The Real Thing
One evening, during our third week of living together, we had dinner I’d made for us. As easy as it was for Marcus to make things happen,including having the best restaurant food appear on our table at any time of the day, we both enjoyed a home-cooked meal.
I’d always loved cooking, even though I rarely did it while living on my own. Feeding my man with dishes I made from scratch gave me just the motivation I needed. Besides, breaking in all the fancy appliances in Marcus’s kitchen turned out to be lots of fun, too.
After dinner, we sat in a big comfy chair by the large window in the living room and watched the stunning desert sunset.
This was one of our stay-in dateswhich we preferred to going out, simply because we could do things here that we couldn’t do in a restaurant—like me sitting in Marcus’s lap, for example.
Since it was a date, we dressed up and opened a bottle of champagne for Marcus and one of apple juice for me. I wore a silk dress, stockings and stiletto pumps, and Marcus had on his leather pants and a dress shirt.
“Angela,” he said, kissing my hair.
“Mmhmm?” I leaned my head on his shoulder.
“When did you say was the family reunion this month?”
“Next week. Would you like to go?” I asked carefully.
He took a moment to reply.
“These people may be the closest I’d ever have to a biological family. Still, I don’t know how to feel about meeting them.”
“Having a family can be a wonderful thing, Marcus. Even if most of them are dysfunctional in some way or another, like mine.” I smiled, threading my fingers through his hair. “Whoever Ingeborg’s people turn out to be, though, you know you won’t have to hide around them. That alone could be amazing—having people who know exactly who you are. Another place where you could be yourself.”
“It’s bigger than me now.” He splayed his hand on my belly.
It hadn’t grown at all yet. Granted, I wasn’t that far along, and I read it was normal not to show for a while, especially during the first pregnancy. Of course, my mother had volunteered her opinion on this matter, “With your wide hips, Angela, there is plenty of room for the baby to be comfortable for a while yet.”
“My parents couldn’t be there for me. And I want to be there for our baby. I want to help him every step of the way, but I have no idea what kind of support he may even need. It makes me feel powerless.”
“According to the parenting books I’ve been reading, it’s normal for new parents to feel some form of anxiety, even for the parents of children born without any magical powers.”
“We’ll need help.”
My mom had promised to stay with us for the first few weeks when the baby came, but I knew that was not the kind of help Marcus was referring to right now.
“We know there are people who could help,” I offered tentatively.
“I think about how much easier it would’ve been for me growing up if I had someone who knew exactly what I was going through and could explain what was happening to me. You mentioned they trained their children.”
I had recounted in detail the conversation I had with Ingeborg the Sunday we met, as well as whatever she’d written to me in her emails before and after.
“Well, it’s not exactly training, more like a guidance process. They teach their children to control their abilities and not use them in public. It sounds like the special powers don’t manifest themselves all at once. It’s more of a gradual process in most cases.”
It was my biggest hope that by the time our boy got his magical powers, he’d be big enough to handle them and use them safely and responsibly.
It was still too early to find out the gender of our baby, but I’d come to think of him as a boy, simply because Ingeborg mentioned the large prevalence of male children being born in her family.
“It could be good for the baby to grow up with other children like him.” Marcus sounded as if he was talking to himself, mulling over a big decision out loud. “It’d help him not to feel alone or . . . different.”
“Marcus.” I turned in his arms to face him, straddling his thighs. “Honey, no matter what, his childhood won’t be like yours. He’ll have us, my family, our friends. But you’re right, having friends his own age, who are like him, would be helpful.” I brushed back his hair and kissed the worried crease between his long eyebrows. “I believe it would be good for you, too, to meet your people. Remember, how you gravitated towards me when you realized you could be yourself around me?”
There was love in his gaze on me, so much love I could almost touch it. And I basked in it like in rays of sunshine.
He smiled easily, the wrinkle on his forehead smoothed out. “I gravitated towards your spectacular ass, my ice queen,” he teased with a lopsided grin, sliding his hands under my skirt to cup my backside. “Its pull is impossible for a man to resist.”
“Oh, many have resisted just fine.” I giggled.
My breath had accelerated at the warmth of his palms against the bare skin above my stockings, his thumbs skimming the edge of my panties.
“Lucky for me,” he said softly.
His irises grew darker, the eyelids dropped a little, sending a flock of warm tingles down my naked arms.
My favourite music began to play softly in the background, and the fresh smell of field flowers drifted through the air around me.
“Marcus,” I whispered hurriedly, afraid I was running out of time before he rendered me speechless with his touch. “Should I confirm we’re coming to Phoenix?”
“Mmhmm,” he murmured into the side of my neck, nibbling along my collarbone, then leaned back to catch my gaze. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will.”
“Good,” was all he said to that, yanking me closer, the growing bulge in his pants pressed between my legs, sending a hot charge through my core.
I exhaled slowly, wriggling in his lap. Shoving my hand between us, I fumbled for the zipper on his pants, wishing I could just vanish his clothes the way he often did with mine.
“Not yet,” he gritted through his teeth, leaning back. “I want you on the stool over there.”
“What?” I glanced that way, disoriented with desire for him. “What stool?”
A barstool rolled from the kitchen counter and stopped by the window in front of us.
“Go on, sit on it.” The raspy tone of his voice made my skin prickle with anticipation, but I didn’t get off his lap.
“You know what happens when you don’t listen,” he said, his voice deep and low.
I nodded but still didn’t move.
The next moment, I squeaked with delight, as I was lifted off his lap and hurled through the air to the barstool. My ass hit the padded seat, the speed of the impact sending me into a spin.
Another barstool from the kitchen appeared in front of me, and I quickly put my right foot on top of it to stop my spinning, breathless with laughter and excitement.
“You never listen, do you?” Marcus’s deep growl softened with obvious affection. “Even when you know I have the means to get my way.”
With the sun now fully behind the horizon, the living room was lit by the warm glow of the few candles left on the dining table.
One of the spotlights in the ceiling went on suddenly. Its wide ray of light flooded me as if I was on stage, blinding me for a second.
“Let me see you,” Marcus said in a low, husky voice.
“Make me,” I challenged, trying hard to keep breathing, even as the fire building up in his gaze on me took my breath away.
The barstool with my foot on it rolled to my right, spreading my leg to the side. The skirt of my dress rode up, exposing my panties to Marcus.
He grinned with satisfaction.
Under his heated stare, I felt the zipper of my dress slide down. The fabric slipped off my shoulders and caught my arms, pressing my elbows to my waist. The front closure of my bra popped open and my breasts spilled out, heaving with my heavy breathing.
“Beautiful,” Marcus rasped, shifting in his chair probably to give room to his growing erection that strained against the black leather of his pants. “Just like that.”
The light on me dimmed, and the flame of one of the candles from the table behind him stretch into a red-hot ribbon. It curled and twisted as it reached in our direction, until the top smoky part separated from the flame and snaked over Marcus’s shoulder, hugging his neck, like a loving pet.
His gaze remained on me as the smoke snake slid along his arm and floated in the air towards me. It coiled around the stiletto heel of my shoe on top of the barstool then slowly slithered further up, following Marcus’s silent command.
My stockings dissolved into nothing, with the straps of my garter belt snapping into the air. I felt the heat of the candle flame on my skin when the smoke ribbon wrapped around my ankle.
The sensation was hot enough to excite but not strong enough to be painful.
Then the narrow silk scarf I had tied around my head came loose. Matching the speed of the ribbon moving up my leg, the scarf slid to my shoulder and glided around my neck, causing tingling sensations to spread along the sensitive skin of my throat.
The heat from the smoke snake moved all the way up my leg now, caressing my inner thigh. My panties melted as soon as the ribbon of heat reached them then spread between my legs with warm liquid pressure. The heat of it—in the contrast with the cool silk of my scarf now skimming my hard nipples—made my inner muscle clench with pleasure.
The dress held my arms in place, restraining my movements. I tried to close my legs, to press them together and alleviate some of the throbbing tension building in between, but the barstool with my foot on it rolled back to its place at my side, keeping my legs wide open for Marcus to see everything.
Panting, I moved my gaze to him.
His position in the chair hardly changed, and his eyes—dark and heavy—remained on me, but his clothes were now gone. He fisted his massive hard-on, slowly stroking up and down its length.
The sight of him touching himself only spurred my own excitement, and the hot pressure inside me reached unbearable levels.
“Marcus . . . I need you . . .” I rasped out, as the heat and the pressure between my legs alternated in a frantic pattern, the cloud of hot smoke pulsating against my clit under his watchful eye.
A few more firm, magical strokes took me over the edge. Ecstasy exploded though me in a series of blissful spasms.
As the orgasm rocked my body, my foot slipped off the barstool sending it to the floor in a loud crash. With my arms bound by the dress, I lost my balance and would have fallen if Marcus hadn’t caught me in his arms.
“I need you, too, Angela,” he groaned.
My dress disappeared, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Finding the leather cord holding his hair back, I tugged at it, setting his heavy mane free.
The warmth of his hands replaced the cool touch of silk on my breasts, as he rolled my nipples under his thumbs. His hands then slid under my backside, holding me to him as he lifted us both in the air.
The familiar, intense heat of his body enveloped me, setting my own senses on fire. I wrapped my legs around his hips, feeling him slide inside me. Flexing my arms and legs, I anchored myself to him as we floated in the air, under the ceiling of the living room.
The house vibrated fiercely around us. Intense waves of light and power radiated from Marcus. I could feel his magic curl around me, wrapping me in a warm caress, drawing him closer to me, making us one.
He thrust harder, faster. The pressure against my core intensified, making another orgasm crest inside me.
“Oh God . . . Marcus.” Shudders of sweet ache and pleasure ripped through me in another climax, even stronger than the first.
He growled at my neck, the muscles of his back stiffened under my hands as he fiercely pumped his release into me. His orgasm caught the last waves of ecstasy inside me and spurred them on, prolonging the pleasure for both us.
The ground lurched up in one last powerful tremor, making the furniture shift. Our champagne flutes had long been smashed to pieces on the tile floor.
Smiling into the warm skin of his neck, I paid no attention to the mess. We went through an exorbitant amount of dishes in this house. There were always pieces of glass to clean up after a night of passion with Marcus. I wondered if I should consider switching to plastic dishes or paper plates one day.
He was still panting as his body relaxed in my arms. The spotlight had turned off, and in the dim light of the candles, Marcus’s eyes glistened with emotion when he looked at me.
“Will you stay with me, Angela? Forever?”
“For the rest of our lives.” I smiled, a little surprised by his question. We were living together, about to start a family—the biggest sign of commitment there was in my opinion.
My legs wrapped tightly around him, with my hands linked behind his neck and his arms around me, we were still hovering above the furniture of the living room. The fact that he wouldn’t bring us down on the floor told me his mind was preoccupied with something else.
“Will you marry me?” he asked unexpectedly, sending my heart running amok with surprise, thrill, and pure joy.
Something glistened between us—a beautiful amber ring in a delicate gold setting. Unlike Marcus’s pendant, the gold-and-honey stone in the ring was clear with brilliant flecks of ancient inclusions.
“Will you?” he asked again, as I tried to collect my thoughts that seemed to have melted in the enormity of the moment.
“Of course I will, Marcus,” I replied finally, swallowing past the lump in my throat as happy tears prickled my eyes. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
I moved my hand between us, spreading the fingers wide, and the ring slid easily on one of them. A little loose at first, it tightened under Marcus’s stare to fit snuggly around my ring finger.
“It fits.” I exhaled a happy laugh.
“It always will.”
With a soft, gentle kiss, he finally lowered us to the ground.
“I love you, Angela. You are my most wonderful miracle.”
Copyright @ Marina Simcoe