“And then…what? What is it that you want?” Darkmore asked, his cool, smooth voice barely above a whisper. His gaze was intense, filled with hunger of a different sort.
She froze, despising herself for the admission of weakness. She knew what she wanted from him, but warred with herself over wanting such a creature as the reaper. Unsure, frightened, and angry, she got up from the table, slipped on her shoes, and grabbed her jacket and car keys. The reaper rose from his seat as well and moved as if to stop her.
“I’ve got to go out and get a few things, and some air. Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll see you when I get back?”
“Vivian—”
“Please,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze. She hated begging.
“You still fear me,” Darkmore said. He stood right beside her. She could feel his cool presence and his power. It beckoned her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched.
“Let me go,” she murmured. The tears she’d fought threatened and she despised herself. She wouldn’t break before him. Never. Not before this creature who fed on human tears.
He released her and she ran.
She stood in front of the side entrance to the hotel, key card in one hand, door handle in the other, and her mind no clearer than when she’d left the man on the other side.
Odd that she thought of him as a man now, not as a reaper, ally, occasional guard, or source of vexation. Friend, perhaps, or friendly. Theirs had always been a mutually beneficial relationship, but she’d grown to see him as more than she had when he’d first darkened her doorway.
Now, above all else, he was a man, flesh, bone, and as mortal as she. And waiting upstairs, behind another door.
She’d returned after an hour of soul-searching coupled with a few errands. When multi-tasking failed to keep her from wallowing in angst, she’d wandered back. Now, she struggled to make herself open the door. Her time away had done little to settle her anxiety or help her find the answers she’d sought within herself. She regretted running from him. Again. It smacked of cowardice.
She had the right to fear him, of course. He was a reaper of human souls, his prey and sustenance. Vivian had looked deep enough within herself to realize that the same darkness that frightened her also held her fascination. He’d once told her that he was neither good nor evil. She’d seen him use his powers to drag living souls to his dark realm, deserving souls to be sure, but he liked it. He reveled in it. More to the point, she’d tasted his power and liked it, too.
What does wanting someone like Darkmore make me?
On the other hand, the same reaper had also shown her kindness and helped her. Her spirit powers enabled her to alleviate the deep burdens of souls in pain, which she absorbed within her being through spirit light. Darkmore relieved her of those burdens. He’d protected her from the rogue guardian who sought her destruction and the powerful guardian spirit council who’d unleashed him. They sought to control her. The reaper granted her free will.
His arms had enfolded her the night before, chasing her fears away.
And he’d never lied to her. That was more than she could say for the guardian spirits she’d encountered, the so-called “good guys.” Ezra came to her in the guise of a Good Samaritan, comforted her during her darkest days and protected her from the reaper. But he failed to mention that his true purpose was to claim her soul. Instead, he allowed her to live, a decision that left her burdened with the unwanted spirit powers she now possessed, not to mention the ability to see and commune with the unseen dead all around. Ezra’s lies led to this heartache and more.
Her protector and guardian spirit Zeke had loved and comforted her. He became her lover, and she’d lost him because of Ezra’s lies. His soul had been meant for Darkmore, but Ezra took him. Zeke had done terrible things during his life, atrocities that condemned him to a sentence in the frightening and cold realm of purgatory and damnation in which the reapers dwelled. Instead, Ezra sentenced him to serve as his right-hand helper. Vivian had found a way to free him, tried to send him to a place of peace.
But Zeke hadn’t gone.
He returned to her for a time, but his lies ultimately broke her heart. He’d promised to fight for her before she fled her life and home, just as he’d promised to protect those she loved and left behind. But he had others to protect, others to love. A living wife and two children with whom he’d maintained…contact. She couldn’t compete with that, and she shouldn’t be angry with Zeke for turning to them when he thought she’d sent him away, but she was angry, and hurt.
Stop. She couldn’t allow herself to think on Zeke right now. It felt too much like betrayal.
It reminded her too much of his betrayal. And what he thought was hers.
“I will not run from this,” she whispered aloud, almost like a prayer.
She registered a chill in the air, one she suspected had nothing to do with the crisp autumn evening. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she thought she caught sight of a shadow flashing around the corner of the building. Perhaps she should investigate, but she wasn’t foolish enough to do so without backup. She’d have to find Darkmore.
Vivian slid the key card into the slot, opened the door, and walked inside. Taking the stairs two at a time, she arrived at the door to their room and repeated these actions. She scanned the room, but he wasn’t there.
“Lazarus?” Whispering his name in the darkness of their room proved a little too intimate for her comfort. The reaper had always unnerved her. That he unnerved her for different reasons now sent a shiver down her spine, and not from cold or fear.
“In here,” he called.
The sound of his voice eased her fear. Surely he would register any other spirits in the area if she could. Shaking off her jitters, Vivian removed her coat and slipped off her shoes and socks. She walked barefoot through the dark hotel room toward the bathroom door, its frame glowing from the light on the other side. Inhaling deeply, she noted the fresh scent of lemon soap. Beneath it, she smelled the reaper. He smelled of a crisp autumn day, of snow-covered pine and evergreen, and of man.
Throwing caution to the wind, she opened the door and went to him.
He stood before the mirror, wearing a damp towel slung low across his hips and nothing else. His broad chest glistened with droplets of water, and Vivian stared as they trickled through the golden hair covering it. She’d never seen him in such a state of undress and could not help staring. His mortal form, sculpted and chiseled with well-defined muscles, captivated her. Of course, he’d chosen it for that very reason. The beauty disguised the danger. His gaze met hers by way of the mirror. Those eyes hadn’t changed, and in them she could see the endless ages through which he’d traveled. Under any other circumstances, she might have been mortified to be caught in the act of such blatant gawking, but his gaze encouraged her exploration.
The look he gave her answered her hunger and beckoned her forward.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice quavering.
He rubbed the patch of whiskers that ran along his jaw and down his neck. The hair was darker than the blond locks on his head, darker than his chest hair that had captured her attention moments earlier. His beard matched the color of the hair that extended from his naval down below the line of the towel he wore.
Heat pooled low in her belly as she moved closer to him.
“I was thinking about shaving,” Darkmore said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers.
She wondered how long it had been since he’d shaved his beard. Mortal men took such a mundane act for granted, yet the reaper seemed to regard the prospect with a strange mixture of innocent amusement and reverence. Something dawned on her then, like the last piece of a puzzle sliding neatly into place.
He feeds on human experience, too. The whole of it, not just the darkness.
He picked up the can of shaving cream from the vanity and sprayed a generous dollop into his left hand. Long fingers then massaged the white foam into his skin. He rinsed the excess from his
hands and then reached for the razor, its sturdy metal handle and sharp, gleaming blades a good fit for the reaper in the form of man.
Vivian grabbed it first.
“Let me,” she said. Insinuating herself between the reaper and the vanity, she hoisted herself up until she sat on top of the counter in front of him. With her free hand, she reached out for his body and pulled him closer until he rested between her thighs.
Her hands steady, she slowly ran the razor across his face, taking care not to nick the skin that covered his angular jaw. Gentle strokes of her hand followed the path of the blade. He stood still and watched with his unfathomable gaze. His mortal body, however, could not hide his arousal. His breathing became labored. She could feel his excitement through the towel and the fabric of her jeans.
After she removed the hair above his lip, she grabbed a washcloth and soaked it with warm water. She ran the cloth over his face and traced his smooth skin with trembling fingertips, daring to run her fingers through his hair when he offered no protest. The dampness that clung to his white-blond locks softened the coarse texture. Darkmore closed his eyes and a soft groan escaped his lips.
That groan broke her.
She put her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. The softness of his lips surprised her, as did their warmth. She’d expected cold. Reapers always came with a chill, sometimes as refreshing as a soothing spring breeze, sometimes as icy as despair, but always cold.
Now, her reaper burned.
She moaned and covered his hands with hers, needing the feel of those warm, strong hands on her flesh. She brought them up to cup her breasts in a silent plea. He pressed himself closer to her and deepened their kiss in response, teasing her nipples through the fabric of her shirt. She slid closer and moved her hands to his hips, pressing her body against his and gasping. Need chased away any lingering doubts, as did his utter beauty and the skill his kiss and his clever fingers promised.
She yanked at her shirt and pulled it unceremoniously over her head. Her bare flesh met his, and she clawed at his back and slid her hands down in an attempt to remove his towel. His hands found hers and stilled them.
She growled in response.
Whispering words in a language she did not comprehend, he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck. She fought to free her hands so she could grab him and pull his hot mouth to her aching breasts, but he held her firm.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Patience,” he whispered. “Patience.”
“I want you,” she pleaded, her doubts replaced by blind need for a respite from her life’s turmoil, the comfort of a lover’s touch, and the need to care for him, too. “I need you.”
“Then come with me,” whispered, wrapping her legs around him and lifting her from the counter. She kissed him hard as he carried her to the bed, protesting when he removed her from his body. He placed her on the bed and gently pushed her down, trailing kisses along her neck and teasing her breasts before moving lower and removing her jeans and panties. Her lips parted in anticipation as she watched him unwrap the towel from his waist.
He was beautiful and still carried that otherworldly presence, all raw energy and wisdom, an untamed creature with the power of ages. But in his mortal form, they could, at last, meet on equal terms. Fear had long deserted her. She burned for him.
“Roll over for me, Vivian,” he said. She squeezed her thighs together in anticipation and did as he asked. Her belly rested on the bed, tangled in the sheets as she waited for him. Darkmore rewarded her by covering her body with his, and she spread her legs in invitation.
His hands moved with slow softness that frustrated and inflamed her. She bit the pillow and then tried to roll back over. He held her still and said, “No.”
“No?” She panted.
“You might be satisfied with a frantic coupling for our first time,” he said in a dark, husky voice. “Yes, I think you would be more than satisfied. Soft and gentle isn’t your style. It wouldn’t be, of course. You are intensity. You crave the battle for control, for dominance, and you never submit easily, do you, Vivian?”
She bucked and tried to wriggle away from him. Frantic seemed like a good idea to her, but the reaper seemed intent on talking first. He talked too much sometimes. She growled.
“You’d like that, but I would not. Not for our first time,” he said with finality. He placed his body over hers and she reveled in its heat, in spite of her irritation. He’d read her right, of course. But that didn’t mean she’d give him the satisfaction of showing it. She would accommodate him. For now. Until the moment he dropped his guard and she could strike.
Then he’d give her what she wanted, and he’d savor every moment.
Chapter Seven
“Shh,” he whispered, caressing her cheek with his as he moved atop her. She relaxed until he raised both of her arms above her head and held them firm in his grasp. His weight pressed down on her, and with her arms immobilized, she lay completely at his mercy.
It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant—which was alarming in and of itself—but being at the reaper’s mercy was dangerous.
“Be still. I will not harm you, Vivian, nor will I force myself upon you.”
“Then what’s with the bondage game?”
He laughed, cool and smooth and she marveled at the effect his voice had on her even in his mortal state. She cursed him silently, as well as herself, for wanting to play along. This was, or had been, her game. She set the terms.
“My dear, if this were a game of bondage, do you not think I would be more creative? I’ve had eons in which to explore all manner of deviations.”
OK, that was creepy. Oddly enough, her earlier misgivings and doubts didn’t return in spite of his mock threat. Doubtless it was true. She’d seen him “play” with his food often enough. But the game would be different with her, in this time and space, and in his mortal form.
“I’ll file that under things-I-really-don’t-want-to-know.”
He laughed again and she felt it rumble through his body and hers. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”
Sexual frustration warred with rising anger. Was he toying with her? He wanted her, too, or at least his mortal body did. But that didn’t mean as much as mind and soul. For all she knew, he could be goading her into frustration and misery so he could feed from it.
Had she mistaken his earlier tenderness, those small kindnesses?
“I don’t want to try it, and at this point I’m starting to think I don’t really want to try you, so could you kindly remove yourself from my body?”
He didn’t remove himself. Instead, he insinuated himself closer to her. How is that even possible? Then he just lay still. She heard his slow, even breaths, and could even hear his heartbeat over the pounding of her own. While she didn’t feel physical discomfort, she began to register a spike in her mental unease. He didn’t move. She couldn’t.
“Lazarus?”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m savoring you,” he said, placing a whisper of a kiss on her cheek and another at the base of her ear. She shivered. He placed more light kisses along her left shoulder and moved her hair so he could reach the nape of her neck.
Ignoring her gasps and writhing he continued to plant soft kisses along her neck, over her right shoulder, and along her right arm, whispering low at each pause along his mouth’s journey.
“Did you think I would rush this? The ages have tempered my being with patience, Vivian. I do not seek quick couplings. I’ve experienced far too much that this realm and infinite others have to offer to be satisfied with taking you fast.”
She wasn’t certain of her capacity for coherent thought or speech, nor did she care. Not that she’d admit that to Darkmore. Evidently, he did want her, and on more than a physical level. She should have known, and she cursed her earlier doubts and misgivings.
He stopped. Why—Oh, he’d asked her a question.
“Well, given your vast experiences and appetites—”
He bit her lightly, and all she managed after was a husky groan. He’d made his way back to the nape of her neck, apparently enamored of the reaction his attention there earned him on his last visit.
Maybe that last question was rhetorical. He probably wanted to shut her up.
Too bad. She could play his game, too. Making him wait could be fun, but it could also serve to soothe those lingering doubts she still harbored, allowing her to relax and savor what was to come.
“As I was saying,” she said, squirming to get away from his mouth. “Given your experience and appetites, what makes me so special to you?”
He didn’t stop his kisses, nor did he miss a beat with his answer, “You are a novelty. You must understand, even with all of my experiences, as a mortal I have never coupled with a being capable of channeling spirit energy.”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
She was disappointed when he stopped his kisses, but she had no one but herself to blame this time.
“You do not believe me.”
“Well, no…I suppose I don’t. You told me before that you’ve lived many mortal lives, for your morbid research purposes.”
“Your point?”
“Well, I just assumed that your colleagues kept tabs on you and dropped in from time to time. Other reapers? Uphir?” The demoness had been awfully chummy with him. He hadn’t minded. Surely they’d been lovers. Maybe they still were.
He chuckled. “You always utter Uphir’s name with a particularly nasty brand of venom. Are you jealous?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He laughed again and she felt the loss of his body. She rolled over and found him stretched out beside her, gloriously naked and quite aroused. She had another moment to regret opening her big mouth before he spoke.
“Ah, now that we have eye contact once more, we can resume the age-old ritual of pre-coital chit-chat, if you insist.”
No matter the situation, the reaper maintained his calm demeanor and air of nonchalance. Granted, she realized he would always have her beat in years, not to mention snappy comebacks, but a tiny part of her hoped that he’d show some reaction to his current situation. If being trapped in a mortal body and facing a major demotion upon death of said body didn’t do it, nothing would.
The Quick and the Dead Page 7