A Witch's Harem: Reverse Harem Fantasy Read online

  Pulling out the liquid eyeliner and wielding it expertly, Belinda commented, “One would almost think you didn’t want to get dolled up.” I gave her a sheepish smile and she shook her head. “Relax, Sadie. You’re gorgeous. A little makeup, along with that smoking costume and short skirt… Sure to cast the most dangerous of all spells tonight…”

  I pulled on the skirt to no avail. “What, frostbite? Legs falling off?”

  “No, feminine magic. Womanly wiles. Va-va vixen!” Belinda sang out. “God, I wish I had your eyes. Emerald green and a little cat-like. You’re a wicca knockout, girl.”

  She pulled out red lipstick now and I couldn’t help but feel a kick of energy in my veins. It was impossible to mope with Belinda around. And no one could have a good time or encourage it like her. No matter what, the evening would be memorable.

  Better yet, I wouldn’t have to spend it with the coven.

  Laughing and joking with Belinda now, I helped her finish up my makeup and then we stood together in front of the mirror.

  Belinda, with her long legs and short hair, played the perfect part as a dangerous, harlequin vampire victim. She’d even artfully decorated puncture wounds on her neck.

  I, on the other hand, was in a far too flattering gypsy costume. While it fit and flaunted my curves, it also showed way too much cleavage and leg. A fluffy dark skirt swirled around my waist, barely covering my panties. It was pretty, covered in color-shifting sequins, where each step caused it to shift from black to green and back again. A gold braided belt was slung low on my hips and my boobs were squashed up by a teal corset, tied with the same gold cord. Fluffy white cap sleeves slipped down my arms and my hair was set off perfectly by the scarf.

  As Belinda grinned at me, wiggling her eyebrows, I forced a smile back.

  Inside, however, I was all but melting with mortification like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  I look ridiculous. This is not meant for a plump person. Oh god, all the people of Salem will point and laugh…

  Before I could convince Belinda to let me wear something, anything else, she’d seized my arm and we were outside as though she’d teleported us there. The wind was rustling down the street as the sky overhead was navy blue. Pale wisps of clouds, like wayward spirits, streaked across the sky, chivvying us along to the party. There was a smell of wood smoke, burning leaves, and apples in the air. And if you inhaled deeply enough, you could catch a faint whiff of the sea.

  A perfect Halloween night in New England.

  Turning a corner, I let out a soft “oh.”

  Rising in the East, dappling the harbor with a burnt golden path, was a fat full moon. Stars peppered the sky around it, glinting and glimmering with a vengeance.

  The cobblestone streets, lit up with the orange glow of old-fashioned streetlights, became more crowded as we went along. Running footsteps echoed down to us. Kids were darting up to houses, screeching “trick or treat!” Behind them, groups of parents gossiped and laughed.

  A tingle of excitement went through me. The mood for mischief was contagious and suddenly I liked this costume. Energies of the night, this magical All Hallows’ Eve, flowed through me. I was hard put to keep from trailing my hand through the air and letting off some sparks.

  Thumbs pricking, I wondered if I was in for a magical time. But magic made me think of my shop, the failed potion, and with a sharp pang of guilt, Samwise’s new look.

  Belinda shot me a sideways glance as we turned down another street, a long line of trees blocking our destination. There was a graveyard on the left, shutting out the busy town.

  “What’s with the face, Sades?” she demanded.

  “Poor Samwise – he’s still a parrot.” I chewed my cheek. “I should have turned him back. That wasn’t very fair of me to go off and party while he’s got feathers.”

  “Oh bloody hell, we can fix that first thing tomorrow – we’ll go out hunting for oxtails at Pickering Point. Besides, Samwise seemed fine. It’s good for him to have a little adventure.”

  Nodding, I smiled and forced myself to put it from my mind.

  Silently I vowed again, I will have fun tonight.

  Belinda let out a whoop and startled birds took off from an old pine tree, streaking across the sky. Maybe not as much fun as Belinda though.

  The music greeted us first, the bass pumping through the air as we twisted and turned up the long drive to the Haulhead House. Multicolored lights, slipping through the shadows, came next, beckoning us on like will-o’-the-wisps. And finally, the shouts of glee and drunken mirth.

  People had already overflowed onto the wide lawns of the mansion. Craning my head, I saw a dark, many-turreted house stretching against the sky, the top windows lit with electric candles and the bottom windows filled with dancing shadows.

  Fighting our way inside, Belinda grabbed my hand and used her flashing smile to get us to the front of the bar in thirty seconds flat.

  What followed was a whirlwind of drinking, games and drinking games. Some involving shots, one of which I won and made me wonder how exactly I’d won. Then there were pinball machines, pin the tail on the werewolf, poker and so forth. We joined in on a few, Belinda easily charming the crowd, while I cheered her on. After that, we danced for a bit, with several guys making moves towards Bells, who brushed them off and stuck with me.

  “You don’t have to do that, Bells,” I whispered to her. “Go dance with them.”

  “You’re a better partner!” she shouted, whipping her head back and forth. “Besides, none of them were cute enough.”

  “How could you tell?” I asked, puzzled. “They were wearing masks.”

  “That’s how I could tell,” Belinda shrieked and I laughed.

  Catching our breath back by the bar, I was sipping on a water and letting some of my tipsiness recede. Another guy came up, trying to interest Belinda, but she sent him packing in short order. Man, she was brutal tonight.

  “Belinda,” I chided. “He was very polite.”

  “Mmm, he was a wanker,” she said and her eyes lit up. Nodding behind me, she whispered, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Doesn’t even need a mask or a costume to turn heads.”

  “Huh?” I asked, turning and coming face-to-face with a tight sweater over a broad expanse of muscled chest. “Oh, h-hello, there,” I stammered out, stumbling back and gaping up at him.

  Woah.

  He was seriously hot and for some mysterious reason, he’d stopped right in front of me. Suddenly, his hand landed directly on the wall over my head as he moved closer. Now I had to almost lean back to look up at him. My insides were a vortex of mammoth butterflies, beating their wings so hard I thought I would throw up.

  And then, he smiled.

  At me.

  “Hey, ladies. Mick O’Sullivan. You having an alright time?” he asked, glancing at Belinda before his piercing light green eyes landed on me again. The perfect color green, like a sprig of grass in May. Add that to his rolling Irish brogue, broad shoulders and bulging biceps, I was about to hit the floor.

  “Not too bad,” Belinda said, elbowing me. “Glad I could get Sadie here to come.”

  “What, you were gonna stand us up, love?” he asked and I found myself flushing. “Risk not meeting me?”

  “Nah, she just likes to play hard to get,” Belinda said in an arch voice.

  Again, he smiled at me. This gorgeous chiseled brunette of tough guy had a smile that melted me like wax. Batwings and broomsticks, am I dreaming? I wondered, unable to look away.

  Belinda was right, too. Mick wasn’t wearing a costume and girls were giving him long, covetous glances anyways. Instead, he was wearing a faded pair of jeans that fit his perfect, sculpted Tom Brady ass like a dream and a turtleneck sweater that brought out his eyes.

  I smiled back, cheeks heating and scooted back a bit so that my ass hit the wall. That jolt seemed to wake me up. Clearly Mick was here to get Belinda. Being nice to me was part of his ploy.

  Belinda was introducin
g us properly, Belinda Watchkin and Sadie Matheson. I tried not to listen after that, wishing I could actually melt into the wall. Something about having Mick hit on Belinda while I stood here between them filled my stomach with ice chips.

  Mick let out a deep chuckle at something she said and I glanced down at the floor.

  “What’s your poison tonight?” I heard him ask.

  Elbowing Belinda when she didn’t respond, I looked up at her and she made a face at me.

  Hello, Bells! This Mick O’Sullivan is majorly hunky, why aren’t you responding?

  “Sadie,” Mick sang in my ear and warm breath brushed my neck. I almost jumped out of my skin as I turned back to his hypnotic green eyes. “What, you don’t wanna tell me?”

  I glanced at Belinda, who was grinning and biting her knuckles. Uh oh.

  Giggling, she gave me a quick wave. “I’ll be back.”

  And then she was gone.

  Traitor! I screamed in my head.

  “So?” Mick asked.

  My excitement for the evening was rapidly shriveling into dust. The butterflies were there, but now they were joined by terrible nerves.

  What is this Mick up to? I wondered. What’s his angle?

  Out loud, I said, “It’s nothing special. The house mix or something.”

  “Ah, we can do better than that, love,” Mick said with a grin and he gestured with his head toward the bar. “Come on, Matheson.”

  Following his broad back through the crowd, I saw more than one dirty and disbelieving look come my way. My skin crinkled as an ominous feeling came over me. This was all starting to seem orchestrated. And not in a good way, like, by a kind Fairy of Fate, but in a Stephen King horror-story kind of way. As in, I was Carrie and the bucket of pig’s blood was incoming.

  Clenching my fists, I stood woodenly by Mick’s side as he ordered himself a beer and me a martini. After I got it, I said a quiet “thanks” and tried to sneak away.

  But the bastard followed me.

  Unable to lose him, I resigned myself to the worst. Somehow, we wound up in a less noisy corner, by a large window, and I saw the moon was almost at its peak. Right now, the coven would be outside, rejoicing in the night wind and the deepening hours of All Hallows’ Eve.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Mick said in a friendly voice.

  Too friendly.

  I shrugged. “Nice night. Full moon.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mick said, sounding oddly formal for a second. “Erm, you live here in Salem?”

  I gave him a flat look. “Yes.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Mick said, “You like it here? Even with the history?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Mick made a face like geez, love, don’t make it easy on a fella, and I wanted to laugh.

  That’s right, bub. Just ‘cause you’re Mick O’Sullivan, and say that like it should mean something to me, doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy for you to humiliate me.

  “You don’t like your drink?” Mick asked, his eyes flicking down, then up. “I can get you another. You should’ve said something, Sadie, it’s no problem.”

  “It’s fine,” I said crisply, sounding like Delia for a half a second.

  “You’ve taken nary a sip,” he said, his poise slipping for a second. There was a challenge in his green eyes, one I was surprised I wanted to meet. “C’mon, Sadie, what do you want?”

  I took the smallest of sips.

  “No worries, I’m good,” I said quietly.

  Mick got a stubborn set to his jaw and tried several other attempts at getting a conversation going. At one point, I almost gave in, but I steeled my heart. I wasn’t going to get fooled by a tall, strapping Irish dreamboat. Even if he was kind of nice for all that brawn.

  Not tonight, Satan.

  Finally, though, it had been too long since I’d seen Belinda and that’s what prompted me to cut to the chase. As Mick tried, in vain, to talk about sports, something I actually did enjoy far too much for a non-Ordinary, I’d had enough.

  “Look, O’Sullivan, my dog is a parrot, my mom’s a bitch on wheels and it’s been a shitty day overall, so if you’re going to murder me or play a trick on me, can you get it over with?”

  Chapter 3

  For a second, Mick looked astonished. Then a broad grin crinkled his eyes up and he let out a bark of laughter, leaning over as his shoulders shook with hilarity and he almost spilled his drink.

  My lip curled and I tapped my foot, waiting. Here it was, the moment where all his friends would come out and laugh at me.

  Cue the pig’s blood.

  Instead, what happened was far more shocking to my system.

  Mick straightened up and reached out, playfully tugging on a loose tendril of hair. It sent a strange fissure of heat through me as his green eyes danced and he regarded me for a moment. That stupid, charming smile of his was back and I was starting to melt again.

  “I knew you were going to be funny,” he said, his voice slightly husky.

  What? Flabbergasted, I tossed my hair back and crossed my arms. I was suddenly feeling wrong-footed and kind of like an asshole for stonewalling him.

  With a shrug, I muttered, “The chubby ones always are, right?”

  “Mmm, love, that’s where we’d have to disagree. I see a woman here with the curves to slay dragons, never mind the likes of men. And you see, Sadie Matheson, there’s a big difference.” A lazy smile lifted the corners of his mouth and I hugged my arms tighter, biting my cheek. “Quite a difference.” Mick ran his eyes over me and I went hot all over. “I can’t help myself,” he murmured. “Love those…” He raised his hands and mimed my curves. “Curves of yours.”

  From anyone else, it would be douchey. With Mick, it was bold, delicious and sexy.

  Like him.

  Our eyes met and I sucked in a hard breath at the flash of raw heat in that glance. Flustered, I bowed my head and noticed how close we were standing. Immediately, I looked back up. Another pulse of heat speared the air between us and Mick took a step closer.

  At a loss for words, I offered him a sheepish smile.

  Warmth was still spreading, now in waves across my chest and up my face. There was an insistent friction between my legs.

  Mick seemed to know it, too. The smirk on his face said as much. Not only that, but the challenge was back in his eyes. Again, I had the strangest urge to meet it, but part of me was still holding back. Part of me was still whispering this was too good to be true.

  But another part of me had woken up. And it was wondering if I could be so lucky...

  “You gonna be nice to me now?” Mick teased. “C’mon, Sadie, I’m busting my balls here trying to get a smile on that pretty face. I wouldn’t do nothing to hurt you. Swear on my life.”

  Unable to help myself, I smiled for real and Mick all but peacocked as he stood up straighter.

  “This is really good,” I said shyly, taking another sip of my drink.

  “Good. So, tell me, how come you’re a gypsy woman?” Mick asked. “Can you read my palm?”

  "Sure," I said without thinking, and he held out a broad, large hand. Suddenly, I blinked, realizing I was mixing work, witchcraft, and play. As I drank.

  Bad idea.

  “What’s it say, love? Do I got a shot in hell with you or should I cut my losses?” Mick asked.

  Unable to come up with a response, I panicked and lightly slapped his hand, as though high-fiving it. “No, I was only kidding. Belinda picked this outfit out… Um, I can’t tell you anything...”

  Warm fingers latched around my wrist as I went to pull away. “Bet you could.”

  Chest rising and falling too quickly, I tried not to slop my drink as I gently pried myself free. But I could still feel his fingers as I twisted them in my skirt. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  Mick gave me an affectionate smile. “Aw, love, never.”

  Another tingle shot through me and I was certain I had the stupidest grin on my face in return.

&nbs
p; However, now that I wasn’t trying to be a bitch, it was easy to talk to Mick. Soon, we were both laughing and even went to get more drinks. Then we laughed and talked some more.

  Eventually, we wound up in a room where I was perched on the edge of a couch, Mick standing over me and the sound of music far away. There had been a few people in here when we first came in, but suddenly I realized, with a nervous jolt, everyone was gone.

  At that moment, a tall figure loped into the room and stretched his arms overhead. Mick made a noise between a sigh and laugh. The man spotted us and a grin cracked his face.

  “Oh, what’s all this then?” he called out in a light, dancing brogue.

  Another Irishman? I wondered and as he came closer, I started. Another O’Sullivan?

  “My cousin, Patrick,” Mick said and my lips parted as I took him in.

  Patrick was ripped like Mick, but in a leaner and rangier way, like a bad-boy surfer. Dressed like a pirate, a crisp white shirt was open on a broad chest. Hastily looking up, warm chocolate eyes landed on mine and he flicked back his sandy blond hair.

  As was the way of the O’Sullivans, it seemed, I couldn’t breathe or think for several seconds.

  What do they feed these boys in Ireland? I wondered in a daze.

  “Gyspy mine, would you have me toss this briny fool to the sharks?” Patrick lilted. “Or would a marooning be more to your taste?” he asked, then he suddenly sank to his knees and put his hands to his heart. I chuckled and shook my head. In response, Patrick seized one of my hands in both of his. “Whatever you so desire, name it and it’ll be yours.”

  “Get up, you fool, she didn’t ask for a court jester,” came a cool, deep brogue, like a wind off the sea. And again, I looked up and was temporarily speechless and struggling to think straight.

  Another O’Sullivan had materialized out of nowhere. Something about the jaw or the set of his shoulders told me as much. Dressed in a black shirt and jeans, this man was taller and stood up straighter. He had serious, soulful eyes the color of a storm cloud and wavy brown hair shot with auburn, making me think of Michael Fassbender.