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muscles clenched and squeezed his cock. Waves of
euphoria ripped through him, white-hot and glowing red, carillons of bells and wheeling flights of birds bursting into wing. It was if his entire
brain had been rewired, and now he heard with his eyes and tasted with his
ears.
    A moment later, her triumphant scream slashed across his
senses, and she collapsed beneath him.
    She stroked his back, with the leisurely caress of the
well-pleasured. Dermot snuggled against her, nuzzling her neck and licking the
salty skin. Gradually, he became aware of a chill against his naked back.
Lifting his head, he saw that their enthusiastic lovemaking had thrown all the
covers from the bed.
    Then he turned to look at the woman beneath him. Eyes
closed, she smiled like a sleepy angel. A well-loved and
completely sated angel.
    And he didn’t even know her name.
    Dermot groaned. Rolling off of her, he covered his eyes
with his arm. God, what had he done? Last night had been…well, he could be
forgiven for not thinking clearly after all he’d been through. But he hadn’t
been under any enchantments this morning. He could have thanked the woman for
her assistance, promised her a check as an expression of his gratitude and to
ensure her silence, and been gone.
    But no. He’d gone out of
his way to explain his hidden desire, making sure she fully understood how much
he enjoyed getting his ass slapped. And then he’d begged her to do it again. Him. Begging for a spanking. God,
the press was going to have a field day with this. They loved tawdry sex
scandals.
    He could see the headlines now. “Most Eligible Bachelor’s Secret Bedroom Shame” “Kick-Ass Millionaire
Enjoys Getting Ass Kicked” “Spanking Makes Stone Hard”
    He’d been so careful. For years, he’d camouflaged his
inability to come the normal way as solicitousness for his partner’s needs, and
a preference for hand jobs that couldn’t possibly get his partner pregnant.
    He groaned again, as an even worse thought hit him. Last
night, the witch had said his seed was sterile, good only for creating saplings
with a dryad. But he had no idea how long that condition lasted. Was he
infertile for good? Or might his sperm even now be eagerly attacking one of her
ripe eggs?
    God. Either one would be
a disaster. He slammed his head into the pillow, but it was too late to knock
any sense into his brain.
    The woman rolled to her side and brushed her fingertips
across his chest. Despite himself, he felt his nipples tensing.
    “Is it a problem you’re having?”
    She sounded like an uneducated farm girl again, which
he’d noticed she did under passion. His masculine pride longed to indulge in
some puffing and strutting, at this proof of how deeply he’d rocked her with
his lovemaking. But now was not the time.
      “We didn’t use
protection,” he said, still shielded by his arm.
    Her hand on his chest stilled. “Oh.”
    That answered his question, then. The dryad’s effect was
just for last night.
    “I think it will be okay,” she said softly, as if she
was trying to convince herself as much as him. “My last period was not too long
ago. I shouldn’t be able to get pregnant now.”
    Dermot snorted, thinking of the old joke. What do you
call a couple who relies on the rhythm method for birth control? Parents.
    Speaking of which, he could just imagine explaining this
disaster to his parents. “Mom, Dad, I met this beautiful Irish witch. She saved
me from a dryad and I got her pregnant.”
    He groaned again. “I don’t even know your name.”
    “Oh! It’s right you are!”
    She breathed deeply, no doubt making her delicious
breasts jiggle and sway most alluringly. Dermot resolutely kept his arm over
his face. He would not look. He would not be tempted again.
    “My name is Eileen Daniells .
What’s yours?”
    He dropped his arm and stared at her. She watched him
out of those guileless blue-green eyes, waiting for his answer. “You don’t
know?”
    She shook her head,