Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

“It’s a pity,” he continued thoughtfully, his hand again moving slightly over her, one finger easing beneath the damp cloth to touch her intimately, “that it is so very difficult to gain access to your womanly endowments. Unlike me, a perfect man, who needs only to be unfastened, which takes but a flash of an instant. I see in the future that I will have to set aside a special lovemaking fund for the replacement of your woman’s clothes.” He felt her squirm and eased his pressure and the motion of his finger. She was sore, after all. And he was making her wild, on purpose, he supposed, to prove that he could control her. It wasn’t well done of him. “Kiss me, Victoria, and I will let you get back to your housewifely responsibilities. Remember your marvelous bread man? I can’t wait to observe you place him artistically on your bread plate.” He patted her lightly, all the while chuckling, and rose.

Victoria slammed her skirts down, so furious with him she was beyond words. But her tongue was tied in knots, and it was true, her mind was in a mindless fog. She opened her mouth, observed his grin widen, and closed it. With quick, angry movements she shoveled her two loaves of bread onto the wooden baking paddle and eased them into the oven.

She looked down at the absurd dough man, shuddered, and threw down the baking paddle. “I won’t bake that thing. Do you hear?”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Carstairs. Why don’t you go upstairs and refresh yourself? Perhaps a vinaigrette to calm your nerves? Repose yourself on the chaise longue. I will complete your duties down here. No, don’t thank me. I know your gratitude is boundless.”

Victoria looked longingly at the baking paddle, hearing it thwack with satisfying loudness against his bottom, and her expressive eyes gave him a fa

irly accurate clue to her thoughts. Rafael quickly picked up the baking paddle and held it behind him. She was standing in front of him, her hands fisted at her sides, her hair and yellow muslin gown thoroughly mussed. She looked ready to spit. He said easily, “You want to use the paddle on me, do you? How about me using it on you? Is that what you want, Victoria? I’m not at all certain that I approve. Pain and pleasure. I suppose that many folk find it a delicious combination. Perhaps someday, if you prettily try to convince me, I’ll—”

“Shut up! Ah . . . just be quiet.”

He laughed aloud, watching her march out of the kitchen, head high, shoulders squared.

“Victoria,” he called after her, “where is that ugliness of yours? I have decided that you have a malformed toe. I don’t mind if you wish to keep your slippers on when we make love. It’s kind of you to spare my sensibilities.”

He heard her steps quicken, and knew she was now running up the stairs. He turned and scooped his outrageous dough man onto the paddle and slid it into the oven.

“Tied to my kitchen,” he said to himself. “A man’s responsibilities never end.”

The look on Victoria’s face exceeded Rafael’s expectations. Her mouth gaped open, her cheeks suffused with color, and she quickly closed her eyes, but of course not quickly enough.

“It doesn’t please you, sweetheart?”

She swallowed, her eyes tightly closed, her lips now pursed, and shook her head.

“Look at all familiar, Victoria?”

“Not at all.” Wretched man, she simply wouldn’t let him get the better of her this time. But she hadn’t realized that he would lay his loaf of bread out for her in all its swelled, baked splendor.

“I’m wounded. Perhaps next time you will look at your husband. For comparative purposes, of course. Do sit down and allow me to cut a piece of delicious warm bread off for you. I should prefer staying above the middle, of course, at least for the moment.”

She opened her eyes and stared down at her bread man and its enormous phallus. Her husband was enjoying himself immensely. She tried for a smile and managed one, albeit a very sickly smile. “Yes, of course, but please let me cut myself a piece. Here, give me the knife, or perhaps I should just tear off a bit. Yes, I will do that.” And she did. She tried desperately not to laugh when her husband groaned loudly. She handed him the piece of warm bread and watched him smear butter and honey on it.

Then he turned and offered it to her. “Shall I tell you how to eat it, my dear?”

“I imagine that I put it in my mouth and bite down, then chew, then swallow. Is that the correct procedure?”

He flinched, grimacing in pain. “You aren’t one for imagery, I see.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He gave her that incredibly wicked grin, all white-toothed and gleaming. “Well, since we’re married, I suppose there’s no harm in educating you. This might shock you, Victoria, but the imagery involves my own, er, masculine self and my—and his—desire for your mouth.”

She simply stared at him, at sea.

Rafael sighed and gave it up. It was beyond him to draw it out. He would show her, and he devoutly hoped that when he did, she would be feeling far differently from the way she felt now.

He tore himself off a piece, all the while watching her nibble at her bread. She looked delicious, he thought, and sweet, and he became hard once more. He shook his head at his body’s response. No, he would wait; he could and would be noble. She had to be very sore, after all.

He continued watching her beneath his lowered lashes. There was no reason he couldn’t pleasure her, though. He was old enough to wait his turn. And her pleasure was very intriguing to him. He found that he reveled in the way her eyes glazed and became vague, and in those marvelous cries and shouts she made before, during, and after her climax. No, he amended to himself, not cries after her climax, soft whimpers and little gasps.

She was splendid. He was a lucky fellow. All would be well once she forgot her pique. He would make it all up to her.

Since together they had consumed an entire loaf of bread during the afternoon, dinner wasn’t an event of dire necessity. Rafael suggested a stroll and Victoria agreed. She was frankly bored with her own company, and despite her husband’s multitudinous vagaries, his perfidy, and his boundless oblivion, he did make her laugh—when she didn’t want to smash a board on his head.

He took her hand when they reached the narrow garden path behind Honeycutt Cottage, and his touch sent immediate recognition throughout her body. She saw them on the kitchen floor, like two wild people; he was bucking and roaring on top of her, and she, unmindful of anything save him and the feelings that were flooding through her, was doing everything she could to encourage him, to become one with him, to experience everything with and through him and herself.