Enchanted Spring

Enchanted: Enchanted Spring By Josee Renard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Enchanted Spring Copyright© 2012 Josee Renard ISBN: 978-1-60088-756-7 Cover Artist: Sable Grey Editor: Keynyn Bryssee All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Cobblestone Press, LLC www.cobblestone-press.com

“Damn, damn, and damn again,” Delia chanted. All the other matchmaking Web sites made money and they didn’t even have real magic to make their matches. She’d convinced the other two—her mother and her aunt—to invest their tiny savings in the start-up. Her mother Deborah and her aunt Dorothea lived in the house next door to Delia and had taken in a boarder to help with taxes and maintenance. Despite her concern over MatchMagic, Delia also considered the problem of Deborah and Delia’s boarder, Connie. Connie had lost her job, and it was pretty clear that she’d soon be giving her notice. There had to be something they—meaning MatchMagic—could do to keep her around. Delia figured it was time to go with the old adage It takes money to make money. They needed someone to help them sell the services of the Web site. Oh, their clients were completely and utterly satisfied. The magic always worked. But it was the getting, rather than the satisfying, that caused them problems. And she knew exactly who could help. Jamieson Smith. They could hire him to do some promotion for them—it was, after all, his job. And, as a special thank you, they could help the strait-laced man next door find his true love. ***** Jamieson—his mother had called him that, without once shortening the name, ever since he could remember—wasn’t sure what his next-door neighbors wanted with him, but his mother had also instilled in him a set of very pretty manners, so when they’d asked him to tea, he’d said yes. The main floor of the brilliantly painted Victorian next door wasn’t at all how he’d imagined it to be. He’d pictured colorful wallpaper, and little-old-lady chairs, and tables filled with knick-knacks. What he found was a modern office space, half a dozen computers humming, a huge air conditioning unit, stacks of pamphlets and letterhead, a sign proclaiming MatchMagic.com, and three of the women he’d seen coming and going from the two

Victorian houses next to his, sitting in red leather chairs around a small boardroom table. “Please,” the youngest one said. “Sit and have some tea. We have a proposition for you.” “I’m Jamieson Smith,” he said, a tiny question embedded in the statement so they’d tell him their names. The oldest one spoke. “I’m Dorothea.” She pointed at the woman next to her. “This is my sister, Deborah. She’s Delia’s mother,” she added, gesturing at the youngest one. Jamieson kept his grin to himself. He liked older women. His mother had been almost forty when he was born, and he’d grown up with her and her older sister. So the three D’s, as he immediately named them, were right up his alley, and he set himself to make them comfortable, asking first about their houses and what they’d done to restore them. Their faces lit up as they talked about the staircases they’d redone, the stained glass windows they’d found in thrift stores, the great workmen they’d found to help with the floors. Jamieson wanted to ask for a tour, but that could wait until he knew what they wanted with him. He knew Delia’s daughter Tonia had just moved in with James and Jeff, the two men who ran the coffee shop down the street, so they weren’t trying to fix him up, though the MatchMagic.com sign had him a little worried. Blunt, he thought, would work best. “What can I help you with?” That would get the meeting back on track—whatever track it was they had set out on and that he’d derailed them from with his question about the houses. “MatchMagic is a dating Web site,” Delia said. “We’ve been up and running for a year and, even though 100% of our clients have been completely satisfied, we don’t seem to be getting enough new ones to make it work for the long term. “We thought you might be able to assist us with some promotional ideas.” Jamieson looked again at the sign on the wall and at the women around him, and said yes without really thinking about what that might entail. He could figure out a way to make their lives easier—even though, at this point, he didn’t have a single idea; if there was one thing he hated, it was romance. Still, because they reminded him of his mother and aunt, he’d figure something out. An hour later, he was walking in the front door of his house, shaking his head at the idea of Jamieson Smith working on a dating Web site. Oh, sure, he went out with women, had sex with them, even, occasionally, spent a weekend with one. But there were rules to which he faithfully adhered: Never use the word love. Never date the same woman more than three times, that being the magic number when

they wanted more than sex. Never get involved with a romantic. Never introduce dates to a friend, and never ever introduce dates to family. The rules had helped him stay single in the past, and they would help him stay that way in the future. He liked it that way. ***** Connie grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, but not because she looked bad—how could she? She had all the time in the world to experiment with her hair and her makeup, all the time in the world to primp and preen…and nowhere at all to go. Losing her job hadn’t been a surprise, just the timing. She’d expected to have another six months before the place imploded. She’d seen it coming, had even started to update her resume and make a list of the businesses she might apply to, but she’d been shocked and—she had to admit—scared to death when she’d arrived at the office six weeks ago to find the doors locked. Peering in the windows had shown an empty space with only electrical outlets and faded spots on the carpet to indicate that a thriving—okay, maybe not thriving, but surviving—business had once been there. They’d owed her so much vacation pay that she knew she’d never get even a quarter of it (no time to take a vacation working for those guys), a month’s back pay (There’s a big check on its way and we’ll pay everybody when we get it), and the current month’s pay. She’d also figured out they hadn’t paid any of their employee taxes for months, which meant her medical was going to run out in a week and she owed the IRS money she didn’t have. God, could it get any worse? Well, yes, it could. Because her rent was due in a few days, and she didn’t have it, and she didn’t have a chance in hell of getting it. With the economy a disaster, it was taking three to six months to find a job, or so said every one of the employment agencies she’d trekked around to in the past ten days. She was going to have to settle for a service job, at least for now. So she’d spent the morning on her laptop revising her resume to ignore the years she’d spent working her butt off as a technical writer, and emphasize the years she’d spent cleaning, making beds, doing laundry, cooking, serving, taking reservations, solving problems, and just about anything else needed helping her mother run a ten-room family hotel aka bed and breakfast. Gratitude, that’s what she needed. Connie should be grateful for those credentials, knowing they’d ensure she got a job in some hotel, bar, restaurant or coffee shop in the city. As long as, of course, they were looking for someone.

Time to get out there and walk the streets. After she told Deborah and Dorothea that she was going to have to leave. Connie loved the old Victorian, loved her suite of rooms tucked up under the roof, the bathroom with the big clawfoot tub and skylight, the bedroom where her bed just fit under the sloping ceilings, the combined kitchen and living room with the old-fashioned fireplace and the windows overlooking the city. And she loved her landlords. They made her smile, made her think, even made her feel as if she was, in some small way, part of the family. They invited her to dinner with their daughter Delia, who lived in the house next door. They brought her homemade jam and asked about her day. But subtle they were not. Except they had been ever since she’d stopped going to the office. They hadn’t asked her a single question about why she spent all day in her rooms, or why she always looked perfectly groomed and never went anywhere. Ever since she’d moved in, they’d grilled her almost every day about what she’d done, who she’d seen. And they were passionate followers of her non-existent love life. But now? They didn’t ask. About anything. Damn. She hated to leave this place, but she was going to have to downgrade big-time. A different neighborhood, a one-room apartment that suited her new life as a minimum wage employee in a hotel or coffee shop. ***** Dorothea and Deborah had been waiting weeks for Connie to tell them what had happened. They’d decided early on not to ask her, to let her come to them, but they’d had enough and were waiting in the front hallway to ambush her. They knew she’d lost her job, and they knew just what to do to fix it. They weren’t witches for nothing. “Connie?” Dorothea called, as her favorite tenant and the woman she’d come to think of as family tried to sneak down the stairs. “Dorothea?” Connie squeaked, then paused, her face somber. “I was coming down to see you.” Dorothea listened with her heart rather than her head and knew exactly what Connie was coming to tell her. She forestalled that conversation with an idea she and Deborah had conceived after speaking with Jamieson Smith. “Good, because I’ve got something I’d like you to consider.” ***** Connie twisted her hands in her lap. No service job was going to pay her enough

to stay here, to pay her back taxes, to go back to the life she’d had just six weeks ago. She had to tell Dorothea the truth. Holding out the letter with her notice and apology, she tried to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes. Dorothea waved off the letter. “You’re not leaving,” she said, with a quick glance at Deborah, and Connie wondered yet again whether the women had a touch of the sight, because otherwise, how the hell did they know what Connie was going to say? Half an hour later, Connie had a new job helping with some promotional work they were having done—at least they thought she did—and a reduction in her rent. And nothing she’d done or said could sway the two women. But Jamieson Smith? She’d been drooling over him since she’d moved onto Courtwood Street, even knowing she’d never have a chance with him. The women—the many, many women—he dated? They looked like runway models. Rich runway models. But what choice did she have? If the sisters had their way, she was going to be working with him on a promotion campaign for MatchMagic and, from the martial look in Dorothea’s eyes, Jamieson Smith would have no choice about hiring her. Didn’t matter how tough he was, no one could deny the sisters. ***** They had summoned him to another meeting. He hadn’t even had time to wrap his head around a campaign for a dating Web site—he, Jamieson Smith, the last man who knew anything about true love and romance—and yet here they were, demanding his presence already. He laughed as he opened the door to MatchMagic. He could hardly wait to see what they had planned for him this afternoon. Just the thought of them, so much like his family, made him happy. Maybe not the work so much, but those three women? They were great. What he hadn’t expected was to see the woman he watched walk by his home office every morning, the woman he’d lusted after for months. Oh, he knew he couldn’t have her—just that daily glimpse of her told him that she wasn’t his type. Too sweet, too short, too curvy. But there was something about her that tempted him, even though he was pretty sure she’d want a relationship. But he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t keep from making certain that he was at his desk each morning at seven o’clock when she left for work. He was obsessed by her… and that’s why he’d promised himself he’d never meet her in person. The three witches—as he’d dubbed them to go along with the name of their Web site, and damn, that was a pretty good way into a spring promotion blitz—were waiting

for him. This time, though, there were four women around the boardroom table, and his eyes—and his nose (she smelled like spring)—locked on the fourth one. “Jamieson?” Delia’s voice jolted him out of his reverie. He shook his head to clear the scent of Connie and focused on the witches. “Sorry, I had an idea for your promotion. Just let me jot it down.” He took out his notepad and wrote a few words down: Witch. Magic. Spring solstice. When he looked up again, all four sets of eyes were on him. He felt his cheeks flush and couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. These women, especially that woman, were getting to him. “Jamieson Smith, this is Connie Stanton. She’s going to be helping you with the promotion you’re doing for us. She’s spent years working as a technical writer and assistant. Add her services to your account.” Dorothea sounded as regal as a short, almost-seventy-year-old woman could sound. He started to shake his head, but Deborah broke in before he could speak. “We have a feeling about this,” she said. “We want you and Connie to do this together.” He frowned, and she said firmly, “Work it out.” Delia handed around cups of tea. Jamieson never drank the stuff—except when he went home to see his family—but these women were as tough as his mother, so he gulped the terrible liquid down and planned in silence a way to negotiate himself out of this mess. He couldn’t work with Connie—the name suited her perfectly, short and bubbly and somehow sweetly sexy—no matter what the witches ordered. He had people he could hire that he knew, that he was used to working with. Connie’s presence had all kinds of problems associated with it—not the least of which was his attraction to her. No, he couldn’t do it. Or could he? Maybe if he spent some time with her, he’d find her flaws—because every woman had flaws—and get over this stupid obsession. “Okay,” he said. Turning to Connie, he said, “Be at my office at one. We’ll go over the rules.” ***** Connie knew she hadn’t disguised her stubborn look very well when Jamieson Smith—her sexy and out-of-reach Jamieson Smith—frowned at her. But it was a way to stay in her apartment, to stay with the family she’d found in the big city; and so she’d follow his damn rules, whatever they were, ignore the man’s complete and utter hunkiness, and make sure that MatchMagic was a success. When she showed up at his house the next morning in her most formal business suit, Jamieson opened the door in faded jeans and a Boston Bruins t-shirt that looked as old as the house. “First rule,” he said, obviously looking her up and down. “Go home and get

changed. Be back in ten minutes. I don’t want to work with some buttoned-up corporate ant.” He hesitated. “I can’t work like that.” Connie grimaced. She’d worn the navy pinstripe because she thought it would help distance her from Jamieson, but it was obvious he wouldn’t allow that. It took her ten minutes to figure out what to wear and three minutes to rip off her suit and her panty hose, throw on her navy capris, and undo the first few buttons of her white shirt and leave it hanging loose over her hips. Slipping her feet into bright orange flip-flops, she hurried down the stairs, next door, and back into Jamieson’s office. “That’s better,” he said, after a quick glance at her. “Sit. There.” He pointed at a chair next to him at the big table. “What qualifications do you have for this job?” “First of all,” she pointed out, “I don’t even know what this job is. Second, how much are you going to pay me? And third, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, but the witches…” He grinned at the word and said, “Yeah, I know. Nothing to be done about it. They want us working together on this promotion and there’s nothing either of us can say or do to change that. “So, to answer your questions. One. This job is to build a promotion strategy for the spring for MatchMagic. They say their success rate is 100%—and I choose to believe them—so they should be making money hand over fist. The reason they’re not? I’m guessing they don’t have the money to advertise the way the big sites do, so we’ll just have to figure out a cheap way to let people know about them.” He shifted in the chair and a wave of lust rolled over her. His scent—all musky and hot—should be illegal. I can’t do this. She’d jump his bones if she worked here. She clasped her hands together, focused on the blank wall in front of her, and tried to hold her breath. “Two. I’m going to pay you twenty-five percent of what they pay me. I have no idea what that’s going to be. They steamrolled me into this job and we haven’t discussed anything except the promotion. Usually, this would cost somewhere around ten grand. For sure, we’re going to have to wait for our money until the results of the promotion kick in, so we’re going to bust our asses to ensure that it works.” Connie considered that and then nodded. Dorothea and Deborah could wait for the rent and she could eat for a couple of months—if she was very careful, ate lots of pasta and potatoes (no hardship), used coupons and checked every flyer—on the money she had left in the bank. “Three. The witches want you here and I could use the help. Romance isn’t my thing. You can give me a woman’s perspective.” Her perspective was all about Jamieson Smith. Being in the same room as him, sitting so close to him, was driving her wild. She had to keep her hands clasped tight, otherwise they’d be reaching for him. She wouldn’t be able to resist him for long. “How long is this going to take? Do I need to work here or can I take stuff back

to my place?” ***** If she were any other woman, Jamieson would have encouraged her to work remotely, but something about Connie Stanton was different. He wanted her here, in his space, where he could see her. Where he could inhale and get a noseful of that wonderful aroma—it reminded him of cinnamon—that surrounded her. Where he could, with a little shift, touch her. Where he could taste her and see if that warm golden skin tasted like cinnamon to match her scent. He wanted to lick every single inch of her body, starting with the soft flesh exposed in the vee of her shirt. Shit. She worked for him. Okay, she only sort of worked for him, he could get around that, but he knew right away that she’d never follow his rules, knew he wouldn’t be able to follow his rules if he once touched her. The rules that had kept him single and unattached all these years, which were a staple of his life, were on the verge of being broken. And he couldn’t wait. He leaned in closer to her, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for a reaction. Her pupils dilated and he could hear her breathing quicken. Ah, he thought. She’s got the same problem I have. “We need to get this out of the way,” Jamieson whispered, his mouth right next to her ear. “I can’t work if we don’t.” He waited for her nod of acquiescence. It took longer than felt comfortable and he was just about to… Whatever it was he was just about to didn’t happen. She didn’t nod; she leaned in closer and placed her lips on his. He shared her breath, their hearts beating, their bodies trembling with desire. Jamieson had never felt this thunder of passion with any woman, never tried so hard to restrain himself, to experience this one singular moment. ***** Connie knew she would remember this moment forever, leaning into Jamieson, without reaching for the next thing. She’d lusted after him for months, watching that perfect body walk down the street, seeing him smile as he passed Dorothea or Deborah in the street. This was the moment she fell in love. He pulled away, and she felt lost. “Connie,” he whispered. “My beautiful Connie. Please come upstairs with me. I want you lying naked in my bed. I want to taste you. I want to love you. I want…”

He took her hand and placed it on his cock. Even through the denim of his jeans, she felt the heat of it, felt his pulse pounding in it, and her pussy wept in response. “Yes, please,” she whispered, her body tingling at the feel of him. “Before I can’t walk at all.” The stairs were steep, the wood railings burnished to a deep shine, the bedroom, like hers, in the rafters. But his room was huge. A mussed king-size bed stood under a row of long narrow windows across the top of the wall, the afternoon sun burning hot on the navy sheets. “I can’t touch you,” he said. “You can’t touch me. Not yet. I just want to watch.” She nodded. She knew what he wanted because it was what she wanted as well, though she wasn’t sure she had the patience for it. “Slowly,” she said. “Take off your clothes.” His smile was crooked, his eyes bright with passion, as he sat on the side of the bed and pulled off his sneakers. “Stop,” Connie said, and knelt at his feet. His beautiful feet. Long and tanned, she couldn’t resist them, lifting first one and then the other into her lap. She kissed the fine blue veins on the instep, ran her fingers around his toes and up to his ankles, then placed his feet back on the floor. ***** His game—the game she’d agreed to—was long past possible but Jamieson would try—for as long as his cock would allow, at least—to let her rule the clock. Oh, he knew all the moves to this game, this teasing foreplay, but had never before allowed anyone to use them against him, was maybe a little frightened that if he did let Connie play, he’d be hooked—the last thing in the world he’d wanted until... Now? He was willing to let the foreplay go on forever, though his cock was definitely of another mind. “Sit,” he said, gesturing at the bed and standing when she’d done so. He echoed her motions, kneeling at her feet, pulling off her flip-flops, then going one step further. He suckled her pretty pink-painted toes, ran his tongue up the sole of each foot, his hands wrapping around her calves. He loved the way her scent changed as he moved across her body. Now, she smelled like an ocean breeze, salty and tart and incredibly sexy. He placed her feet on his thighs and leaned in, resting his head where the scent of her was even richer. Each breath challenged his self-control. He felt her pulse beat in the crease of her thighs, felt moisture dampen her slacks. Standing, he pulled her into his arms, and this time his kiss was ravenous. No more patience, no hesitation, simply his tongue fucking her mouth, his teeth biting her lips, and she doing the same in return. Her moans echoed his, her body strained against him, and he cursed their

clothing. He ripped the buttons from her shirt, pulling it from her, his hands running up and down her back, cupping her ass and pulling her tightly against his cock. She sighed, lifting her arms and wrapping them around his neck, lifting her legs until they were wrapped around his waist, her cunt and his cock connected. If they were naked, he’d already be inside her. Dropping her on the bed, he tore off his jeans and t-shirt, watching while she took off the rest of her clothes, leaving both of them naked. The ripe, warm scent of her engulfed him, and he went into her open arms. Her skin was hot against his, her teeth tugging at his earlobe, one foot running up and down his calf. His balls pulled up tight beneath his cock, and when she touched him he felt a quick, irresistible spurt of pre-cum. He placed his hand on hers, stilling the gentle tug of her fingers, the heat of her palm against him. “I don’t want to come yet,” he said. “I want to savor our first time.” ***** Connie smiled at Jamieson, his cock throbbing in her hand, her pussy dripping in anticipation. She thought of all the months she’d watched him, all the nights she’d dreamed about him in her bed, his cock in her mouth, in her pussy, his cum all over her belly. “I’ve been waiting forever for you,” she said. “Don’t make me wait any longer.” Swinging her leg over his hip, she rubbed her nipples against the dark curly hair on his chest and sighed at the sensation, moaned when he reached up and palmed her breasts, tugging on the hard pink nipples. He rolled her over, laying her flat on the bed. He held her arms splayed to the side, and he controlled her legs between his. She couldn’t move, and the tension in her cunt intensified. Jamieson ravaged her. His teeth nipped at the tendons in her neck, the tight skin over her collarbone, the tender indent at the base of her throat. He savored the pounding of her pulse in that spot, then moved lower. Each nipple pulled tight into his mouth, his tongue rolling over the areola, his teeth sharp, waiting for her moans. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, please, please, don’t stop.” And he didn’t. He moved down her belly, tongue and teeth and mouth. He was tempted to mark her where the world could see that she belonged to him. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t wait. Wanting the taste of her in his mouth, in his nostrils, while he fucked her, while his cock was enfolded in her cunt, he ran his tongue into her folds. Now he wanted to stay there forever. She was damp and hot and oh so aromatic, and he couldn’t stop himself. He whispered, “Don’t move,” and used his thumbs to spread her tender folds,

giving him complete access to her center. He sucked her clit into his mouth, and her ass came off the bed, pushing against him, her voice hoarse and begging for more. Licking. Biting. Using tongue and lips and fingers, he drove her until she rolled beneath him, and he fucked her with his fingers and his mouth until she exploded beneath him, until she screamed her release, and then… Jamieson positioned Connie’s limp body so her butt was on the edge of the bed, his arms under her knees, spreading her open. He smiled at the look of utter exhaustion combining with Do me again on her face. His cock ached for her, but he waited, fascinated by the trembling muscles in her belly, the deep red blush of her pussy, her hooded eyes. “Fuck me,” Connie said. “Now.” And he did, his cock thrusting deep and hard, and her pussy clenched around him, trying desperately to hold him, while a ripple of excitement ran through his hands, and into her cunt. This time, it was Jamieson who screamed, and she who bore witness to his release. One push, then another, and another wave of orgasm overwhelmed her, meeting his thrusts with her own, until slowly and carefully he moved her up the bed, wrapping his arms around her. “Don’t go,” he said, his voice slow and lazy. “I can’t move. And besides, I want to do this again.” Connie rested her head on Jamieson’s shoulder, his arm around her, their legs entwined, the sun hot on their bodies, and she knew she was right where she belonged.

Author Bio Josee Renard writes women’s fiction, magic realism, paranormal, and erotica—short fiction, poetry, and novels. Josee blames her good friend Anna Leigh Keaton for getting her into writing erotica—she loves Anna Leigh’s books and wanted to try writing one herself. She blames her mother and her two grandmothers for her reading and writing obsession. All of them were avid readers, and they passed their books and their obsession on to her. She’d love to hear from you. You can contact her at www.JoseeRenard.com; read her blog at www.JoseeRenard.wordpress.com; follow her on Twitter and check out her Facebook page.