Serena's Magic Read Free

insides feel like they would ignite momentarily, her mind delirious, blanketed by a silver cloud of shivering splendor. He had filled her, and she had embraced him with all the innate sensuality he had tapped.
    She arched against him, moved with him in the undulations of her own raw need, welcoming each demanding velvet thrust, even as tempo increased wildly to skyrocketing, explosive proportions. She was vaguely aware that she moaned, that she cried out, that she raked her nails over his back and tore her fingers through his hair. But she was mainly aware that he touched her as she had never been touched before. He made her burn with the fire that was within her, catapulting her with driving, agonized hunger up and up so high.
    She heard music, in the trees. And it blessed them as did the earth, with the thunderous beat of drums, the melody of flute and strings. It was hauntingly sweet; and its tune whispered that this was destiny; it was right, because such beauty had to be right.
    The drums were the pounding of his heart, the whisper the sound of his uneven breath. The crescendo was her cry, mingled with his, as he imbedded himself deeply, filling her with the essence of him. Shudders attacked her in great racking waves as she acknowledged that she had never known such ecstasy, such volatile and ultimate fulfillment that belonged only very intimately between a man and a woman.
    For several seconds they lay in a luxurious embrace, savoring that moment, but then, realizing his weight, he shifted, drawing her beside him. They were both content to hold the spell.
    She lay against his chest, still mesmerized by its breadth, by the definition of each individual bulging muscle.
    Funny, she had always told herself she didn’t care for the muscled type. She thought an abundance of muscles was certainly ugly. But there was nothing ugly about him; his appeal was totally rugged, as if he did, indeed, swing a sword daily, fighting with power and cunning to survive.
    His fingers, incredibly light for their length and size, gentled over her cheekbones. “Have you a name, beautiful seductress?” he inquired lightly. “Or are you an illusion?”
    She laughed uneasily; speech, as she had feared, had broken the spell. He was still extraordinary, but she was suddenly beginning to realize what she had done.
    “Not an illusion,” she murmured, her soft, light tone hiding the nervousness she was feeling within. “A witch. This is Salem, remember? A place for witchcraft and magic.”
    “But I don’t believe in magic,” he told her.
    “Don’t you?” she murmured. “I assure you, it exists.”
    He laughed suddenly, and she liked the sound. It was deep and rich and full. “A white witch, I hope?”
    “Of course,” she replied, grateful that he was following the whimsy of the conversation. She had to get away from him, try to analyze what she had done. Dear God, but what could she do? Rise and say “Excuse me, I think I’ll leave now”? He would never let her leave—like that. And reality told her now that they both had lives to return to; that a man such as this was very experienced; she had probably been one in a multitude who had fallen victim to his touch.
    Except I doubt few fell as fast, she told herself scornfully, suddenly ashamed. Still, she had no intention of stupidly saying that she never did such things as she had obviously just done. He didn’t believe in witchcraft—how could she explain that she had been under his spell and that it had just been so beautiful and right?
    With her senses returned, she wasn’t even believing the situation herself. But she was lying naked beside a man as splendidly formed as a knight of medieval times and his fingers were still caressing her naked flesh and she was still savoring that touch.
    Face it, she had just made love with some jock weight lifter, and where on earth did one go from there, especially when confusion was now her reigning emotion?
    He was watching her; those deep