“Right,” she said, deftly wielding the spatula under the triangle-shaped slice of omelet, and positioning it perfectly on my plate, “let’s have a wee snack, and we’ll get to a bit of housekeeping, as you corporate folks like to call it.”

I looked at her quizzically for a moment but was instantly distracted as she bent in a fluid motion to open the oven.

My senses were overrun all at once by the wondrous sight of her bent over at the waist; blue jean-clad hips jutting into the air, bringing back a wash of heady memories from the previous night, this morning, and what we’d done just an hour ago.

I remembered the way her hands had tightly gripped the antique brass bedframe above my head, as we slowly ground our bodies together; her long, red hair flowing over her face and shoulders as her head swayed; the raw power of her muscular, round hips, stomach and back, undulating powerfully as she rode atop me, taking me to places I’d only dreamt of.

The herbal aromas of sage and rosemary wafted out of the oven, filling the room, as she held the tray of roasted potatoes. Once again, she gingerly transferred the food to my plate with the speed and grace of a five-star French Chef who happened to be a prima ballerina in their spare time.

Bunched sprigs of herbs hung from small hooks on the kitchen wall, all bound with twine and labeled in a thin, black script on what looked like old parchment.

She returned a moment later with two small bunches of grapes for each of us. Sweet scents filled my nostrils as she sprinkled a pinch of herbs over our food. She gave me a peck on the cheek and sat down at the table next to me.

“Basil?” I asked.

“Ooh. Good. Yes, well done. And marjoram.”

I poured her a cup of tea with milk, as she reached out for my hand, closing her eyes. She certainly didn’t strike me as the religious type, but she bent her head in prayer, and I did the same, out of respect.  

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, watching as she sat silently with a serene expression on her face for a few moments, before opening her eyes again, which now gleamed with the joyful spark of a young child.

“Tuck in,” she said, quickly cutting a piece of omelet with her fork. “How blessed we are to have this wholesome meal before us, and loving company to enjoy it in!”

As if on cue, a lithe, black cat suddenly entered through the front door’s cat flap, and sprang up on the countertop, eyeing me warily.

“Ah,” she cried, rising. “Dorchadais! Where on Earth have you been all through the night? Off again with that manky tart, Aislinn McMeowface, I’ll wager!”

“Mow,” the cat replied somewhat defiantly, still eyeing me.

“Well, your bowl is already full and waiting, you incorrigible rake!  Go eat, and we’ll get to introductions once you’ve regained some of your strength.  Off you go!”

The cat gave me another disapproving glance, then nimbly leaped to the floor, angling towards his small black bowl, from which a faint, joyful crunching sound came a few moments later.

“Dorchadais?” I ventured.

“It means Darkness, in the Gaelic,” she replied, resuming her seat.  “His full name is Prionnsa an Dorchadais, but we’re not so formal in this house.”

“Prince of Darkness?” My fork hit the plate.

She smiled without looking up and took her first few bites.

“Honestly,” she sighed, “I truly worry about his taste in women.”

I poured her another cup of tea, staring blankly ahead, my mind awash.

“So,” I ventured after a moment of getting my bearings, “You’d mentioned housekeeping?”

“Yes, she said, delicately bringing her linen napkin to her lips. “Continuing the subject of names.”

“Ah. Cait,” I said as quickly as I could.

She smiled and resumed eating.   “Good man, Callum, good man. Gold star for you.”

“You were worried that…”

“Yes, well, last night was a bit of a whirlwind.”

“Indeed, it was,” I replied tentatively.

“And, although I like you well enough, I’m not all that sure what manner of man you are. In such circumstances, a girl requires some reassurance.”

“Aye. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pleased you’ve remembered mine as well.”

“The Nameless are not allowed over my threshold,” she replied.  Although to tell you the truth, I'd forgotten myself in all this excitement.”

I looked up, suddenly.  “Did you just quote Dirty Harry?”

She continued, without answering. “That is until I’d decided to ask you to stay. It came to mind rather quickly after that”

Her lips curled up into that wicked smile again.

“Braw performance, last night, Callum. And by morning, I felt it might be amusing to keep you around for a bit. Luckily, you managed not to fuck your name out of my head along with my brains.”

“Cheers for that, then,” I shrugged and speared a potato with my fork.  

“And how are the tatties?  I take it that you like my cooking, and haven’t simply transformed into a ravenous Viking marauder.”

I answered in the affirmative, with a mouthful of delicious, aromatic, hot potatoes, which I quickly washed down with another sip of dark, robust tea.  

“Yes. And this is fantastic,” I said, gesturing to the large, ceramic teapot between us.

“Brodie’s,” she answered.  “I like it better than PG Tips, myself. A bit more depth and less acidic.”

“It’s splendid,” I said, taking another swallow of the warm, milky concoction. “Just the thing after a day and night of… pillaging.” 

I smiled, feeling as if I could indeed eat and drink enough for a raiding army after the night and morning I’d had.

“Right,” she continued, dabbing her upturned lips again, “getting on with the list:  Since we were both caught up in the wild spirit of the night, we lost sight of a few things,”

“Oh.”  I set my teacup down.

“Yes.  Right.  That.” I said, suddenly feeling sheepish. “Look, I’m very sorry. I should have…”

“I should have!” she said with some force, “it’s my body, and I should have taken better care. It’s very unlike me, and were you not such a dapper fellow, I’d be far more concerned right now. But a man in a tailored suit and bespoke shirt, with such well-manicured nails…”

That caught me off guard. She certainly had an eye for details.

“Who can easily carry off a pink frilly dressing gown,” she continued, smiling.

“I’ve been tested recently,” I said, “for my last two partners, both long-term, though the last relationship was considerably shorter than either of us had originally anticipated.  We always used protection.  Neither were on the pill.”

“Well, that’s something, at any rate, even though you didn’t afford me the same courtesy, you bastard.”  She sipped her tea, eyebrow cocked.

“So, nothing to declare?” she said, after a moment.

“No.  Clean as a whistle.”

“Well, I’ll take you at your word for now, as you seem stalwart enough, and know what to do with a bar of soap, though I’ll need to see your vet’s card. And you’ll see mine.”

“Absolutely,” I choked on my last mouthful. “I…em, I also…”

“Yes,” she said, smiling this time, and staring at me intently, batting her lashes.

“I’ve had a…”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, suddenly taking a sip from her porcelain cup and setting it down, happily.  “Have you, now? Well, that’s wonderful! A splendid gift to your partner, and one I most certainly appreciate.”

“How do you know what I was going to say?”

“That you’ve been snipped? I’d had my suspicions, which intuition supported.  You seemed more the sensible, responsible type and less a rogue who would risk getting a girl preggers on the first date. I’m glad to have that confirmed.”

I was dumbfounded.

“A rare thing, which I’ll have to ask you about at another time. Either way, it’s delightful and will be one less thing on our minds, should we decide to continue this arrangement, although, for the record, I’ve taken my own precautions. Risky as our encounter was, I am not a moron.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the weight of the risks we’d taken, and how she must’ve felt about it earlier this morning.

“It’s fine, lad, all well and good,” she said, reaching out for my hand, “we were both a bit reckless, and that’s part of the danger and part of the joy of a heated spontaneous coupling.”

I laughed and breathed a sigh of relief.

My brief moment of ease was quickly shaken by the jarringly sudden appearance of a black cat in my lap.  He sat back on his haunches and stared up at me with piercing, golden eyes, his sharp claws resting on my legs, gently yet assertively letting their presence be known.

“Right,” she said, “Thank you for joining us. Dorchadais. This is Callum. Callum, Dorchadais.”

“Your Highness,” I offered, slowly extending my hand, which the cat sniffed tentatively, not moving his eyes from mine.   He briefly turned to look at Cait, quickly returning his penetrating gaze to my own eyes. His sharp claws extended slightly into my leg.

He sniffed again, and his expression softened after a moment, as he leaned into my still-outstretched hand, allowing me to pet him for an instant, before rapidly springing to the floor and sauntering away.

“Well, that went better than I’d imagined it would,” she mused, watching her cat gracefully sway off towards the living room couch.

“Does he usually not like the men you bring home?”

“I’m no slag!” 

“I wasn’t suggesting…”

“But no, he wasn’t very fond of my last boyfriend.   He barely tolerated him for a year but in the end, well, I should have trusted his judgment from the start.   He doesn’t like men in general. He can see into their dark hearts.”

“Ah. I suppose I should be grateful to still have my manhood, then.”  

“As am I,” she said through a wry smile and another sip of tea. “Right. You’ve finished everything on your plate. Let’s leave the washing up for later and get some fresh air.”

The sun was high at this point as we passed through her small garden out the back. The air was crisp, and you almost couldn’t tell it had rained the night before, save for a fine mist on the distant hillside.  The air was full of birdsong, and the wind rattled the dry leaves around us.

We walked down into a glen along a small river and soon entered a cool, secluded, leaf-strewn wood. A few minutes later, we came to an old stone well.

She leaned back against the rough stones and pulled me in for a deep, loving kiss.  The sounds of the wood combined with the nearby water, as the blood rushed to my head, and I felt myself stiffening again, which surprised me after the active night and morning we’d already had.

She pushed her hips into mine, and made a soft noise, feeling my hardness against her. She ground up on me for a bit as we kissed with bated breath, then suddenly turned around while unfastening her belt and jeans.

She quickly peeled them down, and I was met with the glorious sight of her naked backside jutting out towards me, her cotton knickers below her knees, and her fingers delving in between her legs.

“I’m soaked, Luv, and you’re ready. Put it in me.”

I didn’t need to be told twice, and quickly had my trousers around my hips, and was brushing my head against her already damp lips. She eased back towards me, the warmth of her cheeks and thighs against my legs, my shaft sliding up her backside.

She moved forward, and I eased back between her legs, rocking forward now, and coating my shaft with her juices.

She wheeled her head around with an intense look in her eye.  “Put. It. IN!”   

I slid inside her and we moaned in unison, the cold Autumn air providing a stark contrast with the wet warmth of her body. She was indeed soaked, and she thrust back against me with surprising force, urging me to quicken my pace.

“Pull my hair,” she ordered, turning back again to look at me with another piercing glance.

I grabbed a handful of her thick red hair, wrapping it around my fist, and slowly pulling it towards me.

“That’s it,” she said in a low growl. “Yes. Fuck!”

I ground into her with more force, and she bucked back, bracing her hands against the stone well, meeting my thrusts with increasing violence.

“Fuck me! Fuck me like you fucking mean it!“

A bunch of crows suddenly flew off from the branches above us, startling me, but not interrupting our fevered pace.  My fist circled again, pulling her hair tighter and her head back; my other hand firmly gripping her hip, pulling her in, our bodies slapping against each other in a steady, feverish rhythm.  

I looked down again and saw her beautiful arse moving against me, taut skin rippling as I furiously pounded into her.  The forest echoed with animalistic groans of pure pleasure.

I’d never felt such intense desire; I wanted her more with every stroke, a hunger for her building within me every second. The combined scents of her body, our lovemaking, her hair, and the forest overwhelmed my senses.

She reached back between our legs, grabbed me underneath, and turned her head again. The untamed look in her eyes and her soft hand firmly grasping me sent me over the edge. I lost all control.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Now!”  Her voice was deep and strange, and our breathing sharp and quick.  

I felt it rising in me, as she made a feral sound, pushing back against me harder and faster. 

A deep cry came from the very depths of my soul, echoing down the well and through the wood, as I felt all my remaining energy pouring out into her body.

She loosened her grip but kept her hand placed firmly against my underside, feeling every last drop pump out of me, into her.

We stood there pressed against each other, still moving and gasping, my hand wrapped around her hair, her hands now propping herself up against the well.

She turned her body to face mine after a while. We kissed and sank into the damp leaves with her back against the ancient stone well.

The sky looked strange to me, as I lay on my back, the mid-afternoon Sun reflecting off the clouds, and streaming through the nearly leafless branches overhead.  The woods were eerily quiet around us, drenched in ethereal light.

I don’t know how much time passed before we came to our senses and arranged ourselves again for the walk back up the hill.  Her hand found mine, and we walked together in silence.

Back at the house, I brought the dishes over to the sink. She ran the water and gestured towards the door.

“Be a pal, and grab that broom. We made a bit of a mess while cooking.”

There were two large handmade besoms by the door.

“Which one is your flying broom, then?” I asked.

“The polished one, of course,” she said, smiling, without missing a beat. “The ash handle is far too rough to go between one’s legs!”

“I was joking,” I said, somewhat sheepishly.

“I should hope so,” she shot back. “It was a stupid question. I should think you’d know better.” Up went that eyebrow again.

I grabbed the rough, ash-handled broomstick and began sweeping.   It was odd, but it felt charged in my hands, and the dirt seemed to race to the bristles and stick until I swept them into the nearby metal dustpan. 

“You know, in the old days, witches would anoint their bodies with Flying Ointments before Sabbaths,” she said softly from the kitchen. “Oils of belladonna, nightshade, and other psychoactive plants.”  

I looked around for the bin.   She drew my eyes to the lower cabinet with her gaze and indicated with her chin.

“They would also smear the unction on their brooms or hobby horses, and ride them naked.  The herbal mixture would get into the bloodstream quicker that way.” She was smirking now, and I wasn’t sure if she was pulling my leg.

She sighed. “Which brings me to my next question.”

I looked over at her as the bin lid dropped with a metallic thud, her face taking on that deeply mischievous expression once again. 

“Do you have any plans for the thirty-first?”

I stared blankly at her, then heard something to my right, and quickly looked over at the black cat curled up on the couch, one open, golden eye trained on me.  I could swear he was laughing.