Kristen Painter - All Fired Up

He smiled. A dazzling, light-up-the-room kind of smile. Toothpaste companies would love this guy. Heat pooled in her core. Heaven help her but she was getting turned on by a figment of her imagination.

“You were free to summon me as soon as you had the talisman.” He set the carving on the mantel. “But I am here now, ready to do as you wish.”

“Really? Well, then maybe you should put some clothes on, Mr. Iron. You might be a product of my imagination, but I’m not really used to the naked thing. I won’t look.” She yawned and put her hand over her eyes but peeked between her fingers.

“My name is Alrik.” He smirked and bent his head to catch her gaze. “Do you not like me this way?”

“Yesh.” Her tongue wasn’t working. She snapped her fingers shut to block her view. “I mean no. Well, yes, but it’s not polite.”

She moved her hand and glanced at him again, but there was no safe place to focus. He came closer, stopping at the end of the coffee table. She forced her gaze up from the now eye-level parts of him and stared into his icy blue eyes. So beautiful. He stood still, seemingly content to let her look.

Shifting her gaze only inches lower this time, she studied his chest. Ragged scars marred his tawny skin. The worst one ran directly over his heart. How did you survive a wound like that?

He smiled gently and knelt on the red Persian carpet that covered most of her living room floor. Close enough to touch.

She reached out and smoothed her fingers over the scar. The heat of the pebbled skin made her shiver. She pulled her hand back. He felt amazingly real. “You should really put some clothes on,” she mumbled.

He shrugged, the muscles cording in his arms. “I have nothing to put on.”

Of course he didn’t. But that was her fault, wasn’t it? “Okay, well you should probably poof out of here. I’m really sleepy and, I think, a little thrunk. I mean drunk. Or maybe I’m already asleep. Or a lot drunk.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“Poof?” His forehead wrinkled. “What does this mean?”

“Disappear.” She waved her hand. “Make some more smoke and go away.”

He nodded in understanding, but then shook his head, a new frown on his face. “Nay, you summoned me. I must stay until your three changes are granted.”

“Three changes? I don’t get it. Wait, don’t answer that yet.” She stood up. The room tilted. She made it to the wall and steadied herself before shuffling to the linen closet. She grabbed a blue plaid flannel sheet and headed back to the couch, trailing one hand along the chair rail for support.

“Here.” She tossed the sheet in his direction. “Wrap that around yourself so I can look at you without needing to go to confession.” She plopped back down on the couch, this time on the farthest side from him.

He caught the sheet as he stood up. He shook it out, stared at it, then folded the fabric in half and pleated it around his waist like a kilt. Not a bad look.

She yawned again. The wine was knocking her out. What had they been talking about? Chances? Changes? Changes. That was it. “Okay, explain these three changes.”

“I am a Phoenix. Those who summon me desire their life to be reborn. I offer you three chances to do that.”

“I get three wishes?” She grinned. “You’re a genie?” She peered behind him. “Where’s your bottle?”

He scowled. “Nay, I am not a genie. The Jinn are deceitful tricksters. I am a Phoenix. We are honorable.”

“We?” She looked behind him again. There was no one else in the room. “Um, okay. Isn’t a phoenix some sort of bird that burns up every couple of hundred years, only to be reborn out of its own ashes?”

A grin lit his face. “Very good.”

She shrugged. “I read Harry Potter.”

“You read? That is impressive.” He raised his eyebrows before continuing. “I do not know this Harry you speak of but you are right. The phoenix is a bird, but I am a Phoenix as well.”

Did he just say he was a bird? “I’m definitely integrated. Intoxicated.” She shook her head.

“So, Arlik—”

“ Alrik ,” he corrected, a frustrated frown on his face.

“Alrik, phoenix guy, hallucination thingy, could you get out of my head now?” She sighed. “I mean, you’re really cute but I’ve had a crappy week and I really need some sleep that doesn’t involve dreams about men. Of any kind.”

“I cannot leave until the three changes are granted.” By the serious set of his jaw, she assumed he meant what he said. Pretty convincing for a hallucination.

“Hey, it’s all good. You can go. Or shift me into a dream about chocolate being calorie-free. That would work, too. Whatever. I’m going to dream myself into bed now.” Yawning, she got up, wobbling as the floor shifted beneath her. She grabbed the arm of the couch, straightened herself then tightened her robe.

He moved around the coffee table and came toward her. “Please, sit. I will explain. I am here to help.”

She backed up. “I don’t see how a drunken fantasy is going to change my life. Unless I start telling people about you…that would do it.”

“I am real.” He took another step.

She edged around the couch to put distance between herself and the impossibly sexy apparition coming toward her.

Her thigh connected with the sharp corner of the end table. “Ow!” A lamp crashed onto the sofa, and she pitched backward. Two strong arms and a warm lap cushioned her fall. She looked up into blue eyes filled with concern.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“How did you…you were just over there.” She pointed lamely in the direction of the coffee table. What was that scent? She sniffed him. “You smell like red-hots.”

His warmth seeped through her chenille robe and she couldn’t help but think again how real he felt. Were hallucinations warm?

He lifted her to her feet, one thick, muscled arm behind her back and one rough hand holding hers.

Her thigh throbbed where she’d run into the edge of the table. No doubt a nasty bruise in the making. She hiked up her robe to see if she’d broken the skin. A big red welt marked her flesh. “That’s not going to be pretty.”

A low throaty sigh filled her ears. She glanced at him. His gaze was anchored on her bare legs, his mouth slightly parted. She dropped her robe. He had to be a hallucination if the sight of her bare legs got that kind of response out of him. Real men reacted to her like she was tuna surprise, not filet mignon.

“Let me explain. This will be easier if you understand,” he said.

Yawning again, she nodded. Her head swam with the need for sleep. Must be the dream was about to end. “‘Kay. You’re cute. Too bad you’re not real.”

He snatched her hand, and planted it on the thick scar across his chest. “Does my heart not beat? Am I not warm with the blood that runs through my veins? I am real, fair eyes. I am most definitely real.”

The winsome lass kept her hand on his chest for only a moment before tugging it back. Her beautiful bronze eyes filled with confusion. Color spread across her cheeks. Maybe she had not summoned him on purpose after all. Well, it mattered not. He was here now.

“You can’t be real.” She tumbled down onto the couch, settled onto the cushions, and tucked her feet beneath her.

The sight of her long legs, pale as new silk, heated his blood. Dark red curls spilled over her shoulders and into her eyes. She brushed them back, succeeding only in loosening a few more. His hands yearned to tangle in those curls.

By Odin’s good eye, she was a lovely creature, as curved and shapely as any woman he’d known. How long had it been since a woman’s scent had perfumed his skin?

Dagny’s image flickered in his mind.