A Cold Day In Hell. Stella Cameron
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unglazed white stone, a shower large enough for an intimate party sloped down from all sides, and had no doors. Stone benches lined the sides and several showerheads jutted from each wall.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Eileen said.
It was too intimate, too personal—but he knew that and had brought her here deliberately.
Angel turned a knob on the wall and she expected lights to brighten. Instead, a fan of white fabric finished like parchment swung open to reveal a skylight. Tonight she saw raindrops on the glass and heard more falling, but on a clear night it would be filled with stars.
She lost the battle to keep her attention away from a bathtub made of heavy glass. It stood on pewter feet in the center of the room and since vertical strips of mirror were incorporated into each wall there would be no way to bathe without seeing yourself from every angle.
And the tub was huge, curved, almost an oversize Victorian shape.
Eileen would not keep looking at that bath. “You must have brought in a designer,” she said. “What an imagination!”
“A guy over in Toussaint,” Angel said, “Marc Girard. Finn’s cousin Annie recommended him and he’s responsible for all the plans. He’s my architect, but someone in his firm consults on design.”
“I know Annie. She used to live in Pointe Judah.”
Small talk.
Another set of double doors, also closed, stood on the other side of the bathroom. Angel caught her looking at them. “That will be the bedroom but it’s pretty basic at this point. Okay to sleep in, though. I haven’t tried out the bath yet. I’m always in a hurry so I shower—not that the bath would be much fun on my own.”
The glow Eileen felt had to be visible. She must be luminous.
“Don’t you think there’s something sensual about water, Eileen?”
She drew in a breath through parted lips. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
He turned on the bathwater and almost at once, steam rose.
“What are you doing?” Eileen said.
“Showing you how it looks with water in it. We could put in some soapy stuff, if you like.”
How was she supposed to answer a comment like that? She didn’t.
Angel stopped smiling. He pulled his dark T-shirt over his head and Eileen took a step backward. His body shouldn’t be covered, ever. Muscle and sinew, every line defined. Not a millimeter of spare flesh. His jeans settled low on his hips and she couldn’t look away from his hard belly, the bands of muscle; the start of dark hair she didn’t have to see to know how the rest of it would look.
He walked straight at her, unsnapping his waistband as he came. When he reached her, Eileen backed up and kept backing up all the way to the wall where steam had dampened the tile. Her back hit solidly and she raised bent arms, palms out.
“We don’t want the bath to overflow,” he said.
“Christian?” she said. His real name came naturally. “We aren’t thinking.”
“I always know I’m supposed to be in trouble when you call me that.” He unzipped her jacket and pushed it from her shoulders. “Sure we’re thinking. I’m thinking about what I want and what you want.” Quickly, he pulled down her pants and panties, went to his knees and freed her feet.
He parted her thighs with inflexible hands, pressed his face low against her belly, and drove his tongue into the folds between her legs. Eileen cried out and pulled at his hair with both hands.
If it hurt him, his shudder said he liked it. Pushing up on her buttocks, he lifted her legs over his shoulders and held her in place while he nipped and probed at her pulsing flesh. She released his hair and threw out her arms, tossed her head from side to side.
A climax ripped through her. Eileen sobbed and heard sounds she knew she made, but hadn’t heard before.
Moving so fast that he disoriented her, Angel tossed her over his shoulder and went to turn off the bathwater. Then, with no ceremony and her bra still on, he dumped her into the tub. It was deep and she slid, dousing her hair and face. When she sat up, she swiped the water away and slicked back her hair.
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