toy she loved. Home to Ben’s aging guinea pig, Pookums, was a cage in the corner—a medium-size wooden structure behind wire, resembling a tiny comfortable log cabin, with walkways and exercise areas. It cramped the room a little, but Ben would have it no other way.
Currently, Pookums, who was seven years old, lay on the bottom of the cage, curled up and snoring. Ben knew his little friend didn’t have long left. He’d inherited the silly-named animal from his niece, Lucy, when his brother had taken his family abroad to Australia. She’d been devastated leaving her little friend behind, but Ben had promised to take care of him.
He reached down idly and scratched his belly. He supposed he should be thinking about making himself something to eat, but he honestly couldn’t be bothered. Being an admitted lazy chef, he was content to eat microwave meals and live on pastries and fast food. He was lucky he had a fast metabolism, or he’d be the size of the Michelin Man by now. Grunting, he got up to putter about in the kitchen to see what was there. As he brushed past his backpack, there was a loud clang. He turned to see the lamp he’d bought swivelling slowly on the floor as if it were playing a game of spin the bottle.
He bent down to pick it up and was again struck by the ornate patterns on the brass. There were swirls of what looked like angel wings against a cloudy sky. The little teapot-like lid had come loose, tethered to the handle by a delicate brass chain. Ben wondered what the lamp had once carried. Precious oils perhaps for a gentleman or lady faring overseas by a wind-sailed boat, or possibly scented tea for the Grand Poo-Bah of an elite desert sect with a harem of cute men to service his every need.
Huh. Where the heck did that come from? It’s only a lamp, you silly tosser.
He sniffed the opening and could detect a whiff of something spicy, sandalwood perhaps, and another odour he couldn’t quite identify, which made him close his eyes and imagine dirty thoughts. It invoked the scent of a man’s skin, the soft tendrils of his hair, and the enticing thrill of warm flesh against his. Ben could feel long, experienced fingers grasping him and slicking him to completion…
“Jesus,” he gasped, and he drew away in aroused panic. “What the hell?”
Inside his jeans, his cock made its enjoyment of the tantalising experience known, and Ben pressed a hand against his groin. “Calm down, you. It’s an old oil lamp, not a naked Tom Hiddleston. There’s no need for that kind of reaction.”
He sniffed cautiously at the lamp again, but the fragrance seemed to have disappeared. “Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you do have a bit of magic in you after all.” He put the lamp on the table and fetched another beer, completely forgetting he’d originally been heading to find something to eat.
Ben glowered at the lamp as he drank his beer and wondered what had happened to give him a chub. He didn’t mind so much as not knowing what had prompted his out-of-control reaction. He tended to be something of a control freak.
The low-pitched wood-framed windows in the lounge looked out onto a large stretch of garden, complete with stream, and a field, beyond which was his closest neighbour. Christine was a hardworking farmer, a woman in her sixties who laboured like a Trojan and could be seen out every morning before the cock crowed. Because the cock did crow, unfortunately. Like clockwork at six-thirty in the morning. Her rooster, Tricky Dicky (Ben still had to find out how the damned bird had got his name), perched on the wooden fence separating the two properties. With great gusto, he’d then proceed to give a raucous rendition of cock crows, which seemed to go on forever. At last count, five before the poxy rooster had stopped his morning celebrations. The joys of country living.
Ben loved his home. Colourful hollyhocks grew in abandon, fruit trees scattered their pink and white blossoms across the border of his property, and the fishpond under the trees was home to ducks and frogs alike. It was tranquil, private, and he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
“C’mon, Tess, let’s have a stroll before I’m too tired to stand.” An admitted workaholic, he put in long hours, which took their toll.
That night, when he settled into his comfy king-size bed with Tess