I glance at each of the men, wondering if I’m being given a choice here. A few people have noticed, and I hear some whispers as they eye the black-suited men and then look me up and down as if they’re judging me, rating me, speculating as to why I’m being singled out by the Senator, by their warrior-hero, their celebrity-god.
I frown as I look at that limousine. But the windows are tinted black as night. It doesn’t matter though, I realize as I nod briefly and follow the men towards the waiting car. I know why I came here, why I got here early enough to stand close to the stage, why I’m shocked but somehow not surprised, why I’m shivering but not scared, why I’m shaking but still excited with anticipation.
There’s still so much I don’t know about how psychic abilities work, I remind myself. Think of it as a learning experience, as your continuing education, as a discovery of who you are, what’s you’re capable of doing, capable of being.
You’re his, comes that whisper from the secret world around me. That’s who you are. You’re HIS!
And I almost swoon again as I feel that darkly sexual energy creep through me from those whispering spirits, like I’m opening up to them even though I’m perfectly capable of closing myself off.
It’s almost like I want this, like I believe this, like I know this, I think as I step towards the waiting limousine, towards what I realize with a heart-stopping certainty is my future, my fate, my destiny, my . . . forever?
My forever.
7
IRVING
“Took you forever to show up,” I say to her, trying my best to look dispassionate, like I’m not burning with a fever that’s taken over from the inside. Seeing her in the crowd did something to me, completed a process that’s been a year in the making. If I wasn’t sure that I’m living out my destiny, I sure as fuck am sure now.
And this woman is part of that destiny.
Hell, maybe she’s all of that destiny!
She stays quiet as she sits beside me in the sprawling backseat of my limousine. The soundproof partition is up, separating us from my driver and bodyguards. It’s just the two of us. Just like it was a year ago when I saw her step into my prison, into my mind, into my life.
I glance at her as she stares straight ahead like she’s afraid to look into my eyes. It’s her. The woman I saw a year ago when something happened to me, something opened up in me. I know I’ve never seen her in the flesh before, so it wasn’t that I met her in a bar or some shit and then imagined her showing up in my dream.
Shamelessly I take in the sight of her glorious curves, the way her thick thighs are clamped together in her jeans, how her sweater hugs her tits in a way that makes my cock want to explode through my tailored trousers and take care of business. I’ve imagined fucking this nameless woman’s brains out for a goddamn year now, fantasizing about her to the exclusion of every other woman. I haven’t touched a woman in a year, even though my rise to fame and power has chicks sending me their wet panties in the fucking mail! I’ve had eyes only for this woman.
And I don’t even know her name.
“What’s your name?” I say softly, feeling the tension that’s running through her. I gotta play it cool, even though I’m so hot for her I can barely see straight. After all, just because I had some strange vision of her when I was near death a year ago doesn’t mean she had the same vision. For all I know she’s clueless as to why I had her brought here. Maybe she thinks she’s in trouble or something.
“Isa,” she says, still staring straight ahead. I see her swallow hard like she’s stressed out, maybe freaking out, and I have to fight the urge to just grab her, turn her towards me, and kiss the fuck out of those perfect lips, squeeze those big boobs until her nipples harden like arrowheads, rip those jeans off and finger her until she’s wet. Fuck, I want to smell her, taste her, own her!
She’s yours, come the whispers from that dark, secret place inside me—a place I’ve come to know over the past year even though I don’t understand it. At first I wondered if my experience caused some kind of a splinter in my psyche, making me hear voices like a lunatic. But I can’t shake that sensation of those warrior-spirits somehow entering me like a doorway had opened up, like they’re living inside me, living with me, urging me on, reminding me that I was born to lead them, born to invade, plunder, acquire, own.
She’s yours but you can’t have her, whisper those voices, an awful, mournful melancholy rippling through me as I wonder what the fuck is going on. That is the fate of the warrior.
“You got to the rally early, Isa,” I say, gritting my teeth as I fight the whispers in my head, the silent voices of a thousand souls telling me that this woman needs to be conquered, invaded, plundered, taken as mine but also that I can’t have her forever! “Got a spot close to the stage. Close to me.” I pause, smiling as I see her breath catch. “Are you a fan?”
“Hardly,” she says, frowning and blinking but still not looking into my eyes. She takes a breath like she’s considering her words carefully. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t say a thing. Then she finally turns to me, her brown eyes shining with a light that almost makes me pass out. In that moment I decide I’m in love with her, that she’s mine in a way that can’t be denied, won’t be denied. Again I wonder if I’m unhinged, losing it, off my goddamn rocker. But then I smile when I consider that I’m the frontrunner for President and am sitting here facing a woman that’s making me feel something I didn’t know I could feel!
“You’re mine,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes as I lose myself in her surreal beauty, like that power in her brown eyes is sucking me in, deeper into whatever madness has taken over. “You know that, don’t you? You saw it a year ago, didn’t you? You were there. In that room with me. When I was alone, on the edge of despair, on the verge of giving up, you showed up like a fucking angel in . . . in . . .” I snort as the image comes back to me. “. . . in bunny slippers.”
She bursts into surprised laughter, and I feel the tension explode like a bomb. Fuck, she was there! It was real! She was just waiting for me to say it, wasn’t she?
“Senator Irving,” she says, her voice trembling as she shakes her head and looks down for a moment. “Do you understand what’s happening here, what’s happening to you?”
I shrug, a grin as wide as the sun lighting up my face. “I know exactly what’s happening to me,” I say, leaning closer to her, so close I can smell her, smell everything from her deodorant to her goddamn pussy. I want to invade that body, claim that cunt, take what’s mine. I want it with a desperation that’s making me choke, making my cock pitch a tent the size of the Washington Monument in my pants, making me fucking drool for a taste of this woman.
I see her eyes dart down to the front of my pants and then quickly back up. Her eyelids flutter like a dragonfly’s wings, and I can’t think of one fucking reason why we’re still talking.
“You don’t,” she whispers, raising her eyebrows and turning to me again. “Oh, God, Irving, I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t even fully understand it myself—and I’ve spent a lifetime studying psychic abilities and phenomena.”
“Psychic abilities?” I say, frowning and cocking my head. “What are you, a fortune teller or some shit?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t see the future. I see the dead.” Isa pauses and blinks. “How about you? Do you see the dead too?”
A shudder goes through me as the memory of that invading army of dead soldiers rolls through me again. I recoil from her, frowning as I realize it’s these spirits that are making me pull back suddenly, reminding me that she’s mine but I can’t have her for some strange reason.
“Listen,” she says, turning to me and looking at me earnestly. “Psychic abilities can stay dormant for years. Sometimes it takes an extreme experience to bring them to the light. But if you aren’t prepared . . .”
Kill her, comes the whisper from the legion inside me. It comes suddenly, quickly, like a hiss, and I almost choke again as I feel a surge of dark, viol
ent energy rush through me. Suddenly I feel myself being ripped apart from the inside, like I’m being split into two, like a part of me wants to put my seed in her while another part wants to . . . wants to . . .
But Isa is going on, speaking quickly like the knowledge is pouring out of her, like she’s so absorbed and excited by what’s she saying that she’s oblivious to what’s happening to me, to what’s about to happen to her! “If you’re a medium for spirits—and I think you are, which is why we formed a connection—then spirits of the dead will be drawn to you. They’ll see you as a way to fulfill their desires, their cravings, their yearnings that they can’t experience without bodies,” Isa is saying as my mind swirls like a pit of snakes until I don’t know if I’m still here or back in that windowless room, the instinct to fight and kill taking over once again. “You’ve been a soldier and a leader, and if I had to guess based on your rhetoric, your speeches, the way you’re speaking about invading countries and staking claims like we’re in the Middle Ages again, I’d say the spirits drawn to you are spirits obsessed with violence, obsessed with the rush of winning on the battlefield, the high of conquering new land, vanquishing the enemy.”
I nod blankly as my vision fades to a point of infinite darkness, and I don’t even know if I’m still breathing. It’s only when I hear Isa gasp that I realize I’ve got my hands around her throat like I’m a fucking psychopath, like I’ve seriously lost it, like I’m no longer in control of my actions.
She wants to stop us, comes that chorus of whispers from the darkness of my psyche. You must kill her. A warrior cannot have the luxury of a wife and family. Women and children make us weak, make us fear death, make us vulnerable. Each of us died because we hesitated in our final battle, because our hearts yearned for the homestead, our minds were seduced by the temptations of a warm fireplace, our women and children all around, laughter and lightness in the air. We made the mistake of believing we could have it all, and that is why we fell on the battlefield. Sex and violence is fed by the same energy source, and a warrior must store up all that energy for his enemy. The enemy is our only true mate, our only destiny, our only forever.
I look into her eyes as I feel the dark energy flow through my veins as Isa’s brown eyes roll up in her head and she claws at my wrists in vain. I can feel my arousal surge along with my conflict, and I have no fucking idea what’s happening.
All I know is that I’m losing a battle inside my fucking soul, and I’m about to kill the one person who can save me.
8
ISA
I can’t save him if I’m dead, comes the thought as I feel the Senator’s strong hands slowly choke the life from me. My eyes are rolling up in my head, and I know I’m going to pass out soon. Then it’ll all be over.
I’ve never been afraid of death—after all, I know that death isn’t the end of life. But I don’t want to die. I can’t die. This isn’t how it ends for me. This isn’t my destiny.
It isn’t our destiny.
I force myself to look into the Senator’s bloodshot eyes that are shining red like Mars, like the God of War himself is inside this man, this man to whom I’m connected whether I like it or not. I can feel those violence-obsessed spirits powering his actions, invading his mind like an army he can’t fight. Whatever happened a year ago opened up a psychic doorway in the Senator, and he doesn’t know how to close it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to close it.
Or perhaps it’s too late to close it.
I dig my nails into his arms, drawing blood but without any effect on him. I’m no weakling, but the Senator is built like a sledgehammer, all lean muscle, an instrument of death personified. I can’t scream, I can’t run, I can’t hide. How do I fight him? How? How? How?!
I think back to what I just told the Senator, about how psychics like us draw certain types of spirits to us, spirits who think we can help them take care of business in the flesh, be a conduit to the flesh, give them access to the flesh, to the body, to the trappings and obsessions that are keeping them bound to the earth-plane instead of moving on to higher planes of existence, far from the needs of the body. It’s obvious the Senator has become a vehicle for violence-obsessed spirits, the souls of those who died on the battlefield and want to keep reliving the glory of the fight, perhaps want another chance to win the fight they lost, the battle where they fell. But what about me? I learned how to control my abilities at an early age, allowing access to only those spirits that I wanted to communicate with, spirits that had messages of love and compassion for the ones they’d left behind. That’s been my whole life, hasn’t it? Love, compassion, peace. Healthy, wholesome emotions. My parents loved each other, loved me, recognized my abilities and encouraged me to develop them. They told me I was gifted, not that I was a freak.
And those were the kinds of spirits that were drawn to me, I realize as I feel the peace of death fall over me like a blanket, pulling me closer to that realm I know so well. But then I see lightning-quick flashes in my peripheral vision, and I gasp when I sense something I’d gotten hints of earlier—the feeling of a different group of spirits drawing close, knocking at the door, whispering to be let inside, whispering for me to open up . . .
Open up, I think as I gurgle and gasp, using the last of my strength to look into the Senator’s eyes. That’s how you fight him. That’s how you win this battle. You have to open yourself up to the opposite of what’s driving him.
And what is the opposite of violence? The opposite of raw, bloody, physical violence? If violence is the physical manifestation of hatred and division, then what is the physical expression of peace, harmony, the coming together of man and woman? What is the physical expression of . . . of love?
Open up, whisper those spirits all around me, and I can see them now, feel them now, sense them yearning to enter me . . .
And then suddenly my eyes flick wide open and I groan out loud, sighing as my last breath escapes me and my barriers break down. I feel those spirits enter me, and I stare up into the Senator’s eyes as my body burns with the fire of lust, the yearning to open up, open up for . . . for him.
I feel Irving’s grip loosen around my throat, see his eyes regain their focus. I’m gasping for air, taking huge gulps as I’m finally able to breathe again.
“Isa,” says the Senator, and he blinks as he looks down at his hands around my throat. “What’s happening to me? What am I doing? Oh, fuck, what am I doing?!”
“It’s all right,” I mutter as fresh air fills my lungs and a shocking need invades my body. “It’s not you, Irving. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
But I know that in a way this is him. Just like in a way this is me.
And this . . . this is us.
Oh, God, this is us!
Soon he’s rubbing my throat as I moan and shudder under his touch, and a moment later he’s kissing me, gently at first but with a rising intensity that makes me claw at his thick hair, grasp his strong neck, run my hands over his massive pectorals.
“I almost killed you, Isa,” he whispers, kissing my cheek and sliding his hand around the back of my neck. “And now . . . now all I want to do is make you mine. You’re mine, you hear?”
“Yes,” I whisper, blinking as I look into his eyes and give myself to whatever’s happening here, give myself to whatever this means, wherever this leads.
My vision goes blank as Irving kisses me again, and as those strong hands that almost choked the life from me now close around my breasts and make me groan, I see exactly where this is leading . . .
“Yes,” I mutter again as I arch my neck back as Irving pulls my sweater open and pushes his face between my breasts, sliding his hand between my legs at the same time and rubbing my mound rough and hard. A chill goes through me as I feel the energy swirl through my body, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if the spirits I let inside me aren’t what I thought they were . . .
Because along with my soaring arousal comes soaring ambition, and I suddenly see myself standing beside Irving, tall and
proud, at the gates of the White House, holding his hand as we smile for the camera, put on our masks for the world, the perfect couple, husband and wife, President and First Lady, King and Queen . . .
“Oh, God,” I groan as Irving pulls my sweater off my head and rips my bra away, releasing my breasts and descending on them like an animal in heat, sucking and biting my nipples as he rubs my mound through my jeans until my wetness soaks through. I’m shuddering as an arousal I’ve never felt rips through my body, opening me up in a way that almost breaks me. “Oh, shit,” I mutter again as I feel every psychic barrier break down like Irving’s touch is kicking down every doorway, opening me up in a way I didn’t expect. I can feel myself being entered by not just those spirits seeking sex but also the spirits that are powering Irving, and I gasp and writhe as I remember that sex and violence are strange bedfellows, that there are two sides to each of them, that they don’t always offset each other . . .
Sometimes they enhance each other.
9
IRVING
I’m spanking her ass before I even know what I’m doing, and the escalation of my need to take Isa in the deepest, most physical way is choking me senseless. The violent madness that took over when my hands closed around her throat is transforming into pure lust, and I can feel that it’s Isa who’s pulling me in that direction, like she understands what’s happening to me, how I’m being driven by depraved souls obsessed with the thrill of the battle, souls that are channeling this energy into an outlet Isa has opened up for them, opened up for me.
I spank her buttocks once more, groaning as I watch her large, magnificent globes shudder before me. Then I spread her wide and push my face into her crack, sliding my hand between her legs and rubbing her mound ferociously. She’s moaning and pushing her ass into my face, and I can feel that she’s lost just like I am, consumed just like I am, hot and wild just like I am . . .
Curvy for Him: The Psychic and the Senator (Curvy for Him Series Book 9) Page 4