Wicked Familiar Chapter Two: In Which Something Familiar This Way Comes

Another Thursday, another installment from the fabulous Silver James. And an additional hat tip to the incredibly talented cover artist, Jen of Cover Remix. You can see the cover in more detail here and leave her comments if you like. But without further ado… the story. If you missed chapter one last week, check it out.

Chapter Two: In Which Something Familiar This Way Comes

     Drake Rosenblum was pummeled both by the gale-force winds and the tempest of the emotions roiling in his stomach. Tossed and turned like a storm-tossed leaf, he clung to his sanity. He’d lost his humanity long ago and had no hope of breaking the spell that ensorcelled his soul.

     Crashing into a solid substance, he slid to the wet planks of a covered porch. Where was he? What was he? This time. When the winds of whimsy grabbed him, buffeting this way and that, he never knew what form his tortured body would take.

     Raising a hand, he shuddered. No hand did he behold, but a spray of leaves, the stem covered in thorns. Tentatively reaching for his head, he touched velvety softness. The scent of roses filled his lungs.

     “What the hell?” No sound emerged from the mouth he no longer sported.

     A whirlwind danced up the stone steps and a stick flew from the depths of the dervish. It rapped upon the door. When nothing happened, a branch appeared, its thick head glistening with moisture thudding upon the door like a frantic lover pounding into his lady. A thorn low on his stem twitched. Ah, but to prick a lady with his bramble, to sink into her warm depths, to feel her wet satin walls caress the silky steel of his shaft.

     Using all his strength, he ripped his thoughts from his groin and focused on looking in the window to see what manner of person inhabited this place where he’d been drawn. He hated not having control—not of his destination, his duties, his life.

     Peering in the window, his countenance backlit by the flickering lightning, he saw that that bitch Fate had turned him into a rose. A rose by any other name was still a freaking rose, even if it’s name was Drake Rosenblum and he had once been a warrior, a magician, and a renowned lover.

     Then he glimpsed the woman. The thorn on his stem pressed painfully against the stone walls of the cottage. She wasn’t beautiful. Not in the usual sense. Her titian hair glowed even in the dark. Her eyes slanted at the corners giving her an impish expression. His amazing eyesight discerned that her irises were a smoky forest green with bits of gold flashing in their depths. Her luscious breasts, the size of sweet melons, would make his mouth water to taste them—had he a mouth in his current form. As it was, a dew drop formed on one of his budded petals. He wanted to brush her pearly skin and fit his blossom around her puckered nipples. He could see the way they pebbled beneath the silk of her blouse and the stiff lace of her bra.

     Was she one of those uptight women who wore tailored clothing to hide her femininity, her one concession to her gender the frilly secret undergarments that clenched her curves? He could feel his thorn growing. He wanted her. He’d been without a woman for much too long, none of his previous forms allowing him egress to a woman’s lady parts. But asurely he could find a way to caress her, to gain her trust, to allow him to prick her with his thorn.

     The woman crept toward the door and he devoured each move—the way the silk and linen clung to her curves, the way her breasts strained the buttons of her blouse. He prayed for the top one to slip its bounds, or to pop free to ping across the room. He would do that, if he had hands. He would grip her shirt and rip it, sending buttons flying. He undressed her with his eyes, his leaves shaking with the urge to take her.

     Belatedly, Drake realized she was approaching the door. He threw himself toward the welcome mat. What magic had brought him here to this woman? His thorn twitched again and moisture beaded amidst his petals. Too bad his stamen was made only of thin filaments tipped with anthers to spill his pollen. The filaments, fiber-like structures extending from the center of his petals, were slender and limp, unlike his thorn. He would need bees to complete his orgasm. If he’d had a mouth he would have groaned out loud. As it was, he had to settle for groaning inwardly.

     He just managed to flop across the mat as the door creaked open. The woman peeked out, the whites showing around her eyes. The forest green had dulled to dried moss with her apprehension. He wondered what color they would turn once he had her beneath him, peaking in her passion. She finally looked down and saw him.

     She bent to pick him up, giving him a gratifying view of her glorious breasts—firm, rounded, and made to fit the palms of his hands, had he been in his manly form. The chill air ruched her nipples, turning them into hard little raisins. Her fingers grasped his stem and before he could stop himself, his thorn pricked her velvety skin, burying to its hilt.

     Her eyes turned a deep spruce green, hinting at depths unplumbed. Drake fought the urge to withdraw his thorn, only to sink into her heated warmth time and time again. He wanted to keep doing it until she screamed his name—hard to do since she didn’t know it.

     Anguish filled Drake’s soul—the soul he’d forgotten he once owned. Too much time had passed, the dark blackness eating at his essence. But thoughts and memories rushed to fill the void, all triggered by this woman.

     Again he wondered at what magic—be it fate or luck—landed him on her welcome mat. Hope surged within him. Perhaps he could break the curse, salvage his place in the world, become the real man who could claim this beauty for his own.

     And then she bit her lip.

So? Are you invested? What do you think will happen next? 😀

5 thoughts on “Wicked Familiar Chapter Two: In Which Something Familiar This Way Comes

  1. Pingback: Familiars, Rules, and Maps–Oh My! | Silver James

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