Scrapbooking the Supernatural by Keira Blackwood

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What kind of dream witch can’t even make herself fall asleep? A tired witch. A middle-aged, raising-her-teenage-son-alone witch.

 
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“No way. No freaking way. How am I supposed to fix all the problems I’ve caused out in the real world if I can’t even control what I do here in my own dream? Tell me how to fix it.” I grabbed Baku’s arms—his very muscular arms. And I tried not to ooh and ahh about how wonderfully firm and amazing they felt under my fingertips. I cleared my throat and looked him in the eye. “Please, Baku, help me learn destructive magic.”

“It’s not possible to teach a fish to fly.”

“Great.” I scoffed. “I’m a fish now. I think I preferred when you called me god-like, even though it had no basis in reality. Maybe I did make all of this up. Maybe this is one of those dreams where nothing makes sense and I just can’t tell until after I’m awake. I mean, you can’t be real.”

“Why is that?”

“First off, you’ve shown up different times in different forms—total red flag. Plus, have you seen yourself? You’re too gorgeous to be real. I should have seen it sooner. If I was going to make up the perfect man, he’d be somewhere between modern day Henry Cavill and Dirty Dancing era Patrick Swayze. Throw in a dash of those scoundrel brothers from Prison Break. Boom—it’s you.”
“I don’t know who those people are.”

I waved away his objection. “You’re there when I need you most—something no real man ever is. And thinking about you makes me happy—again, football-field-sized red flag. The only thing that doesn’t make sense about this is why I would dream up such a smoking hottie and not do exactly what I want to him—you. It’s like I choose to torture myself even here, in my own dreams. When all I want to do is—”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he whispered in that dark and daring voice that stirred a side of me I never indulged, “What do you want?”

In answer, I grabbed onto Baku’s shoulders and pulled myself flush against his hard chest. He tilted his chin down so our lips were only inches apart and spread his hands over my back, holding me close. His pupils dilated, showing me the hungry predator inside of him.

Shallow breaths and unwanted clothes were all that was left between us. I could explain to him my vanilla history in the sack, or more accurately a spot of mediocre action here and there over a long orgasmless timeline. I could tell him I wanted to end the Sahara of a dry spell, or how all I really wanted was to feel as desired as I did when he held me just like this. But most of all, I didn’t want to talk.

All hesitation and concern melted as my mouth crashed over his. He tasted like mint and bliss. And he felt like home.

He deepened our kiss, teasing me with the tip of his tongue, then nipped my lower lip. The animalistic moan that followed most definitely came out of me. I mauled his freaking face.

It didn’t matter if he wasn’t real. He was everything I craved, everything I needed, and if I couldn’t make myself let loose in my dreams, what was the point of dreaming at all?

 
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