Spell Cat by Tara Lain Page 0,3

Enough with the human. Focus on the business at hand. He grinned. Exactly in hand.

A bit of lube in the hand, please. Heat filled his forehead, and slick fluid appeared in his hand from what he thought of as the “great lube bottle in the sky.” He reached down and started stroking. The foreskin was sensitive, and he loved the feeling of pulling it back as he pumped. Slow, and one hand over the other—the motion he liked best.

With just a thought, he made the water spray begin a pulsing rhythm. He opened his hands at the top of the upward stroke to let the water pulse onto the sensitive head. Oh, Powers, he needed to come. He was going to come—soon, yes, very soon. His hips jerked, and his hands flew faster and faster as he felt the juice pulsing in his balls. Come on. Come on. He needed this. If he couldn’t find a good man, at least he could get himself off. Come on, dammit! Why couldn’t he come?

He squeezed his eyes shut. A good fantasy—that’s what he needed. Something that really did it for him. Okay, there. He smiled, then yelled as hot semen began to pulse out of his cock as hard as the shower spray beat down. Jet after jet of cum hit the shower wall. He should control himself, but he couldn’t. His body shook, and heat flowed through every cell. He leaned against the wall again, gasping for breath. Gods, what was wrong with him? In the vast wide world of witchery, the only thing that did it for him was a clear image of the human physics professor sucking his cock.

Chapter Two

“Yes, Nicholas, I understand the significance precisely.” Evangeline Barth straightened her pearls and waved away the cook who had been consulting on dinner. Nicholas got on her last nerve, as the young people liked to say, but he was powerful. Witches whispered that he had resources far beyond those he showed on the surface, and he was the new head of the council. That meant she’d be directly related to the Council Master through the marriage of her son, the Witch Master, to Nicholas’s daughter, the likely successor to Evangeline’s own position as Witch Mistress, the most powerful female witch in the community.

“Your son’s a strange one, Evangeline. His job in the human community, his insistence upon living like some kind of pauper, to say nothing of his sexual proclivities. It’s unnatural.”

Heat flashed in her cheeks. How dare he? “Be that as it may, he is massively powerful.”

“Power is of little use to us if he won’t use it and we can’t control it.”

She smiled. “That’s the nature of power, now, isn’t it?”

“Do not sound so self-satisfied with your creation, Evangeline. You have much to lose.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Her teeth hurt from clenching them. “So is Lavender completely on board with this plan?”

The slightest pause on his end gave her a rush of satisfaction. He cleared his throat. “She will do as I say.”

“So in other words, she isn’t cooperative?”

“She will do as I say.”

Evangeline smiled and adjusted her pearls an inch to the left. “Yes, Nicholas, I’m sure she will.”

“Killian, my darling, I know I don’t need to remind you of the fact that, as the most powerful male witch and one of the few who have ever met or exceeded the capabilities of the females”—she patted her hair—“you have responsibilities to our race and our craft.”

“Yes, Mommie dearest.”

He watched his mother lean back in the pure white dining chair. The upholstery was so pristine that only a witch who knew she could clean it with the flick of her fingers would dare sit drinking red wine on it. Her beautiful, smooth forehead wrinkled ever so slightly. “You know I do not enjoy sarcasm.”

He leaned on the large mahogany table. All this space for just the two of them. He sighed and wiped a hand over his neck. “But it’s okay with you that I have to sacrifice whatever chance I have at happiness for the benefit of future generations.”

She frowned but covered his hand with her cool one. “Oh, darling, you’re for all intents and purposes a king among our kind, and kings bear responsibilities.”

He snorted and pulled his hand away. “The unruly mass of supernaturals we affectionately call witchery no more recognize me as a king than”—he pointed at the tea cart—“that teapot can fly… without assistance from you or me, that is. They like