Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Sydney
L ong after dark, I finish my interview and return home. I’m completely drained physically. Emotionally, I’m wired.
I’ve got so much food for thought. That poor woman remembers so little of her adulthood. I can only imagine how horrific her torture was if she’s blocked out years of her life.
Despite that, the self-professed witch knows that she’s left loved ones behind. She sobbed about the open wound inside her, about the guilt and incompleteness that’s left her feeling so hollow.
It was impossible to be unmoved by her soul-baring sobs. Her anguish makes me question everything in my life. I’ve put men and dating on the back burner to concentrate on my career. But at times like tonight, I feel so alone. My body and heart ache. I sit in my darkened living room, pining for what could be. But not just any man can fill the emptiness inside me.
Only Caden.
Why? I barely know him. We’re acquainted professionally, casually. We met less than a fortnight ago. I shouldn’t be fixated on him. I shouldn’t crave him.
I do.
I want him in a way that’s beyond both my experience and my ability to describe. I don’t merely desire him; I need to feel his mouth on mine, demanding carnal pleasure from me. I ache to see heat in his eyes as I take him in my hands, watch his pleasure build, then share my body with him, letting each touch and stroke reveal how much he means to me. I’m desperate to have him wrap me in his arms after he loves me fiercely and sleep as he holds me.
What the bloody hell is it about the man? We share good chemistry. But this is more.
This is something I’ve never felt.
Sighing, I uncurl myself from the sofa and meander to my bedroom. I might as well tuck myself in early and catch up on sleep. Maybe this odd yearning will go away.
Good advice, but instead of seeking sleep, I gravitate to the picture window in my bedroom. The night dances across the moonlit skyline, a vision of urban splendor with St. Paul and the London Eye lit up.
The sight magnifies my loneliness. In the silent blue dark, with faint sounds of humanity below, I feel the physical pang of Caden’s absence.
Unfortunately, if he thinks of me at all, it isn’t with the same passion. Bloody hell, when I offered him sex, he ran.
I turn away from the window, trying to blink away the tears filling my eyes. Swallowing, I stare up at the ceiling and will them away. Later, I’ll give into this maudlin loneliness. But if I start bleating on now, I’ll only cry until my nose turns bunny red and my eyes swell.
Determined to end my pity party, I complete my bedtime ritual.
If I feel sorry for anyone, it should be that poor witch who’s haunted by a lover she can’t remember—and wants to so desperately. Her plight touched something inside me, leaving me disturbed, agitated…and achingly lonely.
I crawl into bed. I close my eyes and picture Caden lying beside me, touching me, rolling closer and demanding my body with just one look from his hypnotic blue eyes. In my mind, he murmurs how much he wants me, how much I mean to him, and I melt.
Ha! Wishful thinking. MacTavish wants my story, my sources, my information—not me. I have to let go of this ridiculous fantasy and get some sleep.
A distraction. I need one to take my mind off the melodrama of my PMS-induced depression or whatever this bloody nonsense is.
A good book will do the trick. Or perhaps I should spend a little time with my new “magical” diary.
With a snort, I open my nightstand drawer and glance at the little volume.
I expected Aquarius to fix my office in a feng-shui-friendly arrangement or give me a half-hour session with an astrological counselor. But a magical journal that grants sexual fantasies? The concept is intriguing and unexpected, but a bit far-fetched—even for Aquarius.
Take the diary with you this weekend and write your deepest desire about Caden. Wait a day or two. If it doesn’t come true, what have you lost? my assistant asked just yesterday.
I know the answer. My dignity. My sanity. My hunky photographer when he laughs in my face if he ever sees what I wrote.
But how would he? I keep the book in my bedroom—a place he’s unlikely to ever enter. Besides, the possibility that I actually hold a magical diary is as likely as little green men taking over Britain next week. So how would he ever know?
As I snatch up the book and snuggle into my blankets, I wonder what Caden would be like as a lover. Soft? Dominating? Insistent? Intense—I’ll bet that much. Caden doesn’t seem the type to do anything halfway.
At the thought, lust ignites low in my belly. I feel hot and cold, light-headed and heavy-limbed as a new vision grips my imagination.
What if, this morning, he’d come to my flat, not to search for information but to ravish me? What if, when I answered the door in my lingerie, he was so overcome with passion that he undressed and pleasured me right there?
Mmm, heaven .
Sinking into the vision, I imagine us breathing together—during every kiss, at the end of each plunging thrust, panting as we approach climax. With strong fingers, he grips my hips as if he can’t get deep enough and won’t be satisfied until he’s claimed every inch of me.
I close my eyes and let the fantasy take me deeper.
Sweat trickles down his brow and onto my chest, as he rails me deep. Jaw set, he throws his head back and moans that he wants me the way he’s never wanted another woman.
Yes, I know he turned me down, and that he’s more interested in the contents of my stories than my knickers. But this is my fantasy.
Maybe…writing my wishes about Caden would be cathartic. If I get them out of my system, perhaps I’ll sleep peacefully and wake tomorrow with this odd obsession gone.
Flushed and tingling, I flip over the red book in my hands before cracking it open.
To hell with caution. I’ll worry later about what happens if Caden ever reads my late-night wishes. Or the unlikely chance that, with a few strokes of my pen, I could magically compel him to my bed. If such a miracle happens, I’ll deal with the damage to my heart then. Plus, I’ve earmarked this book as a potential story for Out of this Realm . If I’m considering writing about the little volume, shouldn’t I research it firsthand?
Impulsively, I grab a pen and begin to write:
Dear Magical Diary,
I have this fantasy. Mad, really. But I dream of Caden MacTavish storming my door, ordering me to strip, ravishing my body…
As the words flow from my mind onto the page, I slip into a trance. I can nearly feel Caden’s mouth caressing my nape, his fingers rolling my nipples, his erection sliding a burning path deep inside me. I can almost hear him say that he can’t resist me for another minute while he stares at me, as if I alone hold his heart.
An hour later, I let out a ragged breath as I put my pen and the book aside. Desire dampens my palms, the valley between my breasts, and the throbbing slit between my thighs. I literally ache for Caden.
Imagination is a powerful aphrodisiac that leaves me in urgent need for satisfaction. And while I want Caden to sate me, he isn’t here. Nor is he likely to suddenly appear and make my fantasy a reality, despite Aquarius’s claims.
I reach for the light, intent on dousing it so I can find my battery-operated boyfriend and some relief.
Before I kill the light, I glance at the open book. There, in script that isn’t mine, are two lines I did not write:
Sleep, dream, anticipate…
The fantasy you imagine will soon be your fate.