Pip and stepped back. “It's nothing.”

Pip tugged her skirt and panties back on. “Sure seems like something.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So let’s talk about it.”

Cora winced. “It sounds dumb.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Cora bit her lip. “It just doesn’t feel right, right now.”

“What doesn’t?”

“This. Us.” She shook her head when Pip’s eyes widened with hurt. She wasn’t explaining this well. “I mean, with the president running around telling the country that they should be afraid and suspicious of people of color and immigrants and our attorney general calling for harsher crackdowns on his own brand of law and order while protecting cops who take a shoot-first attitude toward…”

Pip cringed and sighed. “People who look like me.” She shook her head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She told Pip it sounded stupid. “It’s just…” She grunted frustratedly. “With all that, how can I…” She clenched the collar in her hands. “Much less…” She waved her hand toward—Jesus—the flogger. Cora closed her eyes and buried her head in her hands. How culturally insensitive could she be right now? What what she thinking?

Pip touched Cora’s shoulder. “We’ve played together before and you never seemed bothered by it then?”

She knew that. But, instead of being comforting, it made her feel worse. “Things are different now.” For God’s sake, they were at a march fighting for their right to be themselves. To love who they wanted to love. To live how they wanted to live. To be treated with the same respect everyone else in this world got to have. 

They shouldn’t have to do this. 

In the face of all that, how did they do this? “It didn’t used to be like this.” Sex. Play. With all this tension in at the forefront, how could Cora play act some sexy, kinky game—however unintentionally—at the injustices rearing its ugly head in the worst ways? “All I can see is me, this white woman, doing this to you…”

“A black woman.” Pip smiled. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I was just as black the last time we played.” 

She knew that too. “But it feels different now.” She couldn’t look at the world today and not see it all differently now.

Pip reached for Cora’s hand, her collar pressed between their palms. “Even if this is what I want.” She leaned down and kissed Cora, touching her hand to tip up the other woman’s chin. “If you’re what I want.”

Cora sighed and kissed her back. God, she wanted Pip too. She just didn’t know, with the weight of the world around them, how to want her. She pulled away slightly, just to rest her head against Pip’s shoulder. “Tell me what you want.” Tell me how to do this.

Pip cupped the back of her head, running her hand through Cora’s short brown hair. “You’re right. The world is crap right now.” She turned Cora’s face to look into her eyes. “And, to be honest, it’s always been crap; we’re just seeing it more clearly now.” She wrapped her arms around Cora and squeezed. “But, right now, I want to stop thinking about it. I want you to stop the world, if just for a moment.” She kissed Cora again, longer, sweeter. Against her lips, Pip murmured low, “I want you to tie me up and spank my ass until the world disappears and all I can think about is you and what you make me feel.”

A small laugh slipped past Cora’s lips. She could do that. If that was what Pip wanted, she could do that. Cora caressed Pip’s cheek before pulling her in for a kiss. She moaned and licked her lips, smiling when Pip opened her mouth, welcoming Cora’s tongue. Cora wanted little more than to melt into that kiss.

So she did.

For a moment.

A long, amazing moment.

Then she held Pip at arms-length. Pip arched a curious eyebrow at her, but Cora just smiled and narrowed her gaze. She tilted her chin down, but pointed an intimidating look up at Pip—a short girl’s trick that came in exceedingly handy as a top. Her chest swelled with pride when she saw Pip’s eyes widen and her breath catch. Pip did so love a strong-handed woman. Cora held out her hand and in an uncompromising tone, she said, “Wrists.”

Pip grinned and her eyes were alight with anticipation. She held out her hands, wrists together and palms up. The gesture was so trusting, so inviting, and so very, very promising, Cora felt her heart rate race and her body heat. She leaned down and pressed her lips to each wrist before twisting the collar tight around them both. Truth be told, it wasn’t a good hold. All Pip had to do was twist her wrists to slip free. In fact, she would likely have to be careful how she struggled against the binding to be sure she didn’t break free from it too easily.

But Cora was working with what she had and it would have to do. “Is this okay?”

Cora held her breath and watched Pip swivel her wrists, testing the tie to find out what, given the constraints, what she could and couldn’t do. Cora let out a relieved sigh when Pip shifted her wrists, consciously causing the leather to twist and trap, before she looked back up at Cora.

I want this. The thought was so clear in Pip’s eyes. I want you.

Cora reached for the discarded beads again. “Turn around.”

Pip turned, tugging her skirt and panties down so they fell to her feet, and Cora’s body tensed in guilty arousal. She looked down at the vulnerable position Pip was in, back bent, feet spread wide. Pip was bared before her, open and giving. Her fist tightened around the makeshift beaded flogger, feeling the plastic bite into her flesh.

God help her, Cora did find that shift of power, the sweet sign of submission in Pip’s stance and the rush of dominance coursing through herself, so fucking hot, but it wasn’t about race. Sure, Cora couldn’t lie, it was in part about Pip’s gorgeous body bent over, her smooth, dark skin stretched taut over the curves of her hips as she gave a playful, excited wiggle of her ass. But, when Cora gazed at Pip, she didn’t see politics. She saw Pip. Her play partner. It wasn’t that the inevitable cultural baggage between them didn’t exist—of course, it did and there wasn’t anything either of them could do to change that. But they were so much more than just that.

They had their relationship, this incredible mix of friendship and attraction. And, for Cora, there was a kind of power in looking at centuries of heavy history and division and, while not denying the effect it had on them and what they were to each other, knowing it did not have to define them.

I want you to stop the world, if just for a moment.

Cora wasn’t sure she could actually do that. But, for Pip, she wanted to try.

So she tightened her grip on the beads and struck her forearm again, to both build Pip’s tension—letting her hear the sharp lash—and to remind herself how hard to strike to hurt, but not harm. After all, this was about pleasure as much as it was about pain. It was about reaching a level of pleasure one could only experience through pain.

Cora smiled at the way Pip’s thighs flexed for a moment in anticipation. Cora placed a grounding hand on the small of Pip’s back, helping to ease her. She instantly felt the woman’s body relax under her touch. “Ready?”

Pip nodded. “Yes.”

Good. Cora pulled the beads taut between her hands and aimed, before letting them hit firmly, but not hard. She made sure the beaded tails connected in a group along the side of her hip with an almost tender thud, dulling the ends’ sting on the fleshiest part of her behind. Cora was pleased when Pip’s ass gave a shocked little bounce before pushing out again as if seeking another strike. 

So Cora gave her one before asking, “Harder or softer?” She knew the answer, had learned it during all their past play and could read it now in the way Pip squirmed, but she wanted to hear her say it.

“Harder.” Pip’s voice was low and throaty with need. “Please.”

Cora grinned. Good. She pulled her toy back again and hit the same spot but with a bit more force. The skin bloomed a dark rose beneath Pip’s pecan skin. Cora let her hand slid down to caress the reddened flesh, both thrilling at the heat there as well as soothing the sting. Then her hand returned to the base of Pip’s back. “Harder or softer?”

Pip arched her back, defiantly ready. “Harder.”

All right. This time, she changed the angle this time, striking the center of her ass so the sensation spread along both cheeks. It wasn't that she'd swung any harder, rather Cora made certain her strike would be more keenly felt. Cora wanted to whoop at Pip’s breathy gasp that swiftly turned into a moan. “Careful,” she warned, nodding to the small room’s window that was opened just a crack, “don’t want anyone to know what we’re doing in here, do we?”

Pip bit her lip and swallowed the sounds of her pleasure, but Cora had a better idea. Through the window, she could still hear the small, but resilient crowd chanting. “No hate, no fear. Everyone is welcome here. No hate, no fear…” She felt a wave of pride that, even this far away, the sounds of the march could still be heard. She leaned down and stroked Pip back and whispered against her heated flesh, “No hate, no fear…”

She grinned when Pip responded softly, but gamely with the rest of the chant. “…Everyone is welcome here.”

With that, Cora stood tall and took aim. “No hate, no fear…” She struck.

After a sharp intake of breath, Pip replied a little louder, “Everyone is welcome here.”

Good. Cora changed her style again, this time gathering the flogger’s tails more loosely, allowing them to strike Pip’s ass in a wider burst so those ends snapped her skin with more sting, causing Pip to squeal out the end of her chant. Cora paused and let Pip catch her breath, stoking Pip’s behind, while the protesters outside switched chants.

Cora thought a change of pace did sound nice. So she set aside the beads and reached down for her sign. 

“Aww,” Pip sighed sadly when Cora tore the plastic stick from her sign, “I really liked your sign. Why would you ruin it?”

Cora looked down at the now ripped poster board reading, “Love is love is love is love” in large, bubbly, colorful letters. She just shrugged. “The march is almost over anyway.”

Pip shrugged. “It’s not as if there won’t be more marches.”

Cora wrinkled her nose. Yeah, that was true. Given the state of the world, this was not their last protest. She leaned down and kissed the base of Pip’s back. “We can make new ones together next time, okay?” For right now, Cora paused to listen to the marchers still going strong below. She aimed the stick, bringing it close to Pip butt only to draw it back again. “When civil rights are under attack, what do we do?” She snapped the stick against the sweet spot of Pip ass, just under the delectable curves where her thighs meet her behind.

Pip jerked against the table and threw back her head, joining in with the new chant, “Rise up, fight back!” 

“What do we do?” Cora cracked the stick again.

“Rise up, fight back!”

Fuck, yeah. Cora swung again and again, keeping time with the protest cries like a lust-fueled drum beat. Cora stared at the fading, almost rope-like marks left by the beaded flogger and the darker red crisscross of the stick’s strikes. She sank into the rhythm of their combined voices—yes, she and Pip, but also the crowd outside—making the intimate scene in this storage room feel somehow larger, connected to something more meaningful in both the wider world as well as within. 

It was too good, the sight and sound of Pip pleasure. She dropped the stick to the ground to cup Pip ass in her hands, feeling her heated blush against her palms as Pip pushed into her touch. Cora closed her eyes and focused on the needy sounds that dripped between Pip now breathy words, feeding the need building within Cora too. Cora squeezed Pip’s flushed flesh. “More?”

Pip groaned. “God, yes.”

“What do you need?” 

“You.” She swallowed hard. “Inside me. Now.”

Cora made a low, satisfied sound when she reached between Pip’s thighs and felt the woman’s wetness, thick and silky. She dipped her fingertips into Pip’s liquid heat just deep enough to tease, to tempt. Pip gave a longing moan as Cora pulled her fingers back.

Poor Pip, she would have to be patient. Cora had every intention of sinking her fingers deep within her. But she wasn't quite done playing yet. Sliding between her slick lips, Cora found Pip’s eager clit. She rubbed the ready flesh, loving how Pip’s hips would grind in time to her touch. Her voice sounded harsh and husky, hoarse and raw from all her earlier, impassioned cries. Cora could hear Pip’s pleasure peek with each guttural grunt and groan. Could feel it in the flood of heat flowing onto her palm. She was almost there. So close to the edge. All she needed was a push.

 So Cora did, plunging her fingers deep within her, even as her other hand continued to caress her clit. Curling her fingers, she thrust in and out of her at an insistent pace. She bit her lip and reveled in the tight clench of Pip’s wet pussy as their flesh gripped and slipped together. Her movements and moans turned frantic as Pip raced toward release.

 Then her body tensed against Cora’s on a sharp inhale. Keeping her fingers still inside her, marveling in the snug seize and slack of Pip’s orgasm, Cora wrapped her other arm around the woman's waist, holding her up while Pip’s knees buckled.  

 They stayed like that for a long moment, with Pip lost in sensation while Cora stood strong and in awe with this amazing woman in her arms. Slowly and a little reluctantly, she slipped her fingers from Pip so she could pull her tight against her, wishing this moment would last forever. 

———

Pip sighed as she slid, blissfully boneless, in Cora’s embrace until she sunk her pleasure-lost weight onto the cool cloth of her skirt and panties that still sat pooled at Cora’s feet. She took deep, shaky breaths and rested the back of her head against Cora’s soft, bared belly while the world came back to her. “Thank you.” The words sounded distant and weak, even to her own ears, but she felt them echo, so sincere, in her soul. “Thank you.”

With her wrists still bound, Pip turned and struggled to face Cora on the floor, resting against the leg of the table. Looking up, Pip met Cora’s gaze, seeing an intoxicating swirl of heat and tenderness there. Pip smiled before reaching out with both hands to tug at the band of Cora’s shorts, pulling her closer. She undid the buttons, tugged on the zipper, then slowly, inch by inch, peeled the fabric down Cora’s body.

Spreading Cora’s legs, Pip pressed nipping kisses all along her partner’s thighs. Pip leaned in and, while the tremors of her climax still throbbed between her legs, inhaled the scent of aroused woman. Fuck. Her mouth watered. Hungry, she nuzzled the curls Cora’s mound. “How should I thank you?”

Cora’s eyes fluttered and her hand rested on Pip’s shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me?” 

Pip peeked her tongue out to tease Cora’s pink flesh. “Why don’t I show you?” She flicked her tongue over Cora’s clit, making her gasp and tighten her grip on her shoulder, before Pip closed her mouth over that needy nub. She suckled and licked that slick silken skin, Cora’s taste and scent overwhelming. Wanting more of her, Pip reached up and slipped her fingers inside Cora’s core. 

Pip could hear Cora moan as she rode Pip’s fingers, pumping Pip deeper within her and tasting sweeter, hotter. “Faster.” Her nails dug into Pip’s shoulder. “More.” Pip felt Cora’s knees begin to weaken, but still she sucked. “Please.”

Pip twisted her wrists and freed her hands, just as Cora’s back arched and her head fell back. Cora cried out, her pleasure a burst of sound covered only by the crowd outside still chanting. “Love, not hate, makes America great. Love, not hate...”

Pip caught her as Cora’s knees gave way and she fell into Pip’s waiting arms. With her mouth still sticky with Cora, she kissed up along Cora’s arm, her shoulder, her neck, then her lips. 

“Dear God.” Cora’s weight was welcoming and warm against Pip’s and Cora’s breath was hot against her neck. “Thank you.” 

Pip kissed Cora’s temple, the rebellious yet rejoicing sound of love and freedom streaming through the window and filling the small room. Pip sighed, leaning against the table again, and pulled Cora close. “You’re very welcome.”

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Open Season

A Faere Trade Novel

Sometimes it really sucks being female.

Juli Soon wakes up feeling lethargic and lazy. Her body sore, she wants nothing more than to snuggle up next to her boyfriend, Kyle Cross, and fall back asleep.

But her alarm rings, insistent and unignorable, next to her as she feels a hard, equally unignorable length push against the small of her back.

She sighs and tells herself to think. You have options; you always have options.

If she doesn't get out of bed to deal with one of them soon, she's going to have to deal with the other. She could stay in bed. Roll over to him. Or roll onto him. She could spend the morning touching every inch of him, trailing her fingers over taut, teak skin, before taking that pressing length inside herself.

Or she could hit snooze. She could cuddle close and sleep for ten more minutes. Then maybe ten more.

Both of which would definitely make her late. And she does not have time today. She wishes she did. But she already knows, with her cycle starting and the vote happening, today is going to be hell.

So she gets up. Turns her alarm all the way off. Stretches. Lights a candle, then another. And takes her first shower of the day.

She turns on the water, but not too hot. The steam—the heat and the comfort of it—will call her boyfriend to her, not to mention make her shower completely useless. She's trying to not smell like herself today.

Not that she smells bad.

That's actually the problem.

Juli stands beneath the lukewarm water and tries hard not to feel disappointed. Even disappointment can make things worse. Any heightened emotion will do it, even extreme boredom. So, she tells herself, get yourself under control. Remember, in the grand scheme of things, having an uncomfortable week every two months isn't the worst thing in the world.

But that doesn't mean she has to like it either. It's infuriating—or would be, if she wasn't keeping such a tight lid on her feelings—that, six times a year, her body doesn't feel like her own. That it belongs to her biology.

She reaches for her strongly scented, cycle soap and scrubs. Hard. Especially around her neck, armpits, wrists, groin, and feet, anywhere near any scent gland. As she does, she can smell herself on the air around her. It doesn't smell like anything on this planet, nothing native to it anyway. But it always reminds her of a dish she barely remembers from her childhood on Pixis, warm and homey and rich. She can't even remember the last time she ate it, much less the recipe to make it—not that she could on Earth, the ingredients a galaxy away—but her memory can still taste the savory luxury.

Every time, it makes her a little homesick for a place that feels more like a dream than anything. It makes her wonder what her life would have been like, if her parents hadn't decided to join the Great Migration when she was only four years old. Hadn't looked at the way overpopulation and pollution and war were destroying their planet, their lives, and given up.

She wonders if this scent—her scent, the scent of her people—would make her hungry instead of queasy. If nostalgia wouldn't twist with anxiety the way it does here.

"Morning."

Kyle.

Juli twists under the now floral-scented spray, grateful to see the bathroom door still shut. "Morning." She bites her lip guiltily. "Did I wake you?" She tried not to. She sniffs the shower, but smells mostly soap. Doesn't she? She sniffs again to be sure. The cloying scent of chemically created rose clogs her senses.

She hears him yawn. "No worries." The sound of him shuffling behind the door seems loud, even muffled by the shower, while he waits for permission. Biting her lip against the words—the invitation—she longs to say but doesn't have time for, she holds her breath and waits too. Until she can almost feel his shrug. He sighs. "I'm just going to go downstairs and start the coffee."

***

Hypnotized by the sound and smell of his girlfriend showering, Kyle's feet feel stuck to the carpet. He can't stop imagining her on the other side of the wood, water raining down her naked body. Not wanting to leave that door, not with the smell of her wafting out through the cracks, he inhales. 

Lord help him, nothing smells like her. It's literally out of this world. It's like smelling a feast with his every favorite food right in front of him laced with the most addictive drug.

He inhales one more time. One last, long drag through his nose that fills his lungs and stirs his body.

Then, even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he sighs and does what he promised. He leaves the room. Closes the door. With determined steps, he goes down the stairs and heads to the kitchen.

With shaky hands that would rather be touching something else, he measures out coffee grounds. He hates that his cock twitches, lengthening uncomfortably beneath his sweats while he listens to the shower going upstairs. He licks his lips, his mouth growing sloppy, as he imagines Juli soapy and wet with steam swirling around her slick curves.

When some of the coffee grounds spill onto the counter, Kyle grunts, the huff coming out as an aggravated growl. The mess is such a small, insignificant thing—nothing, really, on any other day—but it's just one more grating thing that's making for a not-great start this morning. He shakes his head, chastising himself for being so distracted by his fantasy-fueled dick. For still thinking about the smell, feel, and taste of Juli. And how he'd rather be up there with her. And how hard it is to remember why he couldn't be. 

For God's sake, she's his girlfriend. Of course he wants her. It's not like that's a crime or some awful act. He ought to just go back upstairs. He ought to join her in the shower. She's not in the mood right now, but he could get her there. Hell, he's hot enough for them both. All he needs to do is go.

No.

With another hard shake of his head, he remembers what they've talked about. He knows what they agreed on. If she's in the mood, she will let him know. If she doesn't say yes, it's a no. Actively blocking the inevitable but in the back of his mind—the incessant but he could change her mind or but he could make it good for them both or but what about him—he swiftly sweeps the grounds off the counter and into his hand. He flicks his hand over the sink, dumping the dark grounds down the drain. Upset with himself, he grits his teeth and turns to get the water pitcher out of the fridge.

Only to turn back around, when he finds himself instinctively, unintentionally, heading toward the stairs.

No, he tells himself. Stop. Go. To. The. Fridge. Get the water. Pour. With a rougher than necessary jab, he pushes the coffee machine's power button. There. Done. Good. He knew he could do it.

Feeling a little helpless, when he realizes, with that done, he has nothing else to do but wait. Gripping the counter, he tries not to think about the fact that he fulfilled his promise. He started coffee. Obligation complete. He could go back upstairs now. Worrying only about the exact wording, while ignoring the actual intent of his promise, he could slip into the shower, grab Juli, and slide in deep.

Instead, remembering what his word, what her trust in it and in him, means to her, he plants his feet and grips the counter harder.

He wants her. So much it's hard to think beyond that. But she's not in the mood right now. And that's all that matters. 

Even if he has to remind himself of that.

He remembers all the tools he and Juli have discussed to deal with moments like this. Stop. Stop thinking about her and breathe. Leaning in, he forces himself to smell the coffee brewing. He breathes it in, letting it fill his senses and clear his head. Exhaling, he tells himself to stop thinking about her. To think about the coffee. Think about how many hands those grounds have gone through. Think about the grocery store he bought it in. Imagine the factory where it was packaged. Picture the fields where it was grown. He willfully fills his head with the story behind it and lets his hands, his senses, his whole being, be another part of that story. Forcefully, he reminds himself that he's more than his damned dick.

You know you can, he thinks, so do it. Control yourself. Breathe deep and be more.

He remembers, before the Pixisos came to Earth in the Great Migration, reading and seeing fantasy stories about alien invasions. Nerd fantasies of sexy aliens coming to Earth to seduce and mate with humans. Even then, even as he read and guiltily enjoyed them, he wondered what the aliens got out of the deal. Leave their home, travel millions of lightyears, land on some weird, insignificant rock, and all they want is to selflessly pleasure the planet's population? What sense does that make?

After the Great Migration, the frequency of those stories skyrocketed. Twisting themselves with old sci-fi tropes and new scientific discoveries. Kyle remembers seeing snippets of what the world was learning in the news about the Pixisos sneak into these stories. In a strange zeitgeist shift, every sexy alien was petite and silver-haired, with skin like the sun's sheen over the surface of a bubble.

When news of the mating cycle female Pixisos experience hit the planet's consciousness, this pocket of the internet went wild. Suddenly, every story obsessed over this week-long period every sixty days where their fantasy alien women went into heat, needing sex and male seed like breath.

Stories of cum-hungry extraterrestrials who begged men with wet sexes and open, eager mouths cropped up like literary weeds. Every one of these arousal-altered aliens were amazed by and impressively afraid of the size and shape of the nude human form. The men in these stories, like the benevolent, superior creatures they were, graciously gave them what they needed, making the women moan with the taste and thrust of their cocks, giving these women unimaginable pleasure by taking their own on them.

Kyle wishes he could say he hadn't been a fan of those stories. But he'd read his fair share. Had even, with eyes closed and cock in hand, created a few fantasies of his own in his head.

But it was when the stories began to turn that he stopped being turned on by the tales. Once the Pixisos were let out of governmental quarantine and given refugee status and homes among humans, public opinion changed. Now, the sex in the stories felt owed. A payment for humanity's generosity. Or, sometimes, a punishment for it. The stories became less about the human's pleasure and more about the Pixiso's humiliation. Their subjugation.

He quit reading those stories then. Stopped visiting those sites, finding the fantasy different now. Tainted and wrong.

After dating Juli and getting to know their partner, Dona Miles, he's ashamed he ever enjoyed those stories. After seeing them struggle with the reality of what others fetishize—which looks absolutely nothing like either the fiction people wrote or the so-called news reports—it kinda killed the fantasy entirely.

He asked Juli once what her cycle's like for her. And what she told him, all the things she has to deal with every day, staggered him. She said it's like her body's betraying her, making people think something about her that she doesn't feel. It's as if her genes are sending out secret signals to strangers that she doesn't understand or want. She told him she can feel it work through her, worm and waft through her pores like some huge, uncontrollable ancient power inside. It makes her feel raw, ripped open and bleeding, while the world licks its lips.

Kyle hungers for her. He wonders if part of him always will. But he won't—refuses to—be that guy, one more person tearing away at her, thrusting his desires and expectations onto her at the expense of her own, whether she wants it or not.

He clutches the counter, letting its edge cut into his fingers. Leaning in so close to the machine he feels its heat on his face, he lets the strong scent of coffee fill his nose, his lungs, his soul, and breathes...

To read the rest, check out my alien, political erotic romance novella “Open Season.” 

Sometimes it really sucks being female. 

Especially for Juli, an alien woman going through a mating cycle that causes all genetically compatible persons to be irresistibly attracted to her—whether she or they want it. But she’s able to cope, with the love and support of her partners, Kyle and Dona.

Until an anti-alien vote threatens the life they’ve built together.

Can humans and aliens find love in a world determined to keep them apart?

Available Nowin eBook on

Amazon & Kindle Unlimited

Fake Dating for Christmas

 

CHECKING IT TWICE

Cainin’s — Collin’s — shoulders visibly stiffened. “You want me to be your boyfriend?”

She nodded. “Just for my office holiday party.” She thought about it. “And my family get-together.” She shrugged. “And my friends’ party.” Was that too much to ask? She shook her head. “About a month of your life. I’ll pay you.”

Collin leaned back and frowned, clearly confused. “Why?” He shook his head. “Why do you want me to do this?”

She sighed. “Like I said, my life’s been a little crazy this year and I just don’t want to add everyone knowing my boyfriend left me a month before Christmas to it.”

His brow furrowed further. “So instead you want to add a new boyfriend.”

“No.” Jeez, had this guy never read or watched a romantic comedy before? “You’ll roleplay as my old boyfriend, Rick.”

He balked. “Won’t people notice that I’m not him?”

Elena felt her face flush as she shrugged awkwardly. “No one’s actually met him.” She waved her hands dismissively. “We hadn’t been dating that long before my mom had her stroke, so I hadn’t introduced him to everyone before that.” She shrugged again. “And after that... well, it just never seemed like the time.”

Collin still looked skeptical. “What about social media? You guys don’t have pictures together or are friends on there or anything?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t do social media and I pretty much only post pictures of my food and my family.” She leaned in. “Look, I’ve thought it all through. This will work.” She needed it to. Needed him to. She just couldn’t imagine going to all those parties and explaining to people how and why Rick had left her. She didn’t want her sad love life to be the topic of the night everywhere she went. After everything else this year, she just couldn’t bear it.

Collin fiddled with his mug, still seemingly unconvinced. “Why me?” When she only blinked at him blankly, he continued, “Why not just ask Rick? You said it hadn’t ended badly. You just didn’t have time for each other. Why not just ask him to get through the holidays, then part ways?”

Elena wrinkled her nose. It was like this guy had never had a breakup. “It’s not that simple. If I reach out to him, he might take it badly. Think I’m trying to get back together with him or emotionally manipulate him or something.” Plus, it’d just be too awkward. If Rick agreed to it, would they be in a relationship still? Again? There’d be a certain expectation of cuddling intimacy in front of people — kissing, holding hands, and the like — but what about in private? No. “This arrangement is better.” Simpler. “You’ll be Rick Gaines, my psychiatrist boyfriend when we’re together, and, when we’re not, you’ll go back to being you.” Simple. Easy. Clean. “What do you say?”

Collin sipped his drink, still looking unsure.

C’mon. She really needed this. Her mind raced for an enticing argument. “Think of it as a real-life Yes And story.”

———

Well, that was intriguing.

He pursed his lips and thought about it. Would it be that bad? Elena didn’t want to be alone for the holidays. Neither did he.

Plus, this could be an interesting opportunity. He tilted his head thoughtfully. “And you said you’d pay me?”

She nodded. “Sure, of course, that’s only fair.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really have a price in mind, but we can figure that out.”

He shook his head. “Parties usually mean free food, right?” She nodded. “How about you pay for things like parking, gas, and expenses?”

Her face brightened at his tacit, practically inevitable agreement. “Of course.”

He held up his hand. “But I do have another condition.”

She paused hesitantly. “What is it?”

Collin was sure she was worried about him asking her for something salacious or sinister. He supposed he was going to ask for something selfish.

And embarrassing.

He felt his shoulders slouch in on himself and the back of his neck heat with a burning blush. “Well, you know how in Yes And we’re not allowed to critique stories. They either succeed or fail on merit. If your story’s good, people will add to it. If it’s not...”

She nodded. “It fades into obscurity.”

He smiled, glad she understood. “And you never get to know why people didn’t like it; just that they don’t. And, if you try to ask why...”

“You get shot down by the members and the mods.” Everyone knew that. “Critiques cause too much in-fighting and drama. Plus, it’s not our jobs to teach people how to write.”

Sure, sure. He understood that. But what if it was? “Well, dating’s a lot like that, right?”

“I guess.” She looked at him incredulously. “You want me to critique your dating?”

He nodded. “It’s the best way to improve, right?”

———

Which meant he wasn’t great at dating now, didn’t it? Great. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “What kind of issues did you have with your previous girlfriends?” Was he the clingy-type or a jerk? He hadn’t seemed like one online, but it was only online, through fiction. What did she really know about him anyway?

To be fair, it was about as much as she had about any of her partners before she met them for the first time, particularly the ones she’d met online.

Collin shrugged. “I don’t know. No one’s ever told me.”

Which was the whole point.

Elena pursed her lips thoughtfully. It was just one month of her life, right? And, in terms of payment, it was a pretty good deal.

Hopefully.

“Okay.” She breathed deep and held out her hand. “The deal is struck.”

He smiled, recognizing his own story line, which again made her feel inexplicably better. “Then I suppose we should begin...”

To read the rest, check out my geeky, holiday novella Checking It Twice.

Fake dating for Christmas? What a perfect plan!

The holidays are hard enough without life throwing snowy curveballs. Freshly dumped, Elena Torres is too busy to find a new date to all her holiday events. There just isn't enough time to find someone new for her office party, her family gathering, and her friends' get-together. So she strikes a deal with her roleplaying buddy, Collin Werther, to pretend to be her ex.

What could possibly go wrong?

Spice level: slow-burn to a kiss at the end

Available Now in eBook on

Amazon & Kindle Unlimited

Listen to an Excerpt

Most Wonderful Time of the Year

On the Highest Bough

Francis shook his wings. As a gargoyle, they were always the first sign that he was getting tired. He stretched them out with a groan, feeling fatigue being to harden them. He either needed another shot of the café’s espresso, that would hold the sun’s effects at bay, or head to the rooftop to sleep.

“Here.” Basil landed to sit on the high ceiling beam next to Francis, a small cup in one hand and a string of garland in the cupid’s other hand. Francis could hear and feel the flutter of the other man’s feathered wings even if he couldn’t see them through Basil’s glamour. “We only have a few more things to finish up, but I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

Francis inhaled the strong scent of espresso wafting to him and making his wings flutter at the drink. He took the cup, feeling the sweet warmth against his taloned fingers with a grateful nod to Basil before settling on the beam as well. Feeling the stony stiffness in his joints soften, he sipped and looked down at all the hard work they’d put in.

Faere Trade was always beautiful. Magical places tended to be. Even the terrifying ones, full of dark magic and the suffering it inevitably left in its wake, were as awe-inspiring as they were horrific.

But Faere Trade was a place of healing and communion. Offering food and drink meant to help its clientele, from the limitations-blocking espresso in Francis’s hands to a variety of glamour-producing teas to a legendary macaron cookie that could supposedly alter your fate in ways no one but the boss knew how. The café grew most of its own ingredients, so the entire place was a lush garden, with trees and bushes and plants everywhere. The smell of life and growth was infused into the space, always making him feel centered and alive.

It was always beautiful, magical beyond words, but, this time of year, it seemed more so. And it really shouldn’t have. Looking at the silver and gold tinsel he and Basil had draped and the lights and decorations they’d hung up everywhere, it should have looked like tacky, chintzy glitz, but it didn’t. At least not to him. He wondered, as a just-under-three-foot being, if it all just looked more wondrous from this height.

Basil played with the garland in his hands. “I probably shouldn’t — I mean, it’s a Christian holiday — but I love this time of year.”

Francis snorted. “Aren’t cupids associated more with St. Valentine’s Day now than Greek mythology.”

Basil smacked him with the garland. “It’s not really mythology, considering that I’m sitting right here, now is it?” But he shrugged. “Though, truth is, we’re not really either Greek or Christian. Both cultures embraced us, at one time or another, but it’s not as if we belong to anyone.”

Francis nodded, rubbing his shoulder. “Kinda like us.” Gargoyles had an odd relationship to Christianity. Both portrayed as demons and protectors, both feared and revered. But, in reality, they were older than any faith.

Yet, when most people looked at Francis, they tended to think he belonged in some Halloween decoration box with all the other spooks and ghouls and devils. But he always liked Christmas more, preferring the joyous season to jump scares. He’d take twinkle lights and carols over haunted houses and scary movies any day.

In fact, he nudged Basil with his wing. “Is that mistletoe in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

Basil, around the same size as him, ran his hands over the garland and gave a small chuckle, truly looking like some cross between a Greek god and a small snow cherub. “It’s actually holly, but most people mistake it for mistletoe.”

Francis grinned toothily and set aside the now empty cup on the beam. “So then, by default, that must mean you’re happy to see me.”

Basil jumped off the beam and hovered in front of him, wagging the garland at him warningly. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re about to fall asleep in mid-air and we still have a bunch of work to do.”

Francis winked at him flirtatiously. “Then give me something to get up for.”

Rolling his eyes at the bad double-entendre, Basil turned to fly away, but Francis caught his wrist. He glided off the beam, raising Basil’s arm over both their heads while his other wrapped around the cupid’s waist. He gave Basil a game look. “Tis the season for giving.”

Basil let out a laugh and shook his head, but leaned into the embrace. “You’re ridiculous.”

Francis puffed up his chest. “One of my better qualities.”

Raising his eyebrow, Basil tsked. “We’ll have to stay late.”

The gargoyle just grinned. “The better to see the lights by.”

Francis could see — could feel — the moment Basil gave in, relaxing completely into his arms. “You are ridiculous.” The words were a whispered smile against his lips.

And then Francis could taste him, warm and spiced like the tea Basil drank for his glamour. Mixing with the espresso already on Francis’s tongue, it ran through him like a rush. He held the angelic man close. Francis wanted to crush Basil to him but, not being a gargoyle too, the cupid felt fragile in his embrace. He flexed his tense fingers so they didn’t dig sharp talons into Basil’s soft flesh. When they kissed, he had to be careful with the man, so his pointed eye teeth didn’t bite. Even his body, dense and hard, more used to being stone than flesh, ached with restraint. And the longing sigh that escaped Basil’s mouth, a sweet sound breathed into Francis, didn’t help. Francis moaned.

“Tell me what you want.” The devilish spark in Basil’s eye and the decadent tone in his voice made Francis pant with want. Excitement and nerves were clear on Basil’s face. Francis understood that; they’d been flirting around sex for a while now, kissing and touching, but it’d never felt like the right time.

Looking around, Francis couldn’t imagine a better moment. Kissing him again, he sighed. “Your mouth.” The phrase came to him like a longing twist in the gut. “On me.” His voice dipped deeper. “And mine on you.”

Basil chuckled low before tapping his chin. “I think we can make that work.” He looked around, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully, before he took off toward the towering, decorated evergreen planted in the back corner of the café.

Francis, curious, followed behind him, diving between the fir branches. He ducked under the string of flickering lights circling the tree, wondering what Basil had in mind. It really was magical, hidden in the pine needles, with the lights twinkling like stars in the fragrant shadows. He breathed it all in, letting it fill and fuel him.

Pointing to a branch above them, Basil tilted his head curiously. “Do you think this branch will hold you?”

Francis shrugged. “It did, when I was hanging lights.” He laughed and reached up to grab it.

“Uh-uh.” The sound was quick and scolding. “Not with your hands.”

Francis looked at the man quizzically. But, when the man just made a twirling motion with his finger, it dawned on Francis. He wanted him to hang from the branch by his feet? Francis frowned thoughtfully. Okay. He couldn’t really see why the man wanted that, but he also couldn’t see why not. So he flew up, grabbing the branch with his talons and letting himself hang down on the branch. He wiggled a bit, making room for himself against the rough tree trunk, bending the other prickly branches with his thick-skinned, dense body. He bent his knees before shaking the branch a bit, making the needles rustle and the lights clank. “Should hold.”

“Good.” Basil flew up to hover by his feet. “Then hold on.” He took the garland in his hand and wrapped it around the branch, then around Francis’s feet, and all the way down his legs.

Francis looked up skeptically, feeling a little like an anachronistic ornament from holidays past dangling on the decorated tree. “I really don’t think that’s going to help hold me up.”

Basil chuckled. “I doubt it will; this is more to remind you to keep a good grip.”

Francis shot him a daring look. “Think you can make me lose my grip?” Cocky cupid.

Waggling his eyebrows, Basil smirked. “Let’s see, shall we?” He reached for Francis’s belt. Francis never really liked clothes. Would rather go without. But Faere Trade was a safe haven for people and nudity tended to make some folks uncomfortable. So he put on the uniform every day and figured it a small price to pay in order to work somewhere he didn’t have to wear a glamour.

But, now, with the metallic clink of his belt and the soft slide of leather sounding loud in the empty café, he kinda got the appeal. Feeling like an odd gift, he felt Basil’s hands push fabric away, reaching into his trousers to pull out his semi-hard sex. Francis inhaled sharply, when Basil ran his finger over the craggy ridges in his curved cock. When he fluttered forward, the slight wind from his wings hitting Francis, and took his length into his mouth, Francis shivered and felt his toes almost flex. He caught himself, locking his knees and gripping the branch again harder. Basil chuckled against his dick, the sound reverberating over the sensitive skin. Cocky, indeed.

Well, two could play this game.

Maybe.

Feeling blood rush to both his cock and his head, he stared at Basil’s zipper. Clenching his talons, he tried to figure out how to undo the man’s pants without shredding them. Shaking his head, he growled. “Take off your pants or walk out of here without them.” Those were the only options.

Basil laughed, keeping Francis deep in his mouth, even as he reached down to let his pants slide off and tumble to the ground. Hallelujah. Francis stared at his rising, rosy sex and licked his lips.

But, on that slick slide, he touched the tip of his canines. Oh yeah. He’d never actually slept with anyone who wasn’t a gargoyle, whose skin couldn’t handle the scrape and bite of talons and teeth. But looking at the long, pink flesh, Francis knew Basil couldn’t.

So, mouth gaping in what he hoped was safely open, he licked the silken skin over Basil’s hard shaft, the contradiction fascinating on his tongue. His taste, his scent, was different too, instead of earthy and rich, it was musky and smooth. He arched his neck, so he could run the full length of his tongue over the full length of Basil’s dick, swirling over the tip.

Basil, midair, faltered, pushing his cock against Francis’s mouth. “Careful.” Francis laid a hand against the man’s hip, to hold him from slipping too close to his teeth. But the touch just made him want to grab and squeeze. If Basil were a gargoyle, Francis would have dug his talons deep, scratched his stony skin, leaving grooves in his wake.

Instead, he tempered his touch, focusing his mind on the softness of the man’s flesh against his. He groaned and felt his palm sink into that give. It was so much like the sliding, yielding warmth of Basil’s mouth on his cock. Francis wanted to feel that slide here too.

But he didn’t know how. Not without hurting this man he only wanted to pleasure. But he wanted to try.

So he let his thumb and two fingers wrap around the man’s heavy, thick sex, making sure their pointed tips avoided the tender length. Tentatively, he moved them over that sleek skin. Hearing, feeling, Basil’s groan in response felt amazing, making him brave. He stroked him again, then again, harder and faster.

Again, the man’s wings flapped wildly, the sound of rustling feathers in the fir rewarding, making his dick thrust against Francis’s mouth. Francis licked his lips, craving that taste. Looking at his hand around Basil’s cock, he bit his lip.

Feeling the threatening tip of his tooth against his lip, Francis thoughtfully bit down. Basil’s body couldn’t handle Francis’s bite. But Francis’s could.

He coughed, his throat feeling tense. “Tell me if this is okay.” Stretching and tucking his lips to cover all his teeth, Francis bent forward and took the tip of the man’s length into his mouth.

Basil groaned, arching into Francis, slipping further past his lips. “It’s amazing. Sleek and impossibly smooth.”

Good. Relaxing, Francis let himself be overwhelmed by the feeling of Basil on him, in him. Inhaling, he felt surrounded by the scent and taste of him. He let the heat he felt flicker within fan into a flame. He felt consumed by it and welcomed it.

Wanting more, he thrust his hips and sucked harder, forcing them both deeper. He felt his teeth sink into his lips, pricking the skin, the small, sharp pain thrilling as it shivered through his senses. His feet clutched the branch holding him up as he struggled to keep his grip on Basil taut but teasing. He writhed against the scratchy garland twisted around his legs, against the sweet-smelling needles pricking him everywhere, and felt his climax barrel close.

He swallowed hard, his mouth loving Basil’s dick. With a grunting groan, Basil tensed, his hips pushing into lips, as he came, spilling himself down Francis’s throat. The bitter, slightly sweet taste filled Francis’s senses and, with his own echoing groan, he came into Basil’s waiting mouth too.

His talons slipped and scraped against the branch, making him falter and fall on a choked cry.

Basil caught him by the ankles before drifting slowly to lay him on the ground. Francis felt the rich soil and twist of roots beneath him as Basil, soft and warm, curled up next to him. He took a shaky breath and held the man close. Looking up at the towering, twinkling tree above them, he sighed. Maybe he wasn’t made for this season — or this season wasn’t made for him — but he really did love this time of year.

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Play a Trick, Get a Treat

ALTER EGO

Hayato didn’t get Halloween. Having grown up in a very conservative, very traditional Japanese neighborhood, he hadn’t really celebrated it as a child. Had usually spent October thirty-firsts studying, not trick-or-treating.

“It’s fun,” his roommate, Peter, insisted, futzing with the whip on his hip as they pushed their way through the overstuffed, past-capacity sorority house party.

Hayato eyed his friend who was gotten up as Indiana Jones. “Aren’t we a little old to be dressing up in costumes?”

As it was, the best Hayato could come up with — would put up with — was a large, floppy wizard hat Peter had made him buy at the local secondhand store.

“It’s not about us wearing costumes,” Peter insisted as they shouldered their way into the living room, pushing past a chainsaw killer and a unicorn. “It’s about the costumes everyone else wears.”

What did that even mean?

“Excuse us,” two girls dressed up in black lace lingerie and witches’ hats said, sidestepping them. Hayato hissed as the crowd pressed one of the witches flush up against him, her small, firm breasts thrust up into his chest.

Ah. Okay. He understood that.

He re-adjusted the hat’s wide brim as he watched the two giggling girls disappear into the throng. “So this is just an excuse for girls to wear socially unacceptable clothing in the guise of costumes?” Hayato asked, looking around the room spotting a sexy nurse, a sexy paratrooper, a sexy umpire, and even a sexy headless corpse. All more scraps of lace and lycra than actual clothes. All more skin and body paint than cloth.

“Get in the spirit,” Peter urged, smacking him in the shoulder, sending his now righted hat askew again.

Peter sighed and gripped Hayato’s shoulders. “Just,” he said, shaking him a bit, “have fun.”

Peter was a personable guy. A computer science major, he supplemented his own scholarships and grants by fixing and upgrading other students’ computers and gadgets, often on the cheap and with a blind eye to niggling legalities. While no quarterback or valedictorian, he was well-known and well-liked among the student body. Hence his invitation to this hedonistic bash.

Hayato had grown to respect and admire — even envy — him that. Not much for going out, it was harder for Hayato to network and mingle alone in his room with a book. It was a skill he’d never really mastered. He tended to shy away from people, which tended to make people shy away from him. It was an invisibility that was far more convincing than the sexy ghost flashing thigh as she tipsily collapsed on Peter’s lap.

“Do you remember me?” the girl asked Peter, wrapping her arms around his neck as she stared into his eyes.

Peter looked her up and down. “Sure do,” he assured. “You wanted to lift a copy of a design program your friend had on her computer. Couldn’t do it, but I did find you a comparable program for free.”

“Do you remember my name?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Peter gave her a sheepish yet charming grin. “You could remind me.”

“Or,” she said with a mischievous smile, “we could go upstairs where you’ll get three tries to guess my name.”

“What do I get if I guess correctly?” Peter asked with a game grin.

“Me,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“And if I don’t?” Peter asked, obviously intrigued.

She leaned in, wriggling on his lap, as she whispered in his ear.

Hayato’s friend’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s not really much incentive to get it right,” he murmured hotly as his grip on the girl tightened.

The ghost simply tipped her head knowingly.

“Uh,” Peter said as he turned to Hayato. “You gonna be okay here?”

Hayato just smiled ruefully. “Go.” It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle a party by himself.

And, even if he couldn’t, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t make his way back to the dorms on his own.

He watched as Peter left, trailing behind the wisps of greyish white strips barely covering the girl.

For a long moment, Hayato just sat on the couch, listening to the many conversations going on around him. Sometimes, he would meet the gaze of someone at the party — maybe even try to join in on a group — but, after a few awkward attempts, he got up.

He pushed his way through the crowd of people, thinking it odd and illogical that he should feel more alone in the thick of the loud, boisterous crowd than he ever did in the quiet of his room.

He made his way to the food table, picking at odds and ends he found there. A handful of grapes. A couple of crackers. A bite of cheese. Nibbling at a frosted pumpkin-shaped cookie, he stared at the many bottles and jugs sitting at the far end of the table.

He watched as people poured drinks. Rum and Cokes — one-third rum, two-thirds Coke. A lemon drop — one-half vodka, one-half lemon juice, sugar, and stir. He listened as partygoers mixed drinks with crazy names like “Salty Dog” — five parts grapefruit juice, one part gin, add salt and pour over ice — and “Four Horsemen” — one part tequila, one part Jäger, one part peppermint liqueur, and one part rum.

It seemed easy enough. Hayato got out two glasses. In one, he poured small sips of random drinks to taste before discarding the bottles or pouring measured amounts into the second glass. Working his way around the table, he sipped and mixed his way into what he thought was the perfect drink. He took a sip of the concoction and smiled. It was delicious even as it spread a satisfying, glowing warmth through him.

“What is that?” a beautiful magician in coattails and a towering top hat asked him as she eyed his glass curiously.

Hayato shrugged. “A Lazarus Pit,” he told the done-up Zatanna, his mind flicking back to the Batman comics he kept in his basement. Wrong character, he knew, but it was the best he could think of, at the moment.

The superhero magician smiled, dimples forming in her stunning, show-ready face. “Can I try it?” she asked, gesturing for the glass. As if the words were some kind of spell, he relinquished it to her, marveled and a little anxious as she put the plastic cup to her pursed, pink mouth. Licking her lips, she moaned. “That’s amazing.” Tapping a fairy on her glittered shoulder, the illusionist said, “You have to try this.”

Passing the glass, Hayato watched with amazement as more girls sipped this drink like an odd, profane communion. He swallowed, a bit panicked, as a chorus of “Make me one” rung out.

“Uh, sure,” he said, uneasily, as he grabbed a stack full of glasses.

For the fairy, he made a “Stardust” — two parts citrus soda, one part peach Schnapps and a splash of sour apple liqueur. A sexy caveman couple got “Stone Throws” with hard cider and beer. He made a “Speakeasy” — three parts Guinness, one part whiskey, with a guzzle of coffee liqueur — for a flapper girl who’d written her phone number — 896-7853 — on the back of his hand.

People kept coming, acting as if he knew what he was doing. So he kept doling out drinks, pretending that he did. It got easier as he went along; remembering the taste and mix of drinks. Vodka’s sharp bite. The smooth burn of rum. The bold richness of Jägermeister. He learned that citrus could bring out the crisp taste of the lighter beers. And, while the darker stouts reminded him of the bitter taste of coffee, he didn’t much care for them once they went warm.

By the time the crowd cleared, Hayato had all but exhausted the combinations of drinks. Feeling flush with accomplishment and the alcohol’s warm, soothing effect, he mixed himself a little something. See, he thought as he took another deep and satisfied sip, this socializing thing wasn’t all that hard. He didn’t need Peter to have a good time. He’d done just fine on his own.

Hayato turned, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, just in time to avoid the crowd of conga-ing costumers gyrating to some oddly mixed song that sounded strangely like French reggae. Stumbling a bit as a few of the line’s more enthusiastic — if not most coordinated — members bumped into him, Hayato felt a pair of hands cup his, steadying him and his now sloshing glass.

“Careful.”

He secured his grip on his glass as he looked up to see the costumed Zatanna in front of him, her blue eyes smiling — maybe even laughing — at him. The curve of her darkly painted lips seemed somewhere between a smirk and an invitation. Hayato pondered which it could be even as his gaze slipped south, idly tracing the deep vee of her pearl white vest that — while not exactly canon-accurate — lay tantalizingly tight over black lace-covered breasts.

“Mix me a potion?” she asked, calling his gaze back up to her grinning face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled over the loud, culturally eclectic music, blushing at how he’d been caught ogling, as he set his glass aside and wiped his wet hand against his jeans. Maybe that was enough intoxication tonight.

She just continued smiling, seeming oddly and mysteriously omniscient. “Make me a drink?”

“Uh, sure,” he said, flustered by that gaze. Not knowing what else to do, he turned to start mixing again. His neck prickled as he felt her watch him, her gaze assessing while he grabbed and combined this and that. At first, he thought that she was judging the drink but, the more he mixed, he didn’t think so.

She was watching him. Not his hands, as the others had, trying to figure out formulas and recipes. She was watching him. The whole of him. And waiting. For something. Something Hayato couldn’t even begin to guess at.

It was as if she knew him. As if, with so much familiarity from her, he really ought to know her.

But he didn’t think he did.

He was sure he would remember a girl like her. With clever, blue eyes that shone sharply with thoughts he could see but not decipher. Like him, she had a very angular face, sculpted in shapes that should have seemed wrong but somehow, together, were stunning and foreign. Riding that line between gaunt and gorgeous, the sharp planes of her nose and cheeks, her brow and chin, were as alien as they were alluring.

Long, dark curls framed her face and flowed down her back and over her shoulders, caressing her body as she leaned against the counter.

Though he tried — so very hard — not to, his eyes kept drifting to her breasts that were now propped up on her forearms as she rested against the back of a chair. He wondered if she’d done that on purpose. If her arms, that encased and displayed, were a deliberate attempt to draw his gaze down. Judging by her knowing grin, he thought yes.

“Hayato,” she said, tilting her head as he handed her the drink concoction — some grab-bag of booze that he couldn’t have recreated to save his life, “right?”

He looked up a little sheepishly.

So she did know him.

He nodded, unsure if it was ruder to ask for her name now or pretend like he knew it. Not much for names, he didn’t normally pay much attention, if he could help it. He always figured that sort of thing tended to work itself out in the normal run of things, linking memory and importance in a completely organic way.

And, looking her over again — Hayato was almost sure — if he’d once known this girl’s name, he would have made a point of remembering it.

“Halloween is the best time of year, isn’t it?” the magician continued, leaning a bit more forward on the chair to reveal the deep vee of her cleavage.

Those pale, round breasts were beautiful, rising — just a bit — with every breath as they pushed against the tight fabric of her vest. He knew it was rude to stare but, try as he might, he couldn’t look at her without staring. “Sure,” he said on a deep swallow as he forced his gaze to focus on hers.

“There’s magic in the air this time of year,” she said breezily, even while studying him as if she could read his every thought, as if she could witch out exactly where his mind had drifted. “One night a year, we all get a chance to be someone else. To be something else.”

Hayato thought about that. About the magic in not being yourself.

Except he liked himself.

He was honors pre-law at the college of his choice. He’d been on the Dean’s List every semester. He was a National Merit Scholarship Winner, a National Collegiate Scholar, and the youngest member of an elite study group for law students.

He was on track. He’d been preparing for this, working his ass off, for as long as he could remember. Why would he want to give that up, even if just for one night?

“With a little makeup and a wig,” she mused, “you can step out of your life and into one of your own imagining. With just a wardrobe change, it’s like being given license to do all the things you normally wouldn’t. It’s like identity alchemy.”

Hayato nodded and shrugged, not really sure what to say. To be honest, Hayato hadn’t had all that much experience with girls outside a classroom. Mostly fumbled fits made in library reading nooks or someone’s dorm room bunk bed. And, while he’d certainly enjoyed himself and — God, he hoped — they’d enjoyed themselves, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d even know what to do with a girl like the magician, who was almost too pretty to look at, much less touch.

“You just can’t beat that,” she sighed almost wistfully.

Not that he was planning to touch her or anything. Hoping, sure. Fantasizing, oh yeah. But she’d only asked him to make her a drink. She was a sorority sorceress and he was an undergrad in a secondhand hat; he couldn’t even imagine what she would want with him beyond a little bartending.

He watched as she tipped the red solo cup back, draining the “Love Potion #9” in one long drink. Even over the party’s strange soundtrack of German punk rock, he heard the definitive crunch of the cup’s plastic as she all but slammed it back on the table. “I want to show you something,” she told him, her face a bit tight but determined. “Upstairs.”

He blinked. Upstairs? “What?” he asked blankly, sure he’d heard her wrong.

“Magic,” she told him, answering a question he hadn’t actually asked but was pretty sure he liked the answer to. “I want to show you some magic.”

Hayato had to blink for a moment, his brain adjusting to hearing the vaguely porno phrase outside the fantasy. It was weird. Even in the real world, the words sounded like fantasy. Scripted and a little stilted, she’d said them as if she didn’t really mean them.

He wondered what that meant.

Then she held out her hand to him, the gesture so much more convincing than the words.

His gaze swept over the long lengths of her legs, lifted and shaped by the tall heels on her feet, and up the swell of her slim hips. He swallowed hard at the way the tight vest clung to her waist, soft and sweetly curved, before framing — hugging — those breasts.

Meeting her pretty, blue eyes, he saw the briefest flicker in her gaze — a quick break in character. He reached out, that look making him take her hand. There was something so familiar in that look. An uncertainty that he knew well and wished she didn’t.

He watched that crack in her confidence close as her small hand gripped his, tugging him through the party crowd and up the stairs, and wondered why that would make him feel so much better.

Hayato swallowed hard as the scent of booze, sweat, and over-stimulation struck him. Seeking that surety again, he held tight to her hand and focused on the magician as she snaked her way through the space, sometimes seeming little more than an arm almost swallowed by the mob and a bouncing top hat.

They wove through congested hallways, squeezing tight to couples who’d congregated in and out and around the bedrooms. Some of the doors were wide open, revealing rooms overflowing with too many conversations and even more people. Some doors were shut, quiet dens — pockets of conspicuous silence — or muffled murmurs — music or moans — hidden behind the wood and walls.

They stopped in front of a door, shut and silent. Hayato held his breath as she turned the knob. Letting his hand go, she stepped into the room, flicking on the light. She turned, a dramatic, almost dance-like pivot, with her hands spread in ta-da as she took off her hat in one smooth motion. Standing just inside its entrance, she looked at him, left lingering in the hallway. “Come in.” It was almost a command with just a trace of question touching the performance.

He stepped into the room, the door shutting behind him. He gave a small laugh and shuffled a bit on her carpet as she reached into her hat. “Don’t tell me there’s a rabbit in there,” he said.

She pulled out a box of cards and waved them at him. “Much as I love a classic hat trick, pretty sure a bunny violates house rules,” she said as she sat down on one of the room’s beds.

“So you actually do magic?” he asked, a little impressed. He’d figured it was just a costume and a line.

“Of course,” she said, an obvious look on her face, as she gestured for him to join her on the crimson comforter covering her bed. “I told you, I’m a fan of magic.”

Hayato looked around what he assumed was her half of the room as he sat down. C.S. Lewis sat spine-bent and well-read next to Tolkien on her bedside. Tamora Pierce and Mercedes Lackey sat stacked on her shelves. Kelley Armstrong kept Kim Harrison company as their corners peeked out from under her bed. And strewn and stuck alongside all those were biographies of Houdini and David Copperfield and how-to books on classic illusions and close-up magic. They were everywhere, tucked away like treasures among her textbooks.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked, nodding to her as she shuffled the deck. “Do I pick a card, any card?”

“Mmm,” she said as she dealt out eight cards, four in front of him and four in front of her, “sort of.” With a flick of her hands, she shuffled the rest of the cards. “We’re going to play a game.”

A game? “Okay,” he said, even parts wary and intrigued. “What kind of game?”

She flipped the top card in the deck and flashed the eight of hearts. “Basic high card, low card,” she said. “Beat my card,” she said, flipping the next to reveal the jack of spades, “and I’ll take something off.”

He swallowed hard as his gaze shifted south. He liked those rules. “And if I don’t?” he asked.

“Then you do,” she answered simply.

That was a magic trick?

Looking at her, sitting cross-legged across from him, her soft thighs parted and her posture welcoming.

Yeah, maybe it was a kind of magic.

“Sure,” he agreed, shifting to mirror her position on the bed.

Together, they flipped over the cards — his outside left, her inside right. He smiled when his ten of diamonds beat her three of clubs. “So,” he said with a nonchalant cough, “do I get to say which article of clothing you take off?”

She pursed her pink, gloss-coated lips and tilted her head. “I’m willing to take suggestions,” she decided as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “So long as you take mine.”

Hayato shrugged, figuring that was pretty win-win.

Jutting his chin a bit, he looked her over. There was a strategy to this, he was sure. Did he go for the easy start, like her shoes or the bow tie, or did he dive right in? It felt creepy going right for a big ticket piece, like her vest or panties, first, but it also felt like lying to pretend like that wasn’t, in fact, exactly what he wanted.

Besides, if he asked for something so exposing, what would she ask for in return? He shifted a bit. He wasn’t really all that comfortable naked. Didn’t really understand how anyone could be so casual about being so vulnerable and exposed like that.

And, sure, it wasn’t like he hadn’t guessed — and, God, sincerely hoped — that that was where they were headed.

It was just that…he could wait for a bit. Ease into it, really.

“Shoes,” he said hesitantly, almost as a question.

She nodded sagely, looking too much like a mind reader for his comfort. “Shoes, it is.”

Reaching beneath her bent thighs, she gripped the black pumps’ tall, thin stiletto heels in her hands and pulled the sleek shoes off. Bending low, she folded over herself so she could tuck them safely under her bed with her books. It really shouldn’t have, but watching her twist her legs around so she could rub the now bared soles of her feet in her hands, moaning softly as her fingers and palm pressed into her flesh, made his breath hitch.

Which was weird.

It was just her feet.

Just shoes.

Not anything particularly sexy to him.

But there was something about the fact that she’d taken them off — bared herself — for him. Because of him. Because he’d asked her to.

“Go again?” she asked, her hand now traveling up her calf to rest on her knee.

He nodded as he reached for another card. He flipped over his inner left card — a seven of hearts — as she flipped over her outer right — an eight of diamonds.

Hayato swallowed hard as he looked at the cards. Moment of truth, he supposed. “All right,” he said, wondering if she’d play fair.

She bit her lip, tilting her head this way and that. “Shoes too, I suppose,” she said as he let out a relieved breath.

Hayato toed off his sneakers. Flexing his feet, the boy born and raised in a strictly Asian home actually felt much more comfortable without his shoes on her bed. His shoulders — that he hadn’t even known were so tense — relaxed as he rolled his neck a bit. “Keep going?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yeah,” she said as she flipped her outer left to show a queen of diamonds that beat his next card, the five of spades.

Her grin spread and her blue eyes glittered. He really ought to have seen it coming — and a part of him perhaps had. “I should be nice,” she told him, lifting her shoulder casually, “and ask for your socks or even your shirt.” She gave him a pointed look that made his body stiffen, anxiously but not unpleasantly. “But I’m not going to be,” she said plainly. She held out her hands. “Pants, please.”

Hayato choked. His pants? They’d gone from shoes to pants? He could feel his face pale as his mouth slacked and his eyes bugged. His eyes flicked around the room and, while he knew it to be completely empty, he still felt put on the spot. Put on display. It was too well-lit in the small sorority house room. He could still hear strains of the party happening below and around them, thumping music that was more pounding beats than songs and discordant conversations layered on top of each other in a rumpus of sound that echoed in his ears.

“We can stop, if you want,” he distantly heard her voice say across from him. “Go back to the party.”

And, though it was completely illogical, a part of him was sure, as he listened to and imagined the goings-on below him, that the costumed revelers below were doing the same with him. Knew every play of their game. Eaves-dropping, hushed and hovering, as the magician stripped off her heels. Had snickered at him as he, so eager and sure of himself, shucked his own shoes.

“Hayato?”

He imagined those eyes and ears tuning in as his shaky hands fumbled for the button of his jeans. The sound of his own zipper sliding down ripped metallic and loud through his head. Reaching for the now loose waistband, he turned away from her — feeling too watched already without watching her watch him — and caught the robed image of Gandalf glossy on the cover of one of her books. It was so strange that the cheap polyester hat should feel so much heavier on his head as he looked at his costumed copy.

What would the great wizard do?

The thought was as ridiculous as it was unavoidable. Made Hayato smile a bit, really. What would Gandalf do, if he ever found himself in this situation?

Gandalf was brave and powerful. Hayato would’ve bet that he would never have backed down. Wouldn’t cower — or would at least stalwartly hide his hemming and hawing in some never outwardly seen inner monologue. He was the leader and mentor of the Fellowship of the Ring! Staff at the ready, he could do anything.

Which sounded dirty, under these conditions.

But, at any rate, Hayato took a deep breath and turned back to his patient prestidigitator. Straightening the hat’s wide brim, he steadied himself and stood before shedding his jeans down with a quick shove.

For a moment, he felt silly. Stupid, really. Standing at the side of this beautiful girl’s bed with his pants around his ankles and his skinny, chicken legs sticking out. He felt like an idiot. A half-naked idiot. He shut his eyes and waited for her to just start laughing at him.

“So,” she asked, “you want to keep going?”

He blinked and stared at her. Her blue eyes were looking up at him expectantly. Maybe even a little excitedly. She was having fun.

And why wouldn’t she?

This was her game, after all. She’d picked him. Brought him up here. Laid out her rules. She must have known what she was getting into. Must have chosen him for a reason.

“Why me?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to but now he couldn’t stop thinking it. He had to know. Out of all the guys who’d come to this party — all the frat guys and athletes and everyone — why had she settled on him?

She shrugged. “You like magic and Batman,” she said simply.

Was that all it took? Really?

Well, why not? While very alluring, his Zatanna wasn’t really more attractive than the tens of sexy ghosts and witches and cats running around the party. Looking at her now, with her angular face and softer, fuller form, she was actually less conventionally attractive than the tall, slim flapper who’d written her number on his hand.

So why had he gone with her?

Magic.

He’d gone with her because she’d promised him magic. She’d looked past the hat, straight through to his nerd heart, and spoke to that sci-fi/ fantasy fan who longed for something supernatural — something special. Who, from the time he’d read his first Spiderman comic, had been promised that there was something special in him.

And, skinny legs and a hermit personality or not, she’d seen that promise in him.

So, yeah, why not?

Hayato sat back down. Together, they flipped over their last cards. And his king of spades beat her nine of hearts.

“My turn,” she said, a knowing look on her face. “What’ll it be?”

He looked at her, his Zatanna. Suddenly, he didn’t want her to take off her clothes. Didn’t want her to strip herself of her costume. Of her magic.

He could go for something simple, like her bow tie. But it was such a defining part of her costume; he couldn’t take it from her. He couldn’t go for her vest or bra or panties without making her strip off other pieces first. So, though a part of him hated to lose it, he said, “Coat.”

He watched her sit up a bit, tossing the fluttering coattails before rising to her knees. She grabbed the lapels and slipped it from her shoulders and down her arms, letting it fall like a curtain around her. Ever the performer, his Zatanna knew how to put on a show as she sat — almost preening — in front of him, her white vest brilliant against her pale skin.

She leaned forward with her hands planted between her parted thighs as she lowered herself down onto the duvet, her arms again framing her breasts and aiming his gaze down.

With his gaze still lingering on that hidden space beyond her balled fists, he asked, “So what now?” They were all out of cards.

She crawled forward, those hands moving her forward and her breasts swinging full and weighty as she prowled over the downy plane. She smiled a cunning grin as she flipped his cards face-down again. “Now we go again,” she said.

“But we already know the cards,” he said. Without the element of surprise, didn’t that take all the fun out of the game?

“And you remember them?” she asked, skeptical as she turned her own cards.

He nodded. Sure. It was four cards. Eight, including hers. Even after a few drinks, of course, he could still remember eight cards.

She smirked. “Then this should be an easy win for you, shouldn’t it?” she concluded as she sat back on her haunches.

Good point. So he sat back and mentally went through all the cards. He knew his cards, definitely, and did know which cards she had and was almost certain he knew their order.

“Ready?” she asked him, reaching for her inner left card — a nine of hearts.

He felt a little bad — wondering if she knew that it was the last card she’d played and the easiest for him to remember — but not quite guilty enough not to play his ten of diamonds.

“Easy win, indeed,” she murmured as she sat back, looking at him — and not the cards — almost daringly. She fingered the lapel of her vest and gave him a questioning look.

It was the logical choice, so he nodded as she thumbed the buttons open, each springing open to reveal more and more. Hayato felt his mouth water as the bright white material parted.

Underneath, she had on a black lace teddy that hugged and adored every curve. He’d thought that she was wearing a bra and panty set under her costume, but this was better. The thin, almost airy layer of lace both hid and displayed her, playing a teasing game with his head.

The cups dipped in a low vee that barely contained her breasts, letting them spill, full and cream-colored, out a bit now that they were free from the constraints of the pearl white cloth. A sheer lace belt wrapped the dip of her waist, offering peeks of pale skin and accentuating the lush sway of that line. His gaze drank in the swell of her hips and belly, soft and sweet, following it down to where the lace fluttered playfully over her thighs.

The white, now discarded fabric puddled on top of her coat as she reached for her lowest card — a three of clubs. Another easy win. With confidence, he flipped over his five of spades, a low card, but high enough. Hayato liked games and all, but he was done playing around.

“The teddy,” he said, without hesitation. As much as he liked it, he wanted to see her.

She took a deep breath, hesitation flickering a bit in her eyes. She shut her eyes and nodded, her shoulders squaring. “As you wish.”

He watched her peel the lace straps down her shoulders, the cups dipping with her movement. He held his breath as the soft, black material fell below her breasts — so lush and sweet — leaving her pretty pale pink nipples bare to his gaze. His hands fisted in her comforter as he held himself back from touching her, tasting her.

She tugged the teddy over the sweep of her hips, wiggling a bit as she freed it from her legs. God, he could smell her, hot and aroused. A rich warmth that filled his senses, at once comforting and exciting. And the sight of her, bare and so smooth — he had to hold himself back from touching her.

“Let’s go again,” he said, his hand already turning over his seven of hearts, anticipating her eight of diamonds. The room was too hot and, despite his usual modesty, he welcomed the loss of his shirt.

She laughed as she turned over her card. “Last one,” she said as she moved on to her next card, turning it over to reveal the queen of diamonds.

Yes, it was. He didn’t even look at the card, knowing it to be the king of spades. “Bow tie,” he said, more than ready for her to be completely naked.

“Ah-ah,” she tutted, pointing down. “Not so fast.”

He looked down. He shook his head then looked down again.

A two of spades.

What?

That wasn’t his card. He hadn’t had a two of spades. He looked down at his cards again. A ten, a seven, a five, and a two. No. He’d had a king. He knew he had. “You cheated,” he blurted out.

“Not cheating,” she said as she picked up her queen. She twirled it between her fingers with a quick flick, transforming it into a joker. “Magic.”

He pouted. He knew it was just a strip card game, but rules were rules and he should have won.

“Tell you what,” she said, reaching for her bow tie, “I’ll take it off if you do something for me.”

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“If you,” she said, pulling one of the ends and unraveling it into her hands, “put it on.”

Really? “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Okay.” Why not?

He took the tie from her and began wrapping it around his neck.

“No,” she said, stopping him, “not like that.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly. What did she mean, not like that? “How do you want me to do it?” he asked, trying not to sound snide. Or feel ridiculous in just socks, briefs, an untied bow tie, and a crooked hat, like some Middle-earth Chippendale dancer.

Crawling over the cards on the comforter, she pulled the tie from his loose grasp with a devious smile. She grabbed one of his wrists and wrapped one end of the cloth around it before twining it around the other. She then wrapped it around both. Tight. Before tying his hands together in front of him. “Yes,” she said, sitting back to review her handiwork, “something like that.”

Uh. He looked down at his bound hands, trying to decide if he was okay with this. On one hand, he wasn’t not okay with this. He pulled at the tie a little bit and was relatively certain that, with how short the cloth was, he could pull it apart with one strong tug. He wasn’t exactly trapped. Didn’t feel threatened or uncomfortable with it.

Beyond — well — he’d never done anything like this before. Wasn’t entirely sure he knew what to do or how to do.

At least, he didn’t have to worry about what to do with his hands. He ruefully lifted them up to inspect the knot.

“Now,” she said as she sidled closer, dragging the corner of a card down his chest, “we’re ready for our next trick.”

“Which is?” he asked, his body stiffening as the card’s cardboard edge cut along the taut, sensitive skin of his stomach.

“My favorite,” she said with a dramatic tone, “show-stopping trick.” She tapped the card over his hard-on, making him jump a bit. She flipped the card in her hand to reveal the queen of clubs.

“This trick,” she said waving the card in front of him, “is called The Queen’s Club, which is based on an old tale of an ancient princess.” She took the card and slid it up his right thigh and down the other, leaving a strange, shivery wake in the card’s path. “This princess lived in a very rich land with her dying father, who was determined to see her happily wed before he passed.” Reaching for each knee, she lay his legs flat in front of him on the mattress. “But the princess was stubborn, a little spoiled, and, most of all,” she said, kicking one leg over his, so she straddled his thighs, “very, very smart.”

Hayato’s mouth went dry and slack as she settled over him, her naked pussy hovering hot and tempting, so close to his own bare flesh.

“So,” she continued, completely ignoring his intense stare, “liking her life just as it was, without a husband or lord to tell her what to do, she told her father that she would lock herself and her servants in her rooms, which for her had everything she could ever need, and any man who could find something she wanted that her rooms could not supply would earn the key and her heart.”

Hayato fought the urge to squirm — to shift his hips up to touch his to hers. “Did anyone ever succeed?” he asked, concentrating on her words rather than her sweet scent, like warmth and woman and want.

“Well,” she said, tipping his chin up with the card, “let’s see.” She took hold of his hands and brought them down between their thighs. “It’s said that, if you can please the queen well enough,” she said, holding up the card in her hand, “the key will be revealed.”

God, the soft, satiny slide of her slick sex against his hands as she settled on top of him was intoxicating. He watched her eyelids flutter a bit as she slid his fingers inside her pussy and purred, “So show me something, Magic Man.”

Then she bit the card, holding it tight in her teeth, as her hips swiveled a bit to adjust to his hands.

Please the queen, huh?

Hayato cocked his head a bit. That — yeah, that — he could do. So he did. Leaning forward, he bent low to capture one taut, pink nipple in his mouth, his lips closing wetly around the hard flesh. He suckled her, licking and nipping and enjoying the lush texture of her against his tongue, as his fingers explored her.

He noticed, as he slid his slick thumb up to stroke her clit in circles, that his magician liked a rougher touch, her moans growing into deep, desirous growls as his fingers pistoned within her. He triumphed at the throaty sounds that tore out from behind tensed teeth and the silken arousal that flowed from her and onto his fingers as her body pushed her hips down onto his hands only to lift her breasts up to meet his mouth.

From under the awkwardly hanging brim, Hayato could see, could feel, her body thrust up and down — and up and down — over him, his mind memorizing her movements and imagining them within a myriad of other contexts. The sight, the sound, the scent of her arousal woke something within him, some sleeping beast inside that craved more of it. All of it. He wanted this moment to continue on. Forever, maybe. It would never be enough. There wasn’t enough pleasure in the world to sate the hunger now building within him. It was a hunger that, once fed, only grew.

“Come on,” he murmured, feeling magic in those words, as he urged her on, seeing the tension in her body and the pleasure on her face build. “Come on.”

He could feel her reach for — would have sworn she could practically see it in her sightless, trance-like, lust-hazed gaze — her climax’s peak. His teeth sucked on her nipple deep in his mouth as he pushed his fingers as hard and deep inside her as he could. Her body pulled taut as a cry rang out in the room.

Idly, Hayato wondered what the soulful song sounded like on the other side of the wall. Wondered if her crescendo-ing cry would echo in concert to the party’s music. He imagined that every beat of her orgasm — that inviting clench that hugged his finger still buried hilt-deep in her warmth — would match the sorority’s soundtrack.

He saw her languidly lean back, reaching up to take the card from her mouth. He could see the tracks of her teeth, from where she’d bitten down on the laminated card. She turned it. He blinked at the ace of spades. Her ace in the hole. The key that would unlock everything.

She backed off a bit, reaching out to grab one end of the tie and unraveling it as she pulled. It wasn’t until she was leaning back over his knees, that he realized that — somehow — his briefs and socks were gone, leaving him as naked as she was. Which was strange as he couldn’t recall when or how they’d disappeared.

But what was puzzling him more was the crinkly, stiff feel between his wrists. Right where the tie had been. Separating his hands, he watched as a condom — foil-wrapped and ready — landed on his lap.

The key to everything you could ever need.

Hayato shrugged as he picked the condom up off the mattress. It was one hell of a trick.

One he was determined to figure out.

Later.

He ripped the hat from his head and threw it to the floor before tearing the wrapper open and rolling on the condom with precise and efficient moves. He grabbed her by the waist and flipped their positions. Free of the awkward hat, he looked down at her, more than a little amazed by his magician. She looked beautiful laid out beneath him. Her long, midnight strands flowing about her. Her face flushed and set in an eager expression. “Come on,” she dared, licking her lips. “Come on.”

Atop her, his arms and legs around her as the rest of his long form surrounded her, he leaned down to kiss her. She tasted like a sweet mix of liquor, soda, and seduction as he slipped himself inside her. He moaned against her mouth as her snug softness enveloped him, making his entire body heat. He thrust, wildly and almost helplessly, knowing that he wouldn’t last long and wishing he could care more than he did. But, like her before, he could almost see his peak, could feel it call to him. Tugging him toward it, headlong and uncontrollable.

“Come on,” she panted again, thrusting just as frantically beneath him. “Come.”

And the words — like a spell or incantation — pulled his orgasm from him, letting it flow through him, into her. His long body stretched as he felt her arch against him, the sound of their lust loud in his head.

For a moment, the world stilled, shrinking down to just him and her and the thundering beat of their bodies still entwined together.

Hayato opened his eyes lazily as he carefully pulled himself from her. He sighed as he removed the condom, his body still sensitive. He settled down next to her on the mattress, feeling her hand on his chest as she curled her body around him, the labored rhythm of her breath soothing as she drifted into sleep. He looked down at her, trying not to move and wake her.

Early sunlight filtered in through the slit in her dorm room window to shine on her face.

It was strange.

In the morning light, she looked different. Her skin — that had seemed flawless and fresh in the night — was streaked with fading makeup that now strayed and stained skin it’d bled into. Even her hair, that had flowed so beautifully over her shoulders and around her face, now seemed crooked and a little off. Hayato spotted wisps of blond peeking out along the hairline of the now obviously synthetic, black strands.

She looked younger in this light. His lips, now slightly chapped with her lipstick all but licked and kissed off, parted on a snuffling yawn. There was something youthful about her, snuggled up tight on her bed, like a child playing dress up.

It was a trick of the light.

It was identity alchemy.

“With a little makeup and a wig,” she’d told him, “you can step out of your life and into one of your own imagining. With just a wardrobe change, it’s like being given license to do all the things you normally wouldn’t.”

It was magic.

He leaned back against her headboard and looked at the palm of his hand. In red ink, it read 896-3360.

Hayato had a head for numbers. For remembering things like that. And those were not the numbers the Speakeasy flapper had left on his hand.

With a smile, he let his mind center on those numbers — committing them like an enchantment to memory — before letting his own dreams drift over him.

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