Tarotica

a lioness, he thought, watching her strip off her slacks.

Through her white lace bikinis he could see her black triangle. Kneeling before her, he pressed his face to her mound, inhaling her scent. Like warm earth and damp moss. He pulled the thin fabric aside to lick her wet slit. Then he ripped off her panties and pushed her onto the bed.

She propped herself up on the pillows and spread her legs, knees bent. While he shed his clothing, she toyed with her pussy. The magenta lips peeking from her dark curls glistened with her juice. Eli’s cock aimed toward her, magnetized like the arrow on a compass.

She opened her legs wider. “You like it, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s magnificent.”

She pinched her nipples and grinned at Eli. “Want to fuck my beautiful tits?”

In an instant, he was on top of her, his cock pumping her cleavage, his tongue lapping her cunt, while she stroked his balls, his perineum, his ass.

“It tastes better than any wine you’ve ever drunk, doesn’t it?” she purred as he sucked her clit.

“Mmmmm.”

Eli heard the nightstand drawer open, then the sound of foil tearing.

“Turn around,” she ordered.

He did, and Giselle fit a condom over the head of his swollen cock. Underneath him, she shifted her position, pushing herself up on all fours so he could mount her from behind. Like a lion, he thought again as he sank into her. Squeezing her tits, he thrust again and again, while she growled and snarled and yowled like a wildcat. He bit the back of her neck. She tightened around him and let out an inhuman shriek, her contractions milking his cock. Howling his own pleasure, he came with such force, he nearly passed out.

Afterwards, as they lay together in the dark, she asked, “How’s Troy? All I know is what I read in industry publications.”

“He’s okay.” Eli wondered how many people knew about Giselle’s affair with Meditrina’s CEO. Does Coyote?

“Still married to his ice princess?”

“As far as I know.”

Giselle eased herself out of bed, switched on the lamp, and started dressing.

“Can’t you stay?” he asked.

“I have to get up early.” She shook out her shoes before putting them on. “Watch out for scorpions—don’t walk around barefoot.”

“Will I see you in the morning?”

She brushed a kiss on his forehead. “Most definitely.”

As she closed the cabin door behind her, Eli noticed the sprig of lavender lying on the pillow.

Card 9: The Hermit

Centuries before whites settled in Arkansas, the native people considered the Ouachita Mountains sacred. Many different tribes came to the natural mineral springs in the “Valley of the Mists” to drink and bathe in the healing waters, putting aside their differences temporarily to enjoy this mystical spot in peace.

Driving through the valley, Miranda could easily understand why her father’s older brother had made his home here. His real name was Bradaigh, which meant

“spirited” in Gaelic, but she’d always called him Uncle Bright because as a young child she’d seen a halo of light glowing around his head. People described Bradaigh Malone as an old hippie, a loner, a hermit. White hair hung below his shoulders and his beard cascaded down his chest. Beneath shaggy eyebrows, piercing blue eyes shone like beacons. He walked with a limp—the legacy of an injury sustained in Vietnam—and used a tall staff he’d carved from an ash branch to support himself.

Miranda drove across a narrow bridge that arched over a stream, then climbed a dirt road up a seemingly endless hill to her uncle’s house. She hadn’t been here since before her father became ill, seven years ago; the road had deteriorated significantly since then. It must be impossible to get in or out during the winter, she thought. He probably likes it that way.

Uncle Bright was weeding his vegetable garden when she pulled up in front of the house. He waved and stood up slowly. Omar, his mixed lab-golden retriever, raced to greet her by sticking his nose in her crotch.

“How was your trip, Sunshine?” her uncle asked. He’d nicknamed her Sunshine because he said she lit up his life.

“Long,” Miranda answered, hugging him with one arm while she tried unsuccessfully to fend off the friendly dog. “It’s still hard for this New England girl to get used to such big states.”

“It still seems strange to me sometimes, too. But then, I hardly ever go anyplace.”

He reached for his staff, which he’d propped against the garden fence. “Are you hungry?”

“Very.”

“C’mon in, then. I’ll get dinner together.”

Miranda fetched her suitcase from the car and followed her uncle into the house.

While he busied himself in the kitchen, she climbed up a ladder to a loft guestroom and unpacked a few things. The room looked the same as she remembered it: a double bed with pine cone finials and a patchwork quilt, a small dresser, a nightstand holding an old oil lamp that had been converted to electricity, and about a zillion crystals.

A large chunk of smoky quartz sat on the dresser; an amethyst cluster rested on the nightstand. More crystals perched on the windowsill, twinkling in the late afternoon sun.

They reminded her of the crystals in the secret pyramid she’d visited with Lancelot Lucas. That memory triggered a pleasant tingling between her legs. I’ll think about that later, she told herself, pushing the images aside . She washed her face and brushed her hair, then went back downstairs to join her uncle.

More crystals adorned Uncle Bright’s living room and kitchen. Stones of various sizes, shapes, and colors rested on every surface. Clear quartz pillars as big as half-gallon milk cartons stood like sentries on the mantel. A bowling ball-sized sphere shone on the coffee table. The house seemed to buzz with their energy. He doesn’t think of them as pretty baubles, she reminded herself, they’re his extended family.

“We’re having roast chicken, yellow squash, green beans, and salad. Hope that’s okay,” Uncle Bright said. “You get to sample my first tomatoes of the summer.”

“Sounds great,” she answered, trying not to picture the capon they were about to eat walking around in the yard this morning. “How can I help?”

“You can set the table.”

Miranda laid out placemats, silverware, plates, and glasses. In her uncle’s sideboard she found a stash of candles. On impulse, she fitted two beeswax tapers into brass holders and placed them on the table. Then she helped carry platters and bowls brimming with food to the dining room.

Omar took up residence beside Uncle Bright’s chair, hoping for a handout. His tail beat a steady rhythm, like a metronome, on the pine floor.

“I want to hear all about your travels,” her uncle said as he spooned homegrown vegetables onto their plates.

“So far this trip has been everything and nothing that I’d expected.”

She recounted her visits to the usual tourist sites—Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert— leaving out potentially eyebrow-raising segments. As she filled Uncle Bright in on her journey and the interesting people she’d met, she considered ways to explain her relationship with Eli. I’m not even sure about it myself, she had to admit. Maybe I’ll save that discussion for another time.

When she’d finished her travelogue, he asked, “How’s everyone back home?”

Miranda took a second helping of chicken. “Okay, I guess,” feeling herself stiffen.