Fairy Godmother

'You may,' she replied, suppressing the urge to giggle. 'And I accept your invitation.'

It struck her that nothing he was doing or saying would have fit in with any Traditional path — not a bawdy song, not a tale of seduction and abandonment. Was he deliberately trying to break with The Tradition, or was this purely by accident?

Whichever it was, he gravely led the way to his suite, bowed her in with just as much gravity, and then looked as if he was at a loss for what to do next.

She made up his mind for him, by sitting down on the hearthrug (which was the skin of a bear bigger than anything she had ever seen; it must have been the size of a draft-horse when it was alive). The fire didn't need poking up, but he did it anyway, then sat down beside her.

She was trying to think of something to say when he spoke. 'Tell me about your dreams, will you?' he asked. 'Do you have them every night? Are they always the same?'

'I've been having them most nights, and they're never exactly the same,' she said, staring into the fire, leaning back on her elbows. 'They always start when I find myself in a — a very odd place. I'm on the shore of some large body of water, and it's night, but very bright, bright enough to see colors.'

'Because there are two moons in the sky,' he said instantly. 'And the sand is purple. So is the water.'

'It's sweet, too, not salty,' she put in.

'Is it? I never tasted it,' he replied, a little surprised. 'When my dreams start, I'm usually right at the water's edge.'

'So am I, but sometimes I'm wading in the water up to my ankles.' She raised an eyebrow at him. 'And I don't seem to be wearing very much to speak of.'

'Ah — ' he flushed, and couldn't look at her for a moment. 'When I was very young, I had a book of tales, and that's the sort of thing the Fairies in it wore. Of course — ' he continued thoughtfully ' — they also looked like ten-year-old children. Which you don't.'

'Especially not in that' she said dryly, and he flushed again. 'Apparently we're having the same dream.'

'Does that mean something?' he asked, and ran his fingers through his hair, nervously. 'Is it significant?'

'I wish I could tell you.' She turned her gaze back to the fire. 'What I can tell you is that I — like you, in the dreams and out of them. Very much. I didn't, before, but you're a rather different fellow now than you were when I turned you into an ass. I wouldn't do that now.'

That made him laugh, which pleased her. 'And if you were to meet me now, what sort of animal would you turn me into?'

'I wouldn't,' she replied, and turned back to look at him again. 'Because you would treat the poor old woman well.'

'Like Julian.' He nodded. 'Yes, I would like to think that I would, even without knowing all I know about trials and Questers now. But I would not go offering you every crumb of food I had!'

She had to laugh at that. 'There is such a thing as being too generous,' she agreed. 'And frankly, I like you rather better than your brother. He's blissfully happy with his milk-and-honey princess who is only too delighted to be ornamental.'

'And I prefer the sort of lady who — who can drive a flying chariot pulled by dragons!' he said.

'Are you sure?' she asked archly. And she would have said something else, except that his lips were in the way.

It was different from the kisses in the dreams, and even from the wildly passionate kiss in the kitchen. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, not exactly gentle, but not torrid, either. He cupped one hand along her cheek, the fingers just touching her hair, and his lips moved against hers. She closed her eyes and moved closer to him, until they were no more than a few inches apart. Her heart began to beat a little faster, and she felt a warm glow on her cheeks.

He parted his lips a little, and insinuated just the tip of his tongue between them. She opened her mouth beneath his, then gently nibbled his lower lip. He moved his hand behind her neck, playing with her hair, then drawing her closer until there was no space at all between them. She let herself sink into the bearskin so that she could put both her arms around him.

She was acutely aware of every nerve, every bit of skin, and when his hand began to slip from her neck down to her shoulder, she felt his fingers leaving trails of exquisite sensation where they passed, places that ached to feel the touch of his fingers again. He traced the line of her collarbone, pausing in the little hollow of her throat for a moment, then drew his fingers down, into the cleft between her breasts while her breath quickened and she felt a flush spreading from the point where they rested.

His hand slipped inside her chemise, and she was wildly glad that today she was in her simplest garb, with no corseting to get in the way — then his fingers touched the nipple of her breast and she thought she was going to explode with pleasure. Her hands tightened in the fabric of his shirt, and she gasped at the sensation, which was so much more intense than it had been in her dreams that there was no comparison. His fingers toyed gently with it, and each tiny movement seemed to send a shock straight to her secret parts; her womb tightened, and yet, the feeling made her legs move apart as if of their own will.

He took his hand away, and she groaned with frustration and opened her eyes — only to see and feel that he had removed it just to unlace her bodice. Evidently he'd had plenty of practice, because he did it faster than she could....

He slid the chemise down off her shoulders, freeing her breasts, then, as in the dream, he licked and nibbled his way down from her neck until his mouth touched the place where his fingers had lately been playing, and she uttered an involuntary cry of pleasure. Every tiny movement sent a shudder through her, and a tidal wave of urgent desire, until she thought she could not bear it any longer.

And then — he stopped. Her eyes flew open, and she glared at him.