"Meg's outing at the mall turns into the erotic experience of a lifetime when a sensual stranger convinces her to relinquish control to him. And so begins a game of seduction through the loss of free will... A story of sensuality so rich, sexuality so primal, Make Her Dreams Come True tells the tale of a woman who learns to fly by allowing one man to chain her."
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Ellora's Cave Publishing Inc.
December 06, 2002
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
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Excerpt from Make Her Dreams Come True by Joey W. Hill
"Honey, that's not a dress, that's a personality change."
Meg glanced over her shoulder at the woman who'd spoken, a woman who wore motherhood and menopause as comfortably as her padded Reebok walking shoes. Her companion cackled.
"Earlene, you're too much. Let's go get an ice cream cone."
They drifted away, bumping Meg's elbow. She stood beside them, looking at the same magical creation, but neither woman had noticed her.
The gossamer silk fabric draped over the high tip of the mannequin's breast in storm cloud blue and merged into lavender at the waist. The two colors joined hands to dance and whirl in the folds of the skirt, so light, it shimmered in stillness. The colors reminded her of the touch of a sunrise on ocean waves. The dress transformed the mannequin into a silver-skinned goddess, frozen in the peace of perfection.
"A long time ago, when we believed in fairy tales..." Warm breath and a familiar, timbered voice filled her ear, "...a legion of fairy seamstresses wove this dress for their beloved princess."
Meg turned her head, but the voice moved to her left shoulder, evading. "The dress was stolen by a jealous mortal woman. She couldn't wear it, of course, because fairy clothing can only be worn by a fairy. She tried to destroy it, but it was magic and couldn't be destroyed."
She tried turning her body. Hands, so strong her muscles couldn't tense against their grip, came down on her shoulders, made her face the dress. "The jealous woman finally put the dress here." Lips brushed her ear. "In the least magical place she could imagine. The princess can only retrieve it by becoming mortal. But, if she does that, the experience of mortal suffering will destroy her fragile, fairy heart."
"There's not a lot of hope in your story," Meg murmured.
"That depends on whether or not you believe magic can happen in a mall." The hands released her and she turned to look into a stranger's eyes, so intense in their pull that they almost drew her forward. Meg swayed against it, startled, and took a step back.
A flash of humor moved briefly through his dark gaze, then burned away in pinpoints of flame. She felt like a creature of snow standing too close to a fire elemental, thinly disguised as a mortal man.
He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder as he unhooked a matching dress from the rack beside the mannequin. His shoulders were wide enough to keep her trapped between him and the decorative, shrimp-colored pillar next to the rack. "Go put this on. It looks like the right size."
"What?" She blinked at him, then the dress. "I beg your pardon--"
"You'll beg for something from me today," he said softly. "But it won't be my pardon. You'll never need that from me."
Her gaze shot to his face. There was nothing oily or pretentious in his tone, no implied come on. His soft voice held the confidence of someone with the ability to control and direct others. There was also an intimate undercurrent, somewhere between the warm possessiveness of a father and the unpredictable aggression of a lover. His voice alone cracked the yearning within her, and the dress and the story magnified it, leaving her vulnerable to the searing touch of the madness.
"I can't--" She shook her head. "It's... it's not my size."
"Yes, you can, and yes, it is." He laid the dress over her shoulder and fanned it out over the front of her red sweatshirt. A scent of lavender rose from the movement of the cloth and Meg's hand, nervously rising to defend herself from his advance, settled uneasily on the garment. She held still, afraid her rough skin would tear the web of delicate threads. It felt like she rested on the surface of a cool lake, the currents tickling the nerve endings around the circumference of each finger.
"I saw you earlier today." She spoke with her eyes on the dress, and her breath quivered along the fabric.
"I saw you. You looked frightened." His fingers brushed her chin lightly. His eyes opened hers like a tomb and shone on all the treasures that should have been there.
Meg looked back down at the ripples of silk immersing her. Her cheek brushed the folds of the dress and the smell of lavender rose again. She wanted to do more than try on the dress. She wanted to absorb its energy, feel the silk against her bare body, discard the conventions of slip, hose and bra, and stand in it on the edge of a cliff of hopes like a Maxfield Parrish painting. The older woman had been right. This dress was an alternate reality.
The man brought his heat a step closer and lavender wound itself around the lingering scent of rain that clung to his coat. There was also a faint trace of male cologne, rich like a palace tapestry. The aroma drew her gaze to his jaw, and the pulse in his neck below it. He bore a late afternoon shadow and the contrast intrigued her, silk clutched in her one hand, the possibility of touching that roughness with the other.
Panic flooded her veins. Meg turned, stumbled into the rack of dresses, and groped for the empty hanger. "I can't try--"
His hand curled over hers, and she felt his chest and ribs press into her shoulder blades.
"What's your name?" he murmured.
"Meg. But--" She pulled her hand from his grasp and turned back to him, executing an awkward hop so her breast wouldn't come in contact with his chest.
"Meg." He recaptured her hand and placed it back on the dress, over her right breast. He molded her fingers over her curve, then he drew his hand away, sliding from the channels between her fingers so he caressed her breast through the cage of her hand. She couldn't tell whether the gesture had been intentional or not, but his touch prickled all the way from her collarbone to her waist...