Maverick crosses her backyard into the woods. Her house is visible from the path and the fluffy gray cat leads her into the darker corners of the forest. The charm around her neck hums in warning as they travel. It’s not the first time they’ve made this journey, Maverick and the cat. They’ve tried several times but the ravens kept pulling her back.
“They’re going to be angry,” she tells him. He glances at her with his aloof yellow eyes. “They don’t like me to leave the yard.”
It’s true that the ravens get testy if Maverick travels without them. They’re a constant in her life. She’s grown now—more woman than child—almost sixteen. She doesn’t need the ravens as much anymore. She has a few friends at school. A boy named Jason asked her to the dance. She feels the judgment from her birds when she leaves in a vehicle or the night she kissed Jason by the front door.
Even with those small rebellions, she knows better than to go off with the cat. Weird things happen in the forest. There’s a darkness lurking. It’s where the one raven lost use of his wing fighting with this very cat. It’s where the chickens from the coop went missing.
It’s where the strange light flickers when she gets too close.
She knows not to come here but the cat always leads her and truthfully, Maverick feels a compulsion to follow.
Leaves crackle under her feet. Homecoming is next weekend. Even as the charm vibrates against her chest, Maverick is thinking of the dance and the dress she and her mother bought at the tiny boutique downtown. She climbs over a large log, the cat waiting for her patiently at the edge of a bend. The girl catches up and around the corner she sees the bright purple light, beckoning her forward.
“Is that it?” Maverick touches the stone nestled in the key. The light a few steps away looks wavy, like a mirage.
“Mew,” the cat replies, twisting through her legs. She no longer needs his encouragement. The light calls to her and she moves forward on her own. When she looks down it’s no longer the forest floor but a stone path. The trees have vanished and the sky is a royal blue overhead. The girl looks forward and the light is now a solid door, arched at the top with a purple stone in the middle. A golden door knob beckons her to twist. Her mission is clear. Open the door.
Maverick feels the gentle touch of fingertips at the base of her neck and turns, finding a handsome blonde man removing the charm.
“Who are you?” she asks, feeling an explosive warmth in her chest. He’s powerful—that is clear, and her body thrums from his touch.
“I’m here to escort you to past the boundary line. Are you ready?”
He tosses the charm to the ground and a second wave of power surges through her limbs—an exhilarating sense of freedom. A familiar cry screeches in the distance but the man guides her elbow and he whispers in my ear, “Open the door, Maverick.”
Shadows fly overhead as she rests her hand on the knob—
I snap out of my dream--or was it a vision--and sit up straight. Clinton stops playing and rests the cello on the stand.
“What?” he asks, eyes wide.
My skin is on fire and my heart races. I take one look at the man before me, at his bare chest and strong jaw and cross the room. Without asking—without a single beat of a pause—I walk the short distance and climb into Clinton’s lap, pulling him close.
“Morgan?”
His breath is warm, sweet from alcohol earlier in the night. I feel the power from my dream rolling through my veins and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I don’t release it, I will be consumed whole.
Clinton’s hands move to my back and I squirm against him, seeking relief. He groans at the pressure and his grip tightens. I feel his excitement, large and hard, straining against the thin cotton of his pants, and the cold glint in his eyes from earlier is gone, replaced by a hunger that matches my own.
“Do you feel it?” I ask in a voice that sounds like a whine. “The energy?”
“Yes,” he replies gruffly.
“Take it away.” I writhe against him. “Can you?”
He nods and takes one last look at me before kissing me hard. I exhale at the feeling of his mouth against mine and crush my body against the solid weight of his chest. His shoulders and arms are rock hard and the cords of his muscles tense with the slightest move. His mouth tastes like sugar and I lick his lips, while curling my fingers into the fringe of his hair. Clinton shudders beneath me like a man on the edge and the hard exterior turns into something different—something wild.
With each heated kiss the surge of energy diffuses, shifting from explosive to heady want. Our bodies collide and I feel the sharp tips of my nipples rubbing against the granite planes of his chest. I want to feel his skin against mine. I want to lick the sweat off his body. His fingertips lift the hem of my shirt and graze my belly. I’m overwhelmed, lightheaded and consumed. He kisses along my neck, his other hand cupping my breast. I want him to go further, and I encourage him by sinking my nails into his chest, but his hands don’t move and I finally pause, breathing shallow.
“I don’t—” I start, feeling the lie on my lips. I do want. So badly, but this man, Clinton, I don’t know him, even if he feels perfect and familiar beneath me.
He presses his forehead to mine. “Feel better?”
Strangely, I do. Under the lust I have a renewed sense of balance. The power surges have subsided and I nod. I reluctantly extract myself from Clinton’s arms. “I’m not sure what came over me.”
He tilts my chin up. “I’m here for you. Whenever you need it.”
There’s a deep meaning to his words and before I take him up on his offer I decide to leave. An hour ago I was afraid of this man. Now I’ve felt nearly every inch of his body. Som