by J. Kenner
There it was—the one little word that screamed no salvage potential.
“—considering, well, everything, maybe I should leave.”
“You really want to leave?” Any minute, the world was going to crash down around her ears. She was sure of it. For the first time in her life, she’d met a man with whom she’d decided she could let go, could risk her heart and soul—and he was going to leave.
Well, that only proved Hale’s point—don’t get involved with mortals; they just can’t handle the lifestyle.
Except she hadn’t intended to get involved. She needed to keep reminding herself of that. She was in this for the sex, pure and simple. Yup, there it was. Right there out in the open. She wanted sex with this man. One night of passion that would put her senses through the wringer and leave her breathless and sated. Sure. That’s all. Nothing permanent.
They were lies, of course, but she tried to make herself believe them. After all, he’d never be able to handle a relationship, and she wouldn’t have time for one anyway. Once the council finally processed her application, she’d have obligations, commitments. If she wanted to experience passion—and oh, yes, she knew now that she wanted to experience it—then it was now or never. After tonight she could walk away. Needed to walk away, actually, if she wanted to make sure Taylor stayed out of harm’s way.
But for tonight, she wanted him in her bed.
“I don’t want to,” he was saying when she tuned back in. “God, Zoe, look at you. What I want is to run my hands all over your body and make you scream.” He ran his hand through his hair instead of all over her body, then took a shaky breath. “But maybe it’s best if I go.”
“No!”
Maybe it wasn’t the sophisticated thing to do—and she certainly wasn’t playing it cool—but she flung herself at him. He caught her, lost his balance, and they both tumbled to the floor. She straddled him, her thighs pressed against his waist, her knees on the floor. Her face was right above his, her lips so close.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said, but the tone of his voice disagreed.
She brushed her lips over his mouth, slowly, experimentally, relishing the delicious sensation that whipped through her like hot chocolate for her soul, rich and enticing. “On the contrary,” she whispered, “I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”
“Zoe . . .” With one hand, he stroked her face, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
She took off her glasses, tossing them onto the coffee table, then scooted aside to look at him, awed by the raw strength of his mortal body. She ran her hand down his leg as she peeked through his clothing, stopping at the scar on his thigh, just one imperfection among infinite perfection. She kept her eyes away from there, somehow sure that looking now would be cheating. And she didn’t want to cheat. Not with him, not ever.
He pulled her closer and she groaned, the pleasure of his touch nearly driving her mad. “Taylor, please.”
“I guess I win,” he said. His voice was still soft, but it was laced with humor, and she opened her eyes in question. “What?”
His smile broadened. “We’re on the floor. And you’re begging.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed, then tried to swat at his chest as she chastised him with a hearty, “You bum!” It was the swat that made her lose her control, and he flipped her over so that suddenly she was under him, with two hundred and ten pounds of pure, delectable male balanced right on top of her.
“Well, now you’ve gone and done it,” he said.
“Done what?”
“Convinced me to stay.”
“Is that bad?”
He lowered himself over her, his lips brushing against hers with the most infinitesimal of caresses—the tiniest of touches, yet enough to set off a chain reaction of pyrotechnic sensations that exploded through her body with the power of ten thousand bottle rockets. “You tell me,” he whispered. “Is that bad?”
She couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. She could only shake her head and silently beg for his touch, wanting to lose herself in his heat, to be baptized in the living flame of his touch. Her skin tingled, the tiny hairs on her arms humming with electricity, her pulse throbbing against her skin.
“You’re so beautiful.” He was murmuring soft words as his hands skimmed over her body, her skin sizzling in his wake as he skillfully removed her from the clothing she no longer wanted, no longer needed. First his jacket, then—please, soon—the rest.
What was the point of clothing, anyway, if all it did was keep her body away from his? His finger grazed down the side of her neck, dancing over the curve of her collarbone, and she was burning up—sweltering in the thin summer dress. Her skin was flushed—as red as her dress. She felt so hot, so alive, she wasn’t sure she could stand the sweet torment.
He leaned closer, his scent—earthy and primitive—assaulting her, sending her head reeling, urging her to let go and fly, to burn up in some sort of celestial flame.
Part of her wanted to run away, to get free, to calm down before she lost all control. Another part of her wanted to lose control. To lose it with this man. To believe—if only for a moment—that he could know all her secrets and still want her.
“I’m so hot,” she whispered as her blood boiled.
His hand trailed lower still, stopping to cup her breast through the dress. “Do you want me to stop?”
She gasped. “Yes . . . no . . . never stop.”
Sweet torment, yes, but somehow she knew that Taylor was the cure. That she would come near to incinerating before she’d be released from his spell. And—oh, Hera—how she wanted to burn.
An arctic cold rippled against her skin, the sensation surprising her in the wake of such perfect heat. She shivered and realized he’d managed—she had no clue how—to get her wholly out of her dress. Now she lay before him in nothing except her bikini briefs. He had pulled away, taking his heat with him, and now he was kneeling over her, gazing down with something akin to wonder in his eyes.
Suddenly shy, she crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she’d had the time to buy that Wonderbra after all.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered, gently moving her arms to her sides. “I want to look at you. You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re a goddess.”
“That’s not important to me.” She needed him to understand, but his hands were on her again, blazing paths down her sides, over her hips, making it difficult to think.
“What’s not?”
“The goddess thing. I just want to be me.”
“Who are you?” he whispered with a smile, surely not understanding what she meant.
She shrugged, trying to focus on his words despite the riptide building in her soul, urging her to break free and drift away. “I don’t know.” It was a lie. She knew perfectly well. She was somebody he could never have, would never really want.
“I do,” he said. He leaned closer, his legs pressing against her hips. His hands grazed over her naked flesh, testing and teasing, drawing circles on her stomach until she wanted to cry out in frustration and demand that he touch her elsewhere . . . everywhere. “I know exactly who you are.”
Those miraculous hands were on her breasts now, stroking and kneading, and through the rough material of his slacks she could feel the hard length of him press against her. A rainbow of colors shot through her—blue mating with yellow, red having its way with green—copulating colors, dancing and spinning like so many fairies, and oh, how she envied each and every one of them.
“Shall I tell you?” he asked, his mouth near her nipple, the caress of his breath softer than an infant’s hair.
She nodded, mute, then gasped, her back arching of its own accord when he closed his mouth over her nipple, his tongue dancing on the sensitive skin. Rockets ignited in her soul—T minus ten and counting. Oh, Hera. She longed for liftoff.
He pulled away, but his hands continued to work miracles on her body. “You’re sweet, and generous, and o
ne of the most amazing women I’ve ever met.”
She smiled at his words. But in the long run he didn’t know her. And when he did—when he learned her secret, if he learned her secret—he’d run far and fast. But for now . . . for now she wanted to lose herself to him. Tomorrow she’d be alone again. After Tuesday he’d be out of her life. For now she wanted to belong to him.
Blinking back tears, she arched her back, raising her lips to meet his. “Kiss me. Make love to me. Make a memory with me that I can hold on to forever, no matter what happens tomorrow.”
His arm swept behind her, pulling her closer. He pressed against her, his chest against hers, their hips rocking together, their lips joined as they shared breath and soul. When he laid her back against the carpet, tucking a throw pillow under her head, she moaned. His fingers played cruel, delightful games, dipping under the band of her panties, the sensation pooling between her thighs, warm and liquid and needy. She squirmed, trying to urge his fingers lower, needing to feel him inside her, on her, everywhere.
He moved to stand up, and she whimpered.
“What do you want?” he asked as he let his slacks and briefs drop to the ground.
She stared up at him. He was stunning. And he wanted her. That was certainly obvious. She fought a little smile, pleased that she hadn’t peeked earlier, hadn’t spoiled this moment.
“I want you,” she said, unable to remember ever speaking truer words.
The corner of his mouth lifted into the slightest of smiles as he lowered himself over her. “Good answer.”
His fingers danced intimately along her skin, teasing her in places she’d only imagined being touched, igniting the fuel of a thousand rockets deep in her soul.
She couldn’t speak, could only murmur soft sounds of pleasure as he stroked her secret places. Her body tightened as a rainbow swallowed her, reds and purples dancing on her skin, oranges and blues shooting from her fingertips, yellows and greens crackling and sparkling in her hair.
The rocket in her soul burned hotter.
T minus two and counting.
“Taylor.” She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him closer, losing herself to the feel of his skin, his musky male scent. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.
“Never,” he said, rolling her over on top of him. His hands trailed down her back, his kisses covered her face, and she shivered, losing herself to the sweet sensation of his touch.
Lord, he was floating. Buffered by a haze of pure sensual pleasure, he truly felt as if he were floating on air.
Eyes closed, he trailed his hands along her bare back, caressing the sweet curve of her delicious behind. She moaned, the sound soft and satisfying and making him harder than he’d been just moments before. Amazing. Man, oh man. This woman did astounding things to his body. Unbelievable things. Just the way she writhed over him right now, trailing kisses down his chest, inching up to catch his mouth with hers . . .
He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to break the spell. He’d never felt so light before, so charged, so full of passionate energy. Like a live wire, his body tingled and hummed, and the only thing he could feel was the sweet press of Zoe against him, her body melded over his.
He shuddered and opened his mouth wider, hungrily devouring her lips, greedily sweeping his tongue inside her, needing to taste her, to possess her, to take her.
“I want you, Zoe,” he said.
A shudder skimmed through her body, her reaction absurdly satisfying.
With a low groan, he rolled over until her back was against the floor again and he was straddling her. The back of his mind registered that his knees were pressed against the carpet, and he realized that they must have been on the floor the whole time. But—oh, man—this woman had him floating, and the feeling of being weightless in her arms was exquisite.
With something akin to reverence, he kissed her breast, kissed her belly button, and lower still, wanting to taste all of her. Wanting to know all of her secrets.
And he would, too. Zoe Smith would be his. Of that he was absolutely certain.
Zoe moaned as he kissed her intimately, his mouth moving lower and lower as her temperature spiked higher and higher. She was frantic, needy, writhing with desire. Silently urging him on. Silently begging him to touch her, caress her, take her.
The lightbulb in the kitchen blew out, and the television turned on, an old episode of Love, American Style playing softly in the background.
He was tasting her, and she shivered, burying her fingers in his hair, trying not to scream, but unable to stand it any longer. She urged him back to her and kissed him hard on the lips, running her hands over the strong muscles of his back.
“Now.” His whisper caressed her, gentle but intense.
“Oh, yes.” Oh, yes, please.
T minus zero and counting.
She spread her legs in a silent invitation, which he accepted with a low moan. A sharp burst of red exploded through her as he entered her, and she bit back a cry. She moved with him, slow and languid, trying to quell the pain of being filled by him.
“Zoe?”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered. The red was fading, the colors cooling, dancing on her skin. And then there was a different kind of red. Not pain, but heat and need. She arched against him, and he pulled her close as they moved together, more frenetic, more needy, and—oh, dear Zeus—how she needed him.
Now. Needed him . . . needed something . . . now.
And then, when she wanted it the most, he thrust again and found release. Their bodies melded together, her soul bursting as a thousand bits of her exploded in a fiery mass.
Liftoff. She heard herself scream. A shudder ripped through her as the overhead light flickered on, then burned out with an explosive pop.
They drifted back to the floor and she sighed, thoroughly sated, thoroughly satisfied.
Zoe smiled.
Houston, we don’t have a single problem.
Blip, blip. Bleep, bleep.
Mordi scowled at the tracker. He’d fixed it properly. He was sure of it.
And yet here he was in the park, and there was absolutely no sign of the mortal female. Irritated, he settled himself on a bench, then started drumming his fingers on its green metal. He stopped immediately, realizing what he was doing. The last thing in the world he wanted was to acquire one of his father’s irritating habits.
He scowled at the sky, wondering if Hieronymous was watching him right now. Considering the council’s intricate network of satellites, it was certainly possible. He glanced at his watch. And as far as he could tell, the major world markets were currently closed.
If Hieronymous wasn’t watching the financial reports, he was probably watching his son.
Damn.
It was just past midnight on Monday morning. Only seventy-two hours before the eclipse, and still Mordi had failed to acquire the stone. A stone he didn’t even want, all for a legacy of power that was his father’s dream—not his own.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. This was his golden chance. All his life he’d wanted his father to want him. To see him as a son, not a halfling. The legend had given him the chance to prove himself, and he intended to do just that. All that followed—the uprising of the Outcasts, the downfall of the mortals, the throne upon which he would sit next to Hieronymous—none of that mattered. Not really.
But if he could get the stone to Hieronymous in time for the eclipse, then surely he would feel worthy.
He sat up straighter, his resolve renewed.
He’d find the damn stone. No matter what he had to do, he would find it.
Frustrated, he lurched to his feet, the tracker held in front of him. Its green light blinked eerily in the dark. Where the hell was the female? According to the damn tracker, she should be right here. Right under his nose.
A mangy mutt padded by, stopped to sniff Mordi’s shoes, then continued on. Mordi scowled, wondering at first if the dog was one of his father’s little pets. But the dog was only a d
og and it stopped in one of the landscaped areas and began digging, its paws churning with purpose into the soft earth beneath the birds-of-paradise.
Driven by a mixture of curiosity and boredom, Mordi approached the mutt, then glanced into the hole. Beneath a well-chewed bone, a glint of gold caught his attention. Surely not. . .
He dropped to his knees, digging with as much vigor as the dog until he could pull the chain free.
It was the necklace, all right, along with the intricate mounting to which his father had aimed the tracking device. The stone, however, was nowhere to be found.
18
Lane paced outside Jerry’s Scripts and Scraps, conveniently located across the street from the Tripoli Tower and right in front of where she’d been mugged just a few days ago. She still felt a little guilty not telling Taylor she’d been mugged, but what was the point? Taylor would only get obsessed and worry, and it wasn’t like he could find the guy and arrest him.
She glanced at her watch: 9:58. It was only two minutes later than it had been the last time she’d looked. Frustrated, she grabbed hold of the metal gate and shook it. For crying out loud. This was Hollywood. Tourists galore. Why the devil couldn’t these folks open their stores before ten?
So far the only area shopkeeper she’d been able to talk to was the owner of All American Donuts—open twenty-four/seven with specials every hour on the hour. After three cups of coffee and four glazed doughnuts, all Lane knew was that there wasn’t a public bathroom in sight, and that the owner of the doughnut store hadn’t seen a thing. Heck, the woman hadn’t even realized there’d been a mugging, a movie crew, or a woman flying off the tower. Which meant Lane had sacrificed her thighs to four doughnuts for nothing.
She gave the gate another yank in frustration, and was still rattling the linked metal bars when a bearded man with a belly escaping over his waistband, headed toward her.
“You lookin’ for me?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
She unlocked her hand from the gate, smoothed her skirt, and tried to look respectable. “Are you Jerry?”