Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch
said.
“Why?”
“You don’t have splinters?”
She laughed. “No. My . . . skirt protected me.”
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He was a careful man, she thought, watching him lay their dinner like an offering against the plaid blanket. Deliberate. Thorough. Good qualities in a lover, although his attention to detail could prove inconvenient. If he guessed . . . If he suspected . . .
But he wouldn’t. Even the legends of her kind were fading from human memory. Centuries ago, every unwed village girl with an unplanned baby on the way, every sailor hauled up on shore after a storm, blamed or blessed the selkies for their situation—rightly or not. But in this new world, in this new time, the old explanations would never be believed.
Caleb set a sandwich in front of her. She bit into it, savoring the textures and tastes on her tongue. Lobster, well . . . She could always get lobster. But bread was a delicacy. “This is delicious. You made this for me?”
“I bought it. From Antonia’s.” He popped the lid from a plastic container and held it out to her. “You ever eat there?”
Her heart picked up a beat. He might not accept the truth, but he was definitely seeking some explanation. “No.”
“You should. If you’re planning on staying.”
She pretended not to hear the question in his voice. “What is this?
Shrimp?”
“Tortellini salad.” But Caleb was not so easily deflected. “Where do you live, Maggie?”
She hooked a shrimp from the container and licked her fingers. His gaze narrowed on her mouth. Either he remembered her lips, her tongue on his body, or she should have used a fork.
“Not so far away. Though I was born in Scotland,” she said. That should satisfy him. It was even mostly true.
“Scotland,” he repeated, pouring something into her glass. Wine, she guessed, from the bottle and the scent: fruity, tangy, smelling of earth and yet not unpleasant.
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“The Orkney Islands. Off the north coast.” She lifted her chin, daring him to disbelieve her. “I like to travel.”
“How long are you staying here?”
But she wasn’t trapped so easily. “I haven’t decided.”
He grinned unexpectedly, the lightning expression at odds with his serious eyes. A knot hitched in her belly. Desire, yes, but something more, something . . . else. “Maybe I can help you make up your mind,” he said.
Oh, this was a dangerous game they were playing. She liked it.
She sipped her wine, tilted her head. “Help me stay? Or help me go?”
Their gazes locked. Without speaking, he stood and moved around the table. Removing the glass from her hand, he set it on the blanket, lowered himself to the bench beside her, and pressed his mouth to hers.
He smelled of wood smoke, soap, and sex, and tasted like the wine, cool and earthy. She opened her mouth wider to take more of him in, frustrated when he broke their kiss to press warm lips to the arch of her eyebrow, the curve of her cheekbone, the hollow of her jaw. Could he feel her pulse under his lips?
“Stay,” he murmured.
She flushed, flooded with the familiar awareness of her own feminine power and the novel thrill of his seduction.
Of course she would not stay.
Her kind never did, unless they were tricked or taken, stripped of their pelts and their power to return to the sea.
But it was sweet to be wanted so.
His mouth cruised her neck and shoulder, leaving her nerve endings alive and shivering in its wake. She tipped her head to give him better access, and he pulled her close, half hauling, half lifting her onto his lap.
His chest was muscled, solid against her shoulder, his flesh hard and eager against her hip. He ran his hands over her, learning her, exploring
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breast and belly and thigh, as she lay sprawled across him like kelp over the rocks, warmed by the sun, moving in the tide. She was all open to him, naked and open, and he was tucked away, zipped behind stiff denim.
He spread her with his fingers, pressing down, pushing in. Quick as a fish, she twisted to straddle him, balancing on her knees on the narrow bench. She reached between their bodies, prepared to wrestle with his clothing, to wrest control, to snatch her satisfaction from him. But he was prepared for her. His pants gaped open. She felt the rough scrape of fabric against her thighs, the cold bite of his zipper, and then the warm thrust of his flesh, there, just
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