Page 45 of Which Witch is Willing?
Sal: So how did y’all two meet?
Nick: A cosmic collision of forces destined to bring about the end of the earth as we know it.
Sal: Wait a minute. You’re talkin’ about that Tinder thang, ain’t you?
Nick: Sure.
Sal (around a mouthful of crispy battered fish): Shooee is this good! What’s your favorite thing to eat, Nick?
Nick: Your niece’s—
Moira:
Nick: —fried chicken.
Sal: Boy howdy, don’t I know it. We sure have missed Moira’s cooking back home. If you like her fried chicken, you ought to try her biscuits. Lighter than an angel’s poot. Why, it seems like only…
The epistle continued, but Nick was no longer listening.
The unexpected jolt of pain from Moira’s judicious flip-flop had somehow found its way all the way from his shin to his cock, which made an impromptu and inconvenient tent of the linen napkin in his lap. He shifted in his seat, drawing a knowing grin from Moira.
For the first time, he realized what an appropriate choice of venue this was for their meeting.
Sirens.
For that’s what she was to him. A water witch with the power to draw him toward the rocks that would be his ruin.
And how well she knew him.
Well enough to slide her foot up the inside of his calf. Between his knees. Up the inside of his thigh.
Bare toes pressed against him. Nails painted the absurd red only used for very expensive cars.
He remembered that color.
It was the color of their first meeting. Her whole, improbable self in the first class seat he had reserved. Her feet stretched against the back of the chair in front of her, her long legs still burnished tawny from the low country sun. Breasts and hair and lips and hips. A composite he had scarcely considered before deciding he would have it. That he could have it. They way he’d always had everything he’d even half wanted.
Looking at her now, he wondered at his own ignorance. The ignorance still shared by every male within groping distance of her now.
They saw her, but didn’t see her. Her native wit. Her unfailing gentleness. Her resilience. The simple joy she took in living.
Immortal that he was, he had been on this planet past recall and past time. All those centuries, attempting to carry out what he thought was his purpose. And still he was not finished.
Not even three decades had Moira lived on this planet, and already she had changed its trajectory irrevocably for good or for ill.
In the end, whose had been the great destiny?
Whose, the greater power and the greater purpose?
Nick wrapped the fingers of one hand around her slim ankle, the other pressing the delicate bones of her foot harder against him.
Her toes moved with the dexterity of the woman who’d spent a lifetime with nothing between her and the earth. The undulating articulation common to those who dug their toes into the mud, the grass. Who let the water lap at the tender skin between them. Who probably picked up dropped fishing lines and household objects. With that same, unnatural knowing, she explored him through his strained slacks.
He let his eyes fall closed for the space of a minute, the pleasure rising in him.
Just as abruptly as it started, the pleasure stopped.
Nick opened his eyes to a triumphant expression on Moira’s face as Sal droned on about marination and buttermilk and getting a good scald from the lard.
