Immortal (15 page)

And hell, if she wanted to use him? He was more than willing to do whatever she needed, be whoever she wanted him to.

Except in the light of the morning, she might well have a different take on shit. And who could blame her if she did.

So, yeah, a little breather to recharge and realign was probably a good thing . . . but he didn't go back to his own room. He walked around the foot of the bed, lifted up the sheets and the blankets, and slid in beside her. He intended to just lie there and listen to her even breathing, but almost immediately, she turned to him like she knew he was there, and snuggled up close.

Holy shit, she was extremely naked.

But that didn't change his plan.

Arranging her in his arms, he tucked her head under his newly shaved chin and closed his own eyes.

He was asleep on the next heartbeat.

Sissy woke up to one hell of an alarm clock: warm, broad male hands were caressing her hip, her waist . . . moving up and around to her—

She moaned as her bare breast was captured, and the arch that she pulled next put her up against something hard and hot.

Jim's erection.

Popping open her eyes, she stared out at a bright spring morning. Jim was behind her, and pressing in, and yeah, that was a great eclipser. She suddenly didn't see anything, hear anything, feel anything but him.

Turning to face him, she went to say something, but he was clearly asleep. His eyes were closed, and he started to mumble something that she couldn't understand.

“. . . Sissy . . .”

The sound of her name made her smile. “I'm right here—”

Talk about wide awake on a oner. Instantly, Jim was fully conscious, his blue eyes alert, his muscles tensing—like maybe he'd had some wake-ups in the past that hadn't been of the benign beeping variety.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He moved his hips back a little. “Ah . . . good morning.”

“You should have woken me up last night.”

“I liked watching you sleep.”

The blush that hit her cheeks ran all the way down her body. “It was the sherry. I'm not a big drinker.”

“I got no regrets.” He moved a strand of her hair out of the way. “How you feeling?”

“Horny.”

As Jim coughed like someone had goosed him in the ass, she had to laugh. “Sorry. I'm into being honest.”

“It's good.” His eyes went to her lips. “Very good.”

His face became super-clear to her, everything about his eyes and his mouth and the intense way he stared at her burning into her brain. Reaching up, she stroked his jaw, then his hair.

That halo of his, that nearly unnoticeable circle of golden light, shimmered around his head.

“You sure you want this?” he asked in a deep voice.

She had to smile. “You're such a gentleman.”

“No. Not at all.”

Sissy wound her arms around his neck. “Well, I think you are, and yes, I'm sure. Everyone should be with an angel for their first time.”

“I'll make it good for you,” he murmured as he lowered his head. “I promise.”

His kiss was soft and slow as he plied her mouth, and she let the sensations of heat and a drugging intoxication run through her body. He took his own sweet time, his tongue licking over her lower lip before dipping inside . . . and then he was back to just kissing her.

For, like, ever. Until, as much as she was into it, frustration started to war with the enjoyment.

But he was onto her. Just as she was about to say something, one of those hands of his slipped around and caressed her back, her shoulders . . . her arm. . . .

When he found her breast, she was starved for the contact he gave her and she arched against him once more, rustling the sheets—and finding his erection. Greedy to know him, she did some exploring of her own, moving her touch down to his hips.

He took her hand away from his body, planting a kiss in the center of her palm and rolling her over.

“But I—”

Jim covered her mouth with his own and cupped her breast. Then he licked down her neck to her collarbone. “Feel good?”

“God . . . yes . . .”

He sucked her nipple in, and the lust that shot through her jerked her chest up, forcing her breast further into his mouth. With an erotic shift, he rode the wave of her body with his big palms, finding his way down to her thighs. Spreading her legs, she wanted him back where he'd been the night before—and he didn't disappoint her.

His fingers swept up to her core, and the instant he touched her there, another release, even bigger than the first one he'd given her, threatened to take her over.

“Please,” she breathed. “Please . . .”

The rubbing down there, the sucking at her breasts, the sense of his own need brought her to the brink. But instead of sending her flying, he held her in place, backing off when she got close, inching her forward so she didn't lose the cut of the desire.

She dug her nails into his heavy shoulders. “Jim . . . I can't hold on. . . .”

His mouth covered hers once more and he kissed her—again with the long and the slow. “Shh, baby, I got you.”

That was when he finally shifted over her. She was so dazed she wasn't sure what he was doing when there was a pause. But then she realized he was pushing his jeans down.

“You sure about this?”

“
God, yes
.”

Given how crazy she was as she writhed underneath him, she couldn't believe how in control he kept himself—but it came with a cost. His jaw was clenched and his voice was rough and fine tremors wracked his powerful body as he settled in between her legs.

She still couldn't feel him against her sex, though—except for where his thighs pressed into her core.

“I'm going to die if you don't—”

He cut her off by kissing her again, and then she finally got the contact she wanted. Something blunt and hot brushed against her core—and then he shifted, his hand going between them. He knew right where to put himself, and holy shit, she trembled.

Not from fear.

His thumb found the top of her sex and began to rotate in a tight little circle. The orgasm he'd been toying with for however long sprang back to life with a vengeance, and this time he didn't stop. He kept her going until the pleasure snapped free and took her for a joyride even higher and brighter than the one down in the parlor.

And that was when he pushed inside of her.

She was in the throes of the release to such an extent that when he hit a barrier, she felt no pain. Not even as he pulled back and then swept through it. And then he was deep inside—and not moving at all.

As Sissy floated back to reality, she became aware of an incredible sense of fullness, one that was at once foreign and so completely right that she felt tears prick in the corners of her eyes. And then she realized . . . Jim was trembling. From head to foot, his massive body was twitching, the muscles contracting in random jerks and spasms.

“Jim?”

Moving her head to the side, she looked at his face. He was focused on the headboard, his eyes rapt and glassy at the same time, his jaw clenched and grinding, his breathing rough and uncoordinated.

“Jim . . . what's wrong?”

When she shifted under him, he hissed. “Don't move.”

“Okay,” she said slowly.

“Fuck.”

“What—”

Just like that he pulled out of her, but he didn't go far. He mashed his head face-first into the mattress next to her shoulders and bowed his arms, the great muscles of his biceps bunching up under his skin. Then his hips ground down hard, his stomach pushing into her pelvis.

Now he contracted. All of him at once. And it was so violent, the bed slammed into the wall behind, clapping hard once, twice . . . three times.

Jim went lax as rope, falling on top of her as he exhaled into the pillow.

Unsure what to do, she tried to wrap her arms around him, but he rolled off and turned away.

All she could do was stare at that tattoo of his, the one of the Grim Reaper that covered his back, the one of the great black-robed figure with its scythe and its bony hand reaching out of his skin.

Clearly, she had done something wrong.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Ad sat at the table and checked the clock again. Ten a.m.

Time to get moving, people, he thought as he glared at the ceiling.

But nope, the lovebirds had apparently tuckered themselves out and were having a lie-in. Meanwhile, he was down here with two bags of ossifying McMuffins and a whole lot of going-cold coffee.

Not that he was bitter.

Okay, he was bitter.

Sex was an easy thing to give up if you weren't around it at all and you were too busy trying to survive to think of the bump-and-grind. But that kind of amnesia was hard to sustain when what you were never going to have again was happening under the same roof as you.

And hell, maybe it all made him miss Eddie even more.

He'd had the best damn time bringing women home for that gameless schlub. Eddie had always been good at everything, the keeper of all knowledge, the perfect fighter, the even-tempered voice of reason in a sea of chaos. Chicks, on the other hand, had been his undoing. One glance from some hot piece and he'd always clammed up like an astrophysicist at an AVN convention. He'd had the sex drive of a lion, however—and that was where Ad had come in.

Lot of the time, he'd felt like a burden on the guy, but when he'd been roping in a volunteer or two? He'd been mission critical and had appreciated the role reversal.

Kind of pathetic that that was all he'd brought to the relationship. Considering everything Eddie was capable of.

Had been capable of.

“Good morning.”

Ad jerked to attention. Well, one down, one to go, he thought as Sissy came into the kitchen. Her hair was damp, but brushed, and she smelled like that shampoo-and-conditioner set he'd gotten her during the infamous trip to Target with Devina. Pantene something.

“Hey,” he said. “I picked up breakfast 'bout an hour ago. I think it's seen better days—which was probably true the second I bought it.”

“Thanks, but I'm not that hungry.” She pulled out a chair and parked it. “Coffee will hit the spot.”

Going by the way she ducked her eyes and kept checking the doorway to see if her man was coming down, Ad decided that the virginity thing had definitely been dispatched.

Man, Jim was a lucky, lucky sonofabitch. Not that Ad wanted the girl, too. It was just . . . wow. To be with a woman for her first time . . . to treat her right and do her well. What an honor.

He took a draw from his own java. Check him out, getting all sappy.

“Where's Jim?” he asked.

“Upstairs—maybe in the shower. Who knows.”

“Oh.” Huh. Trouble in paradise? “Listen, I'm going to hit Home Depot and get some plywood—”

“Great.” She burst up with her coffee. “Let's go.”

Okaaaay, maybe he'd been wrong about what had kept them busy. “All right, lemme go tell Jim. Unless you want to—”

“Nope, you go ahead. You got the keys? I'll start the car.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He leaned to the side and took out the goods. Tossing the jangle over, he was surprised by how much he wanted to play couples counselor for them. Good ol' Uncle Adrian. But like he had a fucking clue? “I'll go find Jim.”

“Good deal.”

As Sissy marched out of the kitchen with her head up and her shoulders back, he wondered what exactly had gone down. And then Jim arrived, looking like someone had let a dog take a shit in his boots: grim eyes, drawn brows, whole lot of mean-as-a-snake.

“Breakfast?” Ad asked dryly.

“No, thanks, I'm not hungry. But coffee would be great.”

“There's an epidemic of that goin' around.”

Jim didn't even glance his way. Probably best. The fucker's stare seemed to have become weaponized.

“So Sissy and I are going to Home Depot.”

“Now?”

“No. Next month.” Ad got to his feet. “Of course now. You want to stay here and watch the traps—”

“I'm coming, too.”

Jim headed for the door at a stalk and let the thing slam behind him. He even left his coffee behind, which was going to improve his mood even more, no doubt.

“Fantastic,” Ad muttered. “Soooo lookin' forward to being in an enclosed space with you two. Hashtag ‘awesome.'”

“Devina, I want to support you in whatever way I can. But it's a challenge when you won't speak.”

As Devina sat on her therapist's oatmeal-colored sofa, she figured that the woman had a point. Humans couldn't read minds, after all. But shit, where to start.

“Is it a setback with your job?” the therapist murmured. “I know you said that that colleague of yours was trying to undermine you when it came to the Vice Presidency position. Or is it an issue with the man you've mentioned?”

Ah, yes, a happy reminder of how much she'd had to keep to herself to avoid blowing that little master's-of-social-work-level brain to smithereens: Devina had turned the war into a promotion at a corporation, and Jim into a competing VP. Then, when things between her and the savior had gotten hot and heavy, she'd switched over to something closer to the truth.

That Jim was a love interest that was not going as well as she'd hoped.

“You know, this is the first time I've seen you like this.”

Devina cleared her throat. “Silent, huh.”

“No, without makeup. You're quite beautiful without all of the
so-called enhancements. Have you ever contemplated going without it on a regular basis?”

Devina touched her face. “I guess I forgot to put any on.”

“Your hands are bandaged. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to know how, Devina. I want to help you.”

God, the woman's voice was as soothing as a gentle hug, the kind of thing that made you want to pour your heart out, even if it wasn't in your nature.

“I had an accident. All over everything I own.”

The woman's eyebrows lifted in her well-padded face. Today she was wearing yet another loose getup, with a skirt that fell to the floor and a blouse that probably had been part of a tent in an earlier life. Everything was in muted shades of brown, just like the office walls, the rug, the couch, the pair of reading glasses around her neck. Even the box of Kleenex was the color of a macaroon.

It was like a sepia photograph.

Although the beach wood pieces were more seventies than suffrage when it came to era.

“. . . what happened? Devina?”

Devina refocused on the woman. “You don't know who I really am.”

“I don't?” The therapist smiled a little. “You'd be surprised how much I know about you.”

Uh-huh. Right. “I don't . . . love people. I'm not built like that.”

“But you have love inside of you.” As Devina started to argue, the therapist shook her head. “No, you love your things—you care for them, keep them safe, worry about them. It's not healthy, and there's an addiction component to it all, but you do have the capacity to bond. Unfortunately, you choose things because they're safer—that is understandable, though. Inanimate objects
don't do unexpected things or break your heart or betray you. Objects are safe. People are complicated.”

Well, yeah, Devina thought. But she also wasn't into the hearts-and-flowers shit because she was evil, hello.

“He loves someone else,” she blurted.

“This man of yours?”

“The one I'm in love with . . . yes, he loves someone else. But he is
mine
. He's supposed to be mine, not hers.”

“The two of you are in a relationship?”

“Very much so.”

The therapist nodded. “And you feel that he's been unfaithful?”

“He's now living with someone else. I mean, I was with him when he met her. I just never expected . . .” She pushed her hair back. “Here's the thing, it's like, he and I have this romantic night down at the Freidmont, right? And it's all amazing. The best sex we've ever had.” Jim had fucked her so hard from behind that her forehead had left a bald patch on the rug at the foot of the bed. “But the morning after? He goes home to her. Leaves me, and goes home . . . to her. And I'm telling you, it's not like she's attractive. My God, she's built like a Ticonderoga pencil. Flat. So flat, and that hair? Please. I've seen rat fur with better body. It's downright embarrassing that he could actually be attracted to her.”

“Did you have an understanding that you were in a monogamous relationship with each other?”

“Of course.” How could he want anyone but her? “We're in love.”

“But he's seeing this other woman.”

“Yes.”

“So what happened that prompted you to call? You just said you'd had an ‘accident' all over your things?”

Devina fought the urge to break down as she pictured the mess of her basement. “It was bad enough that he was with her after we had our special night. But then I totally put myself on the line for him. I broke some major rules to save his . . . job.”

“Are we talking corporate mandates, or state and local laws?”

She guessed the Creator's rules and regs were more like the feds'. “Pretty high-level laws. I saved his job for him—and then I watched as he went to her right in front of me and . . .”

Okay, she totally didn't want to think about Sissy and Jim getting all
reeeeeeeunited and it feeeeeeels so gooooood
after he'd come back from Purgatory.

Fucking hell, she was going to be sick.

“Does she work in this company, too?”

“How can he do this to me?” Devina muttered.

“You know, I think it might be more productive to focus on yourself and where you want to go from here. You can't control him or his choices. All you can do is take care of yourself and put your needs first. At the end of the day, people have to earn the right to be in your life, and it sounds as if he's not doing that. It may be a healthier option to avoid contact with him and reassess the relationship. With distance comes perspective.”

“It's going to be impossible not to see him. At least for the next round.”

“Round?”

“Week.” Depending on how long it took her to win. “Or so.”

The therapist leaned forward, her pudgy fingers tightening their hold on her brown-and-gold reading glasses. “Devina, it's important for you to realize that there is no one person for any of us. Relationships come and go out of our lives all the time. Some partings are more painful than others, but that's where the learning comes—learning about ourselves, the world around us, other people.”

“Why does it have to hurt like this,” she said, letting her head fall to the side. “Why?”

The therapist's face changed subtly, an odd light coming into the woman's eyes. “I'm so sorry you have to go through this, I honestly am. I just don't think there's any other way for us to learn the lessons we're here to learn.” The therapist folded and unfolded those glasses. “You know, people really do ask me that all the time, and that's the only answer I have. I wish it could be different, but the more I see, the more I'm convinced that just as children have growing pains as their bodies work to attain maturity, as people's souls deepen and gain resonance it's the same thing. To be challenged, to stretch, to get stronger comes only with the hard stuff—loss, heartache, disappointment. You're doing the work you need to do, Devina. And I'm very proud of you.”

Devina stared at the woman for a long time. Funny, at the moment, the therapist didn't seem so doughy as she sat on that puffy couch. She looked . . . regal . . . in her wisdom.

And she was honestly empathizing. Even though Devina was just one of eight, hundred-and-seventy-five-an-hour sessions in the day, the therapist seemed to truly care.

“How do you do it?” Devina asked.

“Do what?”

“Care this much? Doesn't it eat you alive.”

Sadness suffused that barely contoured face. “It is my burden to carry. It is my growth and my maturation—my work.”

“Glad I don't have your job.”

The therapist smiled. “No, Devina, this is not for you.”

Devina checked her watch and patted around for her bag. “Time's up. I'll write you a—damn it. Where's my purse?”

“I don't remember seeing you with one when you came in.”

“Oh. Can I give you a check for two at the next session? Or do you want to bill me?”

“Actually, I'm putting everything through to your insurance company now. They'll take care of it.”

“Oh, great.” Devina got to her feet. Hesitated. “I'm not sure where to go with all this.”

“Believe it or not, that's part of finding your way. Trust me. And maybe we should keep your regularly scheduled appointment for later this week. What do you think?”

“Yeah, good idea.” She'd make sure to do her face for that little tête-à-tête. “See you then.”

“Be good to yourself, Devina.”

Yeah. Sure.

Over at the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. The therapist hadn't moved, didn't move, from her perch on the couch. And yet, between one blink and the next . . . something changed. Something . . .

Okay, she was losing her mind.

No wonder she needed to come here three to four times a week.

“Thank you,” Devina murmured. “You know, for . . .”

“I know.” The therapist smiled again. “And I want you to keep something in mind. It doesn't sound as if this man truly loves and respects you. I recognize that you believe you love him, but I challenge whether or not you have a good compass on what is right for you in a relationship. I know it's hard to move on when feelings are strong, but sometimes, that is the only way we can nurture ourselves. I'm also willing to bet, if you do the work you're supposed to do, that when the right man does come along, not only will you know it, but you will be able to have a productive, healthy relationship with him.”

Devina laughed sharply. “I can't imagine that, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I'll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“It's a date.”

Devina walked out and let the door to the inner office close itself. As she strode through the waiting room, the next client was keeping his head in one of the well-thumbed magazines, like he didn't want anyone to know he needed a shrink.

Just as well he didn't glance up at her. She wasn't looking or feeling her best.

Although at least she did have some direction. The therapist was right. She could bellyache and bitch about all the things that had happened with Jim, and the ways she'd been let down by him, but that was just wasting time with shit she couldn't change. She needed to focus on what to do now in regard to the war, and that was, compared to trying to get over that motherfucker, so very simple.

Besides, considering how lovebird-ish Sissy and Jim were getting? She knew just how she was going to win this.

A little fuck-you to the both of them.

There was just one thing she had to do first: She had to deal with what she'd done to her collections. She had to clean that mess up—scattered house, scattered mind and that crap was definitely true for her. Once that was back in order? She was good to go.

Fuck you very much, Jim Heron.

As she strode out into the lobby of the professional services building, she still felt like death, but at least she was moving.

It was out in the spring sunshine that she paused for a moment and glanced up at the five-story glass-and-steel facade with a frown.

Funny, she didn't have an insurance company.

Up in Heaven, Nigel sat at a table set for four with only two of his fellow archangels. Still, Bertie and Byron were delighted in spite of the critical absence. Then again, for them, at least, a kind
of normalcy had returned—and this was good news even in the midst of the war.

As Nigel poured some Earl Grey into his porcelain cup and took a sip, he did not feel similarly, although this repast was a vast improvement over Purgatory's relentless dust.

Was this what humans felt when they survived illness or accident? He was at once totally present amongst his colleagues, feeling the chair beneath him, the weight of his clothes upon his back, the curving handle of the cup in his grasp—and yet he was utterly absent, his mind trying to knit together some kind of link between where he had been and where he sat now.

Thus far, he had not been successful.

In truth, though the body had moved, the consciousness was still on the far side of Heaven, and there was a bumbling, buzzy dizziness associated with the split.

He had the sense that if only he were able to connect with something vivid here, it would help the re-integration process.

But Colin had made his position known on that with a shake of his head back in that parlor—

Off in the distance, across the rolling green lawns, a figure in white appeared and grew closer . . . and Nigel's breath stopped in his throat. Tall and forceful, with a stride like that of the fighter he was, Colin approached with efficiency . . . and brought with his presence a devastation that left Nigel reeling.