Mathilda, SuperWitch (32 page)

No!

I snatched my shoulder away from his chin (ignoring tingles) and made to exit the bed (in a huff, mind), but I wasn’t fast enough.

A steel-like band (better-known-as Ash’s arm) encircled me and hauled me back against a rock-hard body (better-known-as Ash).

“We’ll be there in an hour,” Ash said, flipped my phone shut without a thought that, perhaps, I might want to talk to Aidan.

(Alas, the Glamour Girl phone died a tragic death when Motorola came out with a thinner-than-thin hot pink flip phone – you know I had to have it.)

He then tossed my mobile onto my grass-stained and muddy raspberry sundress that was strewn across the (fabulous, must admit) club chair in the corner.

“Excuse me?” I said sounding exactly as peeved as I was. “Did it occur to you that I might have a thing or two to say to Aidan?”

Silence.

Annoying man!

I let out a pissed off puff of air then said, “Oh for goddess’s sake… let me out of bed.”

Get this:

“No,” Ash replied.

Fuck that!

I pressed my back against his chest for leverage, my booty pressed against his crotch and I grabbed on to the edge of the bed and pulled with all my strength, hoping to catapult myself up, out and away.

His arm tightened.

Ack!

Ash: so annoying!

“What happened to my princess fortress?” I snapped, groaning with effort.

More pressing, more pulling, more tightening of arms and a little grunting (on my part) but no answer from Ash.

“Ash, let me go!”

He’d clearly tired of the pressing/pulling bit as, at this point, with very little effort (grr!) he flipped me over and pulled me against his body.

Full frontal.

What the hell he thought he was doing, I… do…
not
… know.

He ignores me for days at a time.

He’s never taken me out to a movie.

To dinner.

Whatever…

One orgasm and then he thinks he can slip in bed with me in the middle of the night and he thinks…

He thinks…

Oh my goddess, I think he thought he was gonna kiss me.

His head started to descend and…

“Ash!” I screeched in my best fish wife’s voice.

That got his attention.

He winced and jerked his head back.

“For fuck’s sake, Mathilda –”

“Don’t you curse at me! You miserable,” Um? “Cad! Let me go!”

“No.” (Ash)

“Yes.” (Me)

“No.” (Ash)

“Yes.” (Me)

“Cad?” (Ash)

Argh!

“I said, let me go!” (Me)

“And I said no.” (Ash)

And that was it. I was pushing against his chest with all my strength, he was holding onto me with all of his and then it came back to me.

The premonition.

The vision flooded my consciousness with the almost Cordelia-like energy of the day before.

Just as clear.

And just as fucking unbelievably, terrifyingly scary.

In reality, I knew it didn’t happen as I saw it (thank the goddess and all her god-like friends). That Ash was there in bed with me. That Aidan was out there, able to chuckle over mobile phones and irritate me.

Yes, there was a bomb with debris, rock, dirt, pavement everywhere, people screaming, etcetera, etcetera and in the end, all was safe.

But, in my mind’s eye, the vision of what was supposed to happen was stuck. The vision that included the debris, rock, dirt, pavement everywhere, people screaming but also in my vision there was big bits of BMW Roadster, Lush Jag and little bits of the two men in my life.

Little gooey, dead bits of my once-gorgeous hunks raining on Marine Parade while I stood in the middle of the bloodbath that used to be my prospective husbands.

What’s a girl to do when something so icky, so flipping scary and so just plain horrifyingly awful pops into her head?

What else?

I gave up the fight and burst into tears.

This time, Ash didn’t seem surprised by my display or incapable of dealing with it. He rolled onto his back, wrapped one arm around me, tucked my head into his neck and stroked my hair.

“You… were… in… little… bits,” I gulped.

He kept stroking my hair.

“Landing on… mm… mm… Marine Parade,” I stammered.

Arms tightened, more stroking.

“Then… you went… away,” I blubbered. “And didn’t pick up your,” hiccup, “phone when I called.”

More stroking.

“I was worried!” I wailed and then I snuggled deeper into him and bawled my eyes out.

I have no idea how long I cried but once I started to make those mini-catchy breaths and sniffles, Ash moved. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, taking me with him so he was cradling me in his lap and reaching for something on the nightstand.

He then tipped up my chin and started to mop my face with a handkerchief.

When he was done and I had calmed down, I said, “You carry a handkerchief?”

He grinned at me.

“Better now?” he asked.

I nodded.

Pause.

“What’s a princess fortress?” he asked.

Oops.

Er, that bit was meant to be kept a secret. No one knew about my princess fortress and no one was supposed to know.

His grin broadened.

“Don’t grin at me,” I demanded.

“It was the pillow thing, wasn’t it?”

Ack!

He was teasing me.

And he was alive and breathing and able to be annoying for another day.

And so was Aidan.

And everything was okay.

At least for right then.

Thank the goddess and all things green and glorious.

And then, because I could, because I wanted to and because who knew what that day would bring…

I kissed him.

I kissed him with the exact amount of happiness I felt that he wasn’t in icky, gooey, bloody bits but with all his luscious body parts still were where they were meant to be.

Which means it was a pretty hot kiss.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t cradled in his lap but on my back with him on me, his mouth on mine, his tongue in my mouth (and, sometimes, mine in his) and his hands all over me and…

Oo la la…

And…

Me oh my…

“Matty,” That was Ash, kinda breathing heavy.

“What?” That was me, definitely breathing heavy.

My hands were roaming his luscious body because I was sure as hell going to do it while his body was still in one piece (not to mention I’d never really explored a washboard stomach and let me tell you, it felt really,
really
nice).

He sucked in his breath which tensed the muscles in his tummy (
fascinating
).

“Jesus, Matty… stop. We have to get to Harrods.”

Er, okay, whoa doggies… Harrods?

He sighed, it was a big sigh filled with big feelings which sounded to me an awful lot like regret and maybe frustration.

Then he told me, “We have to meet Seymour at Harrods in less than half an hour.”

My mind whirled but my mouth didn’t move.

Aidan!

Harrods!

(Wish he wouldn’t call Aidan “Seymour” – great last name, even better with the word “doctor” in front of it but not so good alone.)

Oo, wait, just remembered… Harrods has Krispie Kreme.

Mm.

Ash moved and I realized he was taking his weight off me so I held tight and he sighed and settled on me again.

Yay!

His face said it was only a moment’s reprieve.

Boo!

I couldn’t stop myself, too much emotion, too little sleep, the promise of Krispie Kreme, I kissed him softly on the lips and asked, “We’re never going to have sex, are we? Real, bona fide, man-on-woman action with repeated and prolonged penetration and the exchange of bodily fluids, that kind of sex. We’re never gonna have it, are we?”

When I was done, he was looking at me in an entirely differently, me: clotted cream, Ash: starving man, way.

Oh me.

Then he kissed me – hot, hard and long.

Oh my.

There was a promise in that kiss, a promise of future, real, full-blown, fantastic coital relations.

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Then in one, smooth movement, he was out of bed and pulled me along with him.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said.

Then (can you believe?) he smacked my ass and left the room.

(Ten minutes? I don’t think so.)

* * * * *

I know what you’re thinking and I’m not so boy crazy or ditzy that I don’t realize that someone tried to blow up two men that I care about very much.

The princess fortress isn’t just for hiding and worrying.

I do other things in the princess fortress.

Like plotting and planning.

I just hadn’t come up with anything yet.

* * * * *

Ash walked me through the sweets section of Harrods (more like dragged, what can I say, we were late, but I was not going to see Aidan, at Harrods (of all places) without at least a coat of mascara and lip gloss and some sheen to my cheeks).

The sweets section of Harrods is one of my most favorite places – a colorful, sugary wonderland that would make Willy Wonka green with envy.

I could spend hours in the marshmallow section alone.

I had no time even to admire, Ash forged through the hustle and bustle like a hot knife through butter.

I followed in his wake with one of my hands curled in his belt so I wouldn’t lose him.

Being an American, I wouldn’t have made it, I would have been miles back, “Excuse me”-ing and “Pardon me”-ing and all would be lost.

* * * * *

Aside: Do not believe the whole “polite and mannered” English people myth.

English people conduct themselves in public like they have a mission and their mission is the most important thing in the entire world. The fact that you, too, might have a mission does not concern them in the slightest.

So, beware, if you happen to be in a small town grocery store and you can’t figure out if you want the organic bio-yogurt with vanilla or the bio-yogurt with peaches and wheat germ and you’re standing taking up the precious aisle space in front of the yogurts trying to decide. Beware because an English person will reach right in front of you and grab what they want, breaking your concentration and making you start your deliberations all over again.

If they happen to be walking down the sidewalk with a friend at their side and you’re walking up that same sidewalk, don’t think that one of the polite and mannered English people will drop back to allow you your own, rightful bit of sidewalk. No, they’d rather run right into you or force you into the street. And they will.

And whatever you do,
whatever you do
, when you approach a queue, study it and ascertain
exactly
where the end is and go there and only there. Do not look like you’re confused (they can smell indecision and if they do, they’ll snap). Do not allow your mind to wander to anything else but the queue and your place in it. If you enter the queue anywhere but at the end, you are likely to be beaten to death and no English judge would send your murderers to jail because you deserved it because you
jumped the queue.

I am not kidding.

And, they won’t say excuse me or pardon me, there is no concern or remorse.

There is only the mission.

And in the cities, it is far, far worse.

This is not a fault, this is the culture. You get used to it and you’re supposed to “when in Rome”. Unfortunately for me, consideration is ingrained. Therefore, in busy places, I can’t get around very easily because I’m too busy being courteous.

Of course, Ash was a natural.

PS: This rule does not apply to Scots who are very nice and will chat happily with you in elevators.

* * * * *

We made it to the Krispie Kreme section which was shoulder-to-shoulder, a beacon of peace to the world as every color, culture and persuasion were represented waiting harmoniously to get their own hot, glazed donut.

I saw Aidan’s head and shoulders rising above a group of Asians chattering and queuing to get their sugar rush, their children already wearing little paper hats.