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An Excerpt From: Magick Men: A Shot of Magick
© Copyright Rhyannon Byrd, 2004.
All Rights Reserved,
Ellora's Cave, Inc.
At
six-five, he was tall and mean and muscle-honed from all the long, grueling
hours he spent training other Magicks—Warlocks
and Witches—in the arts of combat and self-defense. He had thick, reddish
brown hair that he normally kept trimmed much shorter than his outrageous
cousins, light green eyes, and golden skin. He was well dressed, always in
control of his strong, passionate emotions, and wealthy enough to afford
any luxury he wanted, from houses to cars to women. Though sex was one
thing he’d never had to pay for.
He’d
always had a look of danger, but now that look took on a more sinister
character. His hair was longer, shaggy around the strong bones of his face,
jaw dark with auburn stubble, big body wrapped up in ragged jeans, a black
T-shirt, and big black boots as he left his house to pace the early,
fog-filled streets of Edinburgh.
He
looked like the kind of man you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and
he felt like one as well. And to be honest, he didn’t know how much more of
this he could take.
You’ll
take as much as you have to, man, his Warrior’s pride warned. Because
you canna let those blasted fools win. Not this
time! You’ve pledged them your bloody loyalty, but they havenna
any claim on your cock!
Yeah,
well, too bad the governing High Council of Magicks—made
up of his five outrageous uncles—thought otherwise.
They’d
put a bloody curse on him, the well-meaning fools. One that changed his
women into fucking animals every time he shot his blasted load. And the
only way around it was to find his bith-bhuan
gra—his soul mate.
His
uncles, it seemed, had taken it upon themselves to ensure that he stopped
sowing wild oats and began planting a few instead.
In
the belly of the right woman, of course.
It
was intolerable. He was so full of sexual frustration his skin felt like it
was about to burst. Hot, tight, and disturbingly prickly, like an itch
beneath the surface that remained just beyond his reach. He’d tried
alleviating the painful pressure on his balls himself, taking matters into
his own big hands, but ended up putting his fist through his shower wall
when he’d been unable to bring release.
That
was apparently yet another one of the Council’s twisted concoctions.
According to their sadistic curse, he could only achieve an orgasm with a
woman. And if he didn’t want to find himself shooting his cursed load of
magic in front of another friggin’ furry pet, he
had to find the true woman—whatever the hell that meant.
He’d
found her three weeks ago, when he was on a walk just like this one.
And he’d dreamed of her each night since.
There
was only one problem.
Well,
one on top of the fact that his uncles had plagued him with a freaking
curse on his cock and he couldn’t screw without shooting a load of magic
that turned his women into angry animals, leaving them craving a piece of
his ass to chew on.
His
balls were blue, his time was running out, and instead of searching for the
true Cailleach—his bith-bhuan
gra—he’d become obsessed with her. She
was goddamn fascinating, beautiful and intelligent and spirited as hell. So
different from any woman he’d ever known before.
There
was just that one minor, somewhat unfortunate detail.
The
woman who haunted his sleep and every waking hour was not a Magick.
She
was not of his kind.
No,
the woman of his dreams was a fucking mortal.
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