Immortal Desire. Denise Tompkins
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anyone he bedded. Instead of answering, she closed her eyes and nodded. “I’m fine.”
One hand, hot and heavy, rested on her shoulder. “You’re sweating.”
“Yeah. It’s just hot in here.” Really, really hot. She stiffened as a wave of sensual hunger roared through her. Dizzy, she gripped the bar edge.
Griff’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “You’re sure.”
“Yeah.” The single word sounded thready and definitely unsure.
“Sling a few drinks and we’ll talk.”
“Talk?” she squeaked.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his chest, his silk shirt shifting sensually over his pecs and revealing the tips of his hardened nipples.
Bailey licked her lips, her thoughts dark as her eyes roamed down, straight to his... Whoa. Griff’s leathers were stretched tight, the head of his cock clearly defined.
“Talk.” The word was harsh.
“Okay.” She turned back to the bar, hoping her mind would get back to task and stop tormenting her with images of her boss naked and writhing beneath her as she rode him. He’d pound into her slick heat, his thick shaft spearing her with every thrust. “Yeah, that’s not going to work.”
“What’s that?” the guy across the counter asked.
“Nothing. What can I get you?”
“One rum and Coke. One margarita on the rocks, shot of tequila on the side.”
He became the first of many customers, another nameless face she would never remember as she pulled orders together by rote, slinging bottles with a finesse she definitely didn’t feel.
* * *
Griff slipped through the unobtrusive door marked Private and headed for his office. Every step rubbed the underside of his cock against the leathers he wore.
Bailey was so close to the Change. Putting himself in her immediate proximity had been criminally stupid. Her scent—citrusy with a sharp undertone of mint—coiled around him like an emotional noose. The morbid comparison didn’t stop his cock from reacting, though. Self-loathing soured his stomach. He absolutely hated being an incubus, hated this part of his nature, this part that marked him a predator. “Get over yourself,” he muttered.
He slowed his steps, relishing the burn of need that settled at the base of his spine. Pleasure and pain began an intimate, familiar dance. Hunger manifested as cold sweat at his nape. A single drop rolled down his neck like a specter’s caress.
“You up for a little conversation?”
Griff turned, every movement controlled and deliberate. “If it’s not critical, it needs to wait.”
Seth, the club’s general manager and one of Griff’s only friends, looked him over. “Need me to send one of the JABs to your office?” he asked, referring to the women who regularly hung out at the club with the singular goal of adding any of the preternaturally gorgeous men to their list of conquests. They’d been dubbed JABs—Just Another Body.
“Not in the mood.”
The other man arched a single brow. “Sure.”
“Now’s not the time, Seth.” Griff slipped into his office, shutting the door with a soft click. Hands shook as he ripped his pants open and shoved them halfway down his thighs. His erection sprang free. The silk of his shirt slid around the root and feathered across his balls. He hissed. Bending forward and bracing himself against the edge of the desk with one fist, he gripped his thick length with the other. The first hard stroke—tip to base—drew a grunt from him. He twisted on the upstroke, spreading the single bead of moisture around the heated skin. He pumped faster, eyes unfocused, mind pulling up only one woman’s face. Bailey.
From their first meeting, Griff had wondered what she’d be like in bed, what she’d look like naked and writhing beneath him, over him, kneeling in front of him. Her carefree nature and uninhibited wild side would undoubtedly make her unforgettable. Guilt tugged at what was left of his conscience. She had no idea what she was about to go through, and he hadn’t taken the opportunity to forewarn her. Maybe he should get one of the JABs...
“Screw that.” He shoved aside the worthless emotion and let his imagination go. The bastard went straight for the kill shot and had the imaginary Bailey on her knees, her mouth closing around his raging cock. He’d grip her head and pump as her tongue did decidedly wicked things. The images grew and layered as he gripped the desk and fucked his fist harder. Increasingly graphic images joined the caress of phantom fingers and sent him over the edge. With a shout, he let go.
The burn of pleasure shot up his pulsing shaft. No time to go for tissues. Griff blindly groped for something, anything. He knocked a ton of shit over before grasping a pen cup. Pens scattered all over the office. His hips surged forward, and he barely caught the first stream of hot seed. The orgasm raged unchecked, even when he tried to shut it down. Every pulse up his shaft forced his body to seek out pheromones from which to feed.
Griff shook through the initial wave of sexual hunger. When it finally crested and turned on itself, it was too much. His knees buckled and dropped him to the floor, the impact echoing through his head. Pain wracked his body. Lust’s invisible talons ripped at every fiber of his being. His lungs protested every forced breath. Dark spots marred his vision and made him think lying down might be a good idea. He eased to his side, curling in on himself.
This was the closest he’d come to the pain of the Shift since the actual event over two hundred years ago. It hadn’t taken a brilliant mind to figure out this sucked. That it was as bad as he remembered made him shiver as dark, unwelcome memories surfaced.
Hands had groped him, fondling him indiscriminately. Hot breath swept over his skin in the form of moans and gasps he gave and took. Confusion had colored everything, but underneath it? Underneath it had been shame. He’d never been given the opportunity to choose a lover or lovers the night his Shift occurred. His pheromones had done their worst, pulling lovers to him regardless of gender, regardless of preference, regardless of will. He’d taken what hadn’t been his to take, and what had been his to give freely was taken against his will.
He wrapped one arm around his stomach and propped the other under his head. He should have taken Seth up on his offer to grab one of the JABs. There was only one reason he hadn’t.
Bailey.
Chapter Two
Bailey wiped sweat from her brow. The last two hours had been a blur of bar patrons, strobe lights and that ever-present thump of bass. Every song seemed designed to heighten her arousal. The smell of sex permeated the air, hanging there, mixing with the thin haze of smoke so that every breath teased and tortured.
Cut the crap. You can’t smell sex. But she could. It was dark and sensual, slightly spicy and full of promise. She wanted to roll around in it, coat herself in those unspoken promises and find a way to unlock the Orgasm Express. The idea of riding that train brought back thoughts of Griff, naked, face buried between her thighs. Yeah, he’d definitely drive that train. “Choo-choo,” she whispered. A small smile crooked one corner of her mouth, and she absently traced her upper lip with her tongue.
“You okay, lady?” The guy across the bar eyed her speculatively. “Looks like you could use some company. I’ll volunteer.”
“Keith, take over.” Griff’s voice cut through the din. “My office, Bailey. Now.” He turned and stalked away, shoving through the swinging door that led to the back.
“Shit.” Bailey ripped off her apron and tossed it in the bin beneath the counter.
Keith glanced her way as he pulled a beer. “Sounds like you’re in for it.”
“Sounds like that’s the case.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”