His most cherished lover would soon be back by his side, how magnificent. How defiant. Necromancy was considered forbidden by lesser witches than he. He scorned them, although dabbling in the art had earned him the name “Warlock” on occasion—a term bestowed on outcasts from the brethren. That tag had been a nuisance at times. No matter, he’d found a malleable coven in the very village where he’d been born, over two centuries before, and he’d bent them to his ways.
Elspeth would, at this very moment, be using another of the songbirds he’d obtained for this stage of the rousing rituals. The spell would distill the essence of the bird’s final flight—each flap of the sacrificial bird’s wings captured to assist Annabel’s flight from the grave into this world.
They would need to keep up the pace with the ritualistic magic, be ready, and watch the woman as well. He channeled his thoughts toward the coven’s lair while he drove, eminently ready for this. The need to make this happen had been growing inside him for decades. It was a worthy challenge for his skills, and with Annabel at his side he would finally be happy. She was the most powerful she-witch ever to have trodden Scottish soil. Once united, they would be invincible, and then he could turn back the clock that numbered his years in this world. His time was short, and he was not done yet.
He licked his lips with anticipation. Flexing his hands against the smooth leather steering wheel, the jet stone on his ring gleamed, catching his eye. It was incandescent with stygian power, just as he himself would also be, and soon.
Zoë rolled restlessly under the sheet, too unsettled to nap, too aroused. Even the shower and the cool cotton against her naked skin hadn’t quelled the anxious feeling in her body. She’d pulled the curtains, hoping for an hour’s sleep, but the late afternoon light seeped through the ochre-colored linen, giving the room an ethereal glow.
She could hear the gentle lapping of the incoming tide. The water sounded so close, but then again it was. The sea wall was a mere twelve feet from the front door. Shore Lane itself was a narrow boundary. That had been part of the appeal of the cottage. Or so she thought. The tension of the journey had done this to her, had to be. She lay still for several moments,
willing the taut, anxious feeling in her body to go. It didn’t.
Her skin prickled with awareness and her hands roamed her body, restless. Her nipples were hard with arousal, the fold beneath her breasts damp. Between her thighs, the nagging desire had grown to fever pitch. She cupped her hands over her pubis, squeezing the plump, aroused flesh until her whole body shuddered with need. Her head rolled against the pillow, her eyes closing as one finger slid easily into the damp niche of her sex. Her clit was swollen. She’d never felt it like this before, as if her sexual desire had multiplied since she’d taken the sea air.
“What’s happening to me?” she whispered, desperate and confused. As she stroked herself her hips rolled back and forth, seeking relief from the pressure of her hand. It wasn’t enough, she wanted to fuck hard, she wanted to lose herself and come over and again, screaming like a banshee. She moved her fingers faster, harder, but still she couldn’t reach release, because something in her was resisting it.
Then the image of Grayson Murdoch came into her mind, and heat flared into her face. She rolled over, laying facedown on the bed, her body bucking and her breasts aching with sensation as they crushed against the surface of the bed. Attaching her actions to a man—a man so close by—was taking her closer. Heat and pleasure rolled through her, and her body grew taut. She pictured him over her, just as she had the moment she’d first seen him. She pictured his fit body working its way between her thighs, his cock filling her.
Oh, yes. Her finger thrust deeper, and she added another, her body tightening rhythmically on them as her core spasmed with release. She shuddered and moaned aloud, slick, liquid heat spilling onto her fingers as she came.
For several long moments she lay there, panting, then she sat up, throwing her hair back and lifting it from her neck, where it clung to her skin. The light coming through the curtains was fading. It was almost evening. She reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on, glancing immediately toward the landing. She’d been everywhere, into every cupboard and wardrobe; she was definitely alone, and yet…
Hugging her arms around herself, she stepped over to the window and peeped out through the curtains. Twilight. A lone heron stood on the rocks in the incoming tide. It was time to get ready to go out and eat.
She headed for the bathroom to splash her face with water. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it. The towel hanging at her back felt good against her skin. Every inch of her body was thrumming with expectation. A shiver ran through her, but she wasn’t cold. Her eyes closed.
She became aware of the sound of water running somewhere nearby. She’d heard the sound of the sea in the bedroom, but this was something else. A shower. She opened her eyes, looking at the reflection of herself in the wall-length mirror. The remaining light coming through the window was fast disappearing, and she was left in gloomy darkness. She could still see a slight glimmer, a reflection of herself in the mirror.
Grayson Murdoch’s house is on the other side of that wall. The knowledge struck her oddly, and her curiosity grew, her heart beating faster. Transfixed, she listened to the sound of the shower beyond, her eyes fixed on the mirror. As she stared, the glimmering image of her reflection twisted, disappeared, and reformed into something altogether different.
What the hell?
It was Grayson Murdoch that she saw reflected there now. She was hallucinating, had to be, and yet she stared, mesmerized. She could see him in the mirror, through it, through the wall. He was in the shower, naked and soaping himself. Instinctively, she wedged herself back into the corner of the room, breathless and disbelieving.
His body was exquisite, highlighted by shadow and light as he moved within a cubicle that was lit from somewhere above it. She looked at the taut muscles of his buttocks and thighs as he moved, and tilted her head back, breathless, the heat between her thighs building, demanding her hand move there to provide relief.
Oh, how she longed to be in there with him. His damp hair clung to his head and neck as he turned under the running water. When he moved and faced her fully, the look of his muscled chest and torso called to her. The water ran over the contours, and lower, to where he was soaping his cock at the juncture of his powerful legs. His fist moved in sure, swift strokes on the long, hard shaft of his erection, his balls high against the underside of his fist.
He was masturbating in the shower, and she could see him! Her sex clenched, and her eyes flickered shut, her body going hot and cold all over, her breasts tightening.
“Oh, please,” she murmured, sliding down against the wall, until she was sitting on the floor, her legs splayed, her hand buried in her pussy as she rubbed herself again, hips rolling back and forth, fingers slurping in her sticky, damp groove.
Carried forward on a wave of sheer lust, her mind struggled to make sense of it. Grayson was facing her, masturbating, while she did the same, pleasure rolling through her, building to a crescendo of sensation that finally left her weak and shuddering.
I want him to see me, too. The thought of him watching her while she did this made her crazy, pushing her over the edge and into a blistering orgasm.
Panting as she surfaced, she watched as Grayson’s face contorted. He’d cupped his balls with one hand; the other still pumped the shaft of his erection. A jet of semen spurted up into the air, and then the image faded away into darkness.
Once again she saw only a glimmer of her own reflection. She sat there, trying to make sense of it. Then, staggering to her feet, she reached for the light. She barely recognized herself in the mirror.
She looked powerfully sexual, a woman on fire. Did she always look like that after orgasm? She didn’t know, she realized, but she felt empowered, and she was glad of it.
There was silence at the wall to the next-door house. Stepping closer, she couldn’t see through the wall at any point, either through the mirror or alongside it.
Either she had imagined the whole thing or…?
She stared at her reflection, her forehead furrowing. “I imagined the whole thing,” she said, with a distinct waver in her voice.