“Shit—I mean, crap. Hold on, Duke?”
“Yeah.”
She clicked over to G.B. and felt like throwing up. “Hey, I’ve got to take this.”
“Okay … but are you sure you’re all right? You sound funny.”
“No, I’m fine. Honest.”
“You want to do lunch again at the theater tomorrow? That was a great break in my day, and I have a feeling I’m going to need the company.”
“Yes, sure. That sounds good—I’ll see you at one?”
“Noon’s better, if that’s okay with you? Or do you have class.”
“No, that works fine.”
“Great. It’s a date. See you then.”
As he ended the call on his side, she stared across the room and wondered if she’d done the right thing. She couldn’t keep stringing him along if she wasn’t really interested. But … she didn’t know where things were going with Duke, did she? And if the two of them didn’t work out, maybe something could develop with G.B. over time. She just didn’t know.
One thing was clear. If she clicked back over to Duke, she knew exactly what was going to happen.
Pushing the complicated mix of emotions to the side, she reopened the connection, thinking, Shoot, she just couldn’t say no.
“Duke?” she breathed. “You still there?”
“You think I’d go anywhere?” His voice dropped even lower. “Now be a good girl … and get naked for me.”
Oh, God, she loved it when he talked like that.
Cait put the phone aside and swept everything off. As her PJs fell to the floor, she pushed herself down under the covers, the warmth and weight a pitiful substitute for his body.
The second she picked up her cell again, he said, “Touch yourself. Pretend it’s my hand, my mouth …” A groan replaced the words—which told her exactly what he was doing on his end. “I need more…”
She did what he asked, and as she undulated, the soft cotton sheets were rough against her tight ni**les.
“… want to be in you…”
Cait could barely hear what he was saying as she jacked further into the pillows and her body contorted, the orgasm rolling through her, heightened by the memories of where they had gone before … and the anticipation that there was more to come.
Literally.
As Duke growled, she could picture him with his teeth clenched, his head also kicking back, that incredible, hard body surging as he came into his own fist.
“More,” he said, almost as soon as he’d finished orgasming. “I want more of you…”
Insatiable had never been so satisfying.
And it was the perfect ending to a perfect evening.
After God only knew how many more rounds, he said, “I might be done tonight, but I’m still not finished with you.”
“Is that a promise?” she drawled.
“Hand over my heart, ready to die.”
As she got ready for the inevitable good-bye, she was stunned to find she wanted to say, “I love you”—not because she’d thought about it, but because it seemed so natural.
And wasn’t that a cold dose of reality.
“Good night, Duke,” she whispered instead.
“Sleep well. Or not. And if it’s the latter, dream of me.”
“Always.”
Hanging up and turning out her light, she feared that was true. If she had thought Thom had done a number on her? What Duke could do was much worse…
Or better, God willing.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Jim went back to Earth in a daze. Maybe it was from blood loss—but more likely it was the fact that whatever you believed about God, however you worshipped, ignored, or otherwise approached Him or Her, nobody was prepared to meet the Creator face-to-face.
The impact of that persona had been an orgasm on top of death throes draped in a free fall punctuated by a bone-shattering, hot asphalt, buck-stops-here slam.
Even Colin had felt it, and that had been the only thing that could have made the archangel stop—well, short of Jim bleeding out entirely.
And as for a description of the Maker? No words, no syllables, not even memory that was still short-term could bring it forth. The only thing Jim kept coming back to was that the Bible was right in one respect—the Divine was so much greater than man, Mount Everest to a molehill, the Atlantic to a fishbowl, the cold of space compared to that of an ice cube. And even those comparisons failed.
Then there was what had happened afterward … and Jim still didn’t know what to make of that.
Back at the house, standing at the base of the stairs, he didn’t know how in the hell he was going to make it up to the second floor, much less over to the bathroom to clean his sorry ass up—
The grandfather clock started to chime, that gonging stabbing right into his skull.
But at least the annoyance at the goddamn thing got him going. He refused to keep count, however—although when he finally got on its level, he shot it a glare and a half.
As he arrived up at the foyer, he stared down the hall toward Sissy’s room. He wanted to go in there, lift her covers, slide in next to her and hold her. It seemed right to reconnect—for f**k’s sake, he felt like he’d been gone forever.
Then again, nearly being dead again would do that to a guy.
Maybe that sense of an eternity passing was what Hell had been like for her? A blip on Earth, but forever in the mind and the soul.
With any luck, she’d be sleeping, so he decided it was better to leave her alone. Inside the bathroom, he cranked the hot water on, and was barely undressed when steam started to boil up out of the curtain.
Frowning, he reached inside. “Shit!”
Hot, very hot. As if the water heater had suddenly decided to start working properly for the first time since they’d moved in.
Miracles, miracles.
Readjusting the mix of H and C faucets, he got under the spray and cursed again—nothing like being reminded that he had two or three fairly major stab wounds that were still open. Sluicing the water back into his hair, he tilted his head and let the warmth run down his shoulders and torso. His body was beaten to shit, sore in every place that counted, but the good news, if there was any, was that in his previous life it would have taken him weeks in the hospital and months of rehab to get back on track.
Now a matter of hours would do it.
But he could be killed. Colin’s attack proved it. So did Nigel’s demise.
Man, out of all the deaths he thought he’d have on his conscience, that archangel’s was not one. And there was no doubting that Nigel may have put the dagger in his own chest, but Jim’s hand had been on the grip, too.