Longing

The Love Spell. An Erotic Memoir of Spiritual Awakening
by Phyllis Curott

This is the true story of a love spell that worked. Ivy League lawyer and Wiccan priestess Phyllis Curott has a super-charged career in law and filmmaking, but one thing is missing: love. She casts a sexy spell and her dream lover soon arrives. But he's not who he appears to be and there are unforeseen consequences. In this hip, compelling tale of spiritual and sexual awakening, she must seek the aid of an otherworldly suitor, a daemon, to discover how modern relationships and their problems are paths to the greatest magic of all - true love.

This wise and erotic memoir is also rich with spells, potions, techniques of sexual magic, and rituals for love. It is a story that will speak to every woman who has dreamed of her Prince Charming, revealing how our longing for love can lead to the discovery of our innate divinity and an authentic and empowered life.

Chapter 1

One sees clearly only with the heart.
Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.

— ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY

How do you know when it's real? I glanced over to find him smiling at me. I smiled back.

He pulled his old Scout off the old gravel road, bumping along the tractor path at the edge of the field. I laughed as I bounced in my seat, and then he stopped the car and turned the engine off. We sat in the startlingly silent, sudden darkness. His arm reached around my shoulders, heavy, warm and undeniable.

"Oh, look!" I whispered. Thousands of fireflies, each a quick flare of hope searching for its perfect other, hovered in the air. He got out and opened my door. I took his hand and he eased me around so that my back was pressed against the warm hood of the car.

"Beautiful," he said softly.

The air was a potion of plowed earth and wildflowers. "Yes, it's a gorgeous night." I leaned back, looking from the shimmering field to the star-sprinkled sky.

"That too," he said with a soft, half laugh. He was handsome in a rugged, old world sort of way, weathered as much by wisdom as work done out-of-doors, with a square jaw and firm mouth; his nose was aquiline and he needed a shave. His hair was dark and curly, ruffled by the wind; he reached a hand up and dragged quickly through it. It was a large hand, and callused. His eyes were as dark as his hair, with deep lines running from their corners, a furrow between his brow. But it was the steadiness of their gaze, the way they held me fast that made my heart stumble.

I blushed in the dark. He moved closer, laying his palms on either side of me on the car's hood. I felt the blaze of heat rising as he edged closer - explicit, unadulterated, animal attraction. It was more.

He pressed against me, his lips brushing the side of my neck, whispering softly in my ear. The shell that held me together shattered. His hand curved around the small of my back, slipping beneath my blouse, fingers rough like flint against my skin, leaving trails of fire. His lips came to mine, with fire and greed as if he couldn't get enough, and all I could do was believe, and feel. It was the first time he'd kissed me like that.

More. I wanted more of his recklessness, his fever. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him back as I drew him into me. I softened and let go, falling backward into a whirlpool of wanting. Dizzy, overwhelmed and overloaded with sensation, I tried to pull away, but he followed, pressing forward, pursuing and holding me close.

"Oh!" I gasped as he suddenly gripped my waist, lifting me off my feet and seating me on the car's hood. He leaned into me, spreading my legs as he stood between them. Heat radiated from his body; I rested my hands on his chest, feeling its hardness, his strength. His hands cradled my face and this time the kiss was soft and slow, ruthless and persuasive.

His hands ran up and down my bare arms, and I shivered as I began to burn. He pulled me tight to him, bit my neck softly, kissed, lingering, nuzzling, his breath hot; my defenses crumbled and I let myself be swept away. He cupped my breasts, groaning as I tugged his shirt from his jeans and my hands slid along his waist.

We kissed and clutched wildly, as if gasping for air, starving for the fire that rushed through us, that fueled a deeper hunger. He tugged the bra from my breasts. Need plunged through me as he rubbed and stroked and squeezed. My hands fisted in his hair, my head fell back and I trembled, breathing quick and shallow, as his tongue and teeth and lips found my nipples.

He slid his hand along the edge of my hoisted skirt, dipping down to the inside of my thigh. "Let me ..."

"Hi roomie!" Gail singsonged cheerily, banging open the door to our apartment with her usual enthusiasm. "Eric called earlier - sorry I forgot to leave you a note."

Copyright © 2006 Phyllis Curott

About the Author

Phyllis Curott is the author of Book of Shadows and Witch Crafting, which top 100,000 copies in combined U.S. sales. She was named one of the Ten Gutsiest Women of the Year by Jane magazine and receives extensive major media attention. New York magazine described Curott as one of the city's hippest and most intellectually cutting-edge speakers, and she regularly lectures and teaches workshops throughout the United States and internationally. A graduate of Brown University and NYU School of Law, she is also a practicing civil liberties attorney.