Hazards of Being A Banshee:
Sucky Sex Life
I leave Jared’s place. I’m floating. Not literally, but I could be if I were singing.
Singing got me into this...mess? Does this qualify as a mess?
Marmalade is chest-deep in ferns, fronds, and vines when I reach my shop, pouncing happily hither and thither, purring and meowing at every rustle. I guess my magic was strong enough to affect things, even from across the alley.
“Marmalade, wanna hear a story?” I sigh, snapping my fingers and slapping the air around the plants to quell them as I collect my cat and head to the small staircase that leads to the attic apartment. “I was singing, accidentally enchanted a human, and now I’m engaged. Sort of.”
“Mrp?”
I swear, my cat purrs and meows with punctuation. Her green eyes are questioning, and her ears lean forward, curious.
“Yeah, I know, I’ve been complaining about my dating life a little bit, but this is extreme.
” I put the cat down when we reach the third floor, and she scurries right to her favorite perch, the windowsill that faces the alley.
Tonight, I join her and look across the way.
Jared’s there, looking up at me, a lovestruck, wistful smile on his face.
I bite my lip and tuck my hair behind my ear before I wave and draw the blinds. “That’s him,” I whisper to my cat.
“Rrrrrrr,” Marmalade lets out a gentle, contented hum and settles into her cat-loaf shape, all of her little paws tucked under her, eyes closed.
“Wait, is that all you wanna hear? I’m accidentally engaged. Don’t you want the details?” I tease her, prodding her little fluffy hip.
One eye opens, and then her head curls, tucking down to her chest.
In Marmalade speak, that must be, “Nope. Happy ending accepted. Beauty sleep now.”
“Well, I’ll tell you about him, anyway. He’s big and tall.
He’d easily make two, if not three, of me.
I could cuddle up on him like he was my personal beanbag chair.
He looks... nothing like the cold, arrogant, fae boys I’ve met.
All of him speaks of warmth, gentleness, and something else.
Like he’s smart, but not arrogant? At least not to me.
Oh my gosh, and he’s so ready for this. I wouldn’t have to wait around for years, Marmalade.
I wouldn’t have to ‘talk him into’ a commitment or worry that he’d run if he thought I was serious.
He wants to be serious. Maybe that’s not a bad thing, right?
I mean, I’m thirty-two. My biological clock is ticking right now, if not outright ringing. ”
I turn away as Marmalade lets out a soft snore. She’s pooped from playing with all the plants, I guess.
I am anything but tired. I’m on an adrenaline high that makes me want to sing—but I don’t. I can’t.
Not that singing would relieve the particular urge I have to go lie down and pick up where I left off on any one of the dozen fantasies that sprouted since I went over to Jared’s house to end things—and came home besotted and as horny as a succubus in a nunnery.
See, that’s something no one tells you about banshees. It’s all, “Ooh, scary screechy lady, she’ll sing of your death, and then you’ll bite the dust!” as if the people weren’t already going to die, and it’s all our fault because we just had to go tell them about it.
Bad press.
But bad press has consequences. No one talks about how our reputations completely torpedo our love lives.
Most humans can’t tell a banshee from a banjo, but our voices still impact them.
When do most people lose control of their focus, noises, and emotions?
During any really stressful, passionate, or exciting event.
Like during sex. So we can’t just go pick up some random human and have a roll in the hay.
That leaves paranormal types. “Pure fae,” what people call fairies, look down on us banshees because of how we were initiated into the fae family tree—long story.
There’s a lot of bad blood between banshees and water-dwelling beings like kelpies and selkies—longer story.
And other types of magical beings? Still able to be knocked out cold by a single scream at the wrong pitch.
That wouldn’t happen with Jared. He’s mine. The bond is true. Can’t hurt my “mate.” And he’s already a sensitive who can tolerate my singing...
He’s not only husband material, he’s prime lonely-lady-bits material.
Cold shower time.
THE COLD SHOWER DOES nothing. Noth. Ing. In fact, I’m back to that cozy night in Sligo, imagining a cold, dreary fog outside, winds howling—and inside, Jared and I are in front of a fire, spooning in a nest of thick blankets.
Shivering from my cold shower, I throw on some pajamas and tell myself to let the fantasy go.
I meant go away, but my brain (traitor) thought I meant “go on.”
When I close my eyes, it’s like I can feel him against me, his thick arm around my slender middle, naked bodies pressed together... His hand plays over my hips. Dips between them.
His lips are on my neck, and his soft voice asks if I feel good as he slowly teases my wetness around my entrance and up to my clit.
He’s a scientist. A researcher. He’s going to learn my body to perfection.
My fingers slide between my thighs as I lie on my back, eyes closed, mimicking the motions I want to feel. Gentle, tender, helpful... until I tell him otherwise. I feel like he’s a person who wants to please.
My fingers begin to increase in tempo, pounding and rocking against my mound as I grind my hips against my hand. I want him. I want to please him, too. Unwrap him like the gift he is...
If he’s really meant for me, that is.
Your magic may wreck a lot of things, but this is one place where it might have helped. Come on. Come on and believe that this might work.
“Come on” turns to come . Turns to “Come for me, Jared”. Turns from little whispers in my head to full-throated cries that I wonder if he can hear across the alleyway—and I’m too lost in lust and dreams to care.