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So I turn away with a wide grin, looking forward to a long night of sleepless torture, imagining all the ways I plan to make her squeal once I break through her defenses. Because patience is a two-way street. Perhaps if I continue to tempt the fiery woman as I did tonight, I will not have to wait so long after all.
* * *
The next morning, I knock on her door, ready with beignets and coffee from Café Du Monde. She opens the door, looking so beautifully rumpled that I want all sorts of things that go against my new determination to slow things down. Don’t scare the beautiful woman.
I feel hope and something else I’m not accustomed to—fear. Fear that this could so easily be fucked up.
Yes, I am a god, but I’m beginning to see that this possibility of her wanting me back is as thin as a spider’s gossamer string in the dewy light of morning. Because I am also a monster, and she is delicate. So, so delicate. I do not have a history of being good with delicate things. But I will be now.
I hold up the bounty I have procured for her and delight in the way her eyes light up with surprise as she looks at the logo on the paper bag.
“Did you really get this from—?”
“A little flight to New Orleans is a good stretch in the morning.”
Her eyebrows arch high as she takes the coffee from my hand and inhales the steaming brew.
“I thought you might like to take a walk by the lake today. Explore the grounds a little.”
“I’m not even dressed yet.”
I take my time looking her up and down. She only has her T-shirt on, her thick, curvy thighs and calves exposed.
“Hey,” she says, moving behind the door. When I glance back at her face, her cheeks are flushed, but her eyes are still bright. I’m reminded of the long night I spent replaying every little noise she made and the scent of her pleasure that lingered tortuously in my nostrils.
I was glad for the long, cold flight in the early morning hours to get my body back under control.
“Thanks for breakfast. But you do realize if I’m going to actually stay here, I’ll need more than just food?” Her voice is sharp, like she’s trying to make up for the way my gaze affects her body.
“Anything you need, you have but to ask.”
“I need clothes. And a toothbrush. You know, the basics? And I will so murder you if you bring me back size six clothes or some bullshit like that.”
I frown. Hmm. I have never thought about purchasing a woman’s clothing or how to go about it. But I see what she means. For all I have thought about getting myself a consort, it does turn out there were certain. . . practicalities I have overlooked.
But she is here, and that is all that matters.
“I can have you a complete wardrobe by tonight,” I say confidently. “And anything else you need. Just make me a list.”
What I have learned, no matter the era I live in, is that money can triumph over any difficulty. Whether it be gold bars, paper scripts, or these plastic cards that connect to bank accounts, wealth is always the true king. And my brothers and I have accumulated our fair share over the years.
Romulus saw the wisdom of investing our wealth in Italian banks in the early seventeenth century, the returns of which have made us one of the wealthiest, if most famously secretive, families in Europe. Romulus also arranged for a human accounting firm to be the face of the family.
But over the years, I knew Romulus had expanded interests with the investment firm, connecting to a fixer who could take on odder requests, such as when we needed new kitchen appliances and other modern conveniences delivered to an empty warehouse in a remote Finnish town, one with no video surveillance. Then Thing or Abaddon would pick them up and bring them back here.
She frowns at me from beyond the door, then closes it in my face.
I have waited for her all night. I do not mind waiting a little longer. I close my eyes, and my keen ears listen as her soft feed pad away from the door. I hear the rustle of the bag as she opens it and her little, stifled moan of pleasure as she bites into one of the beignets. Oh yes, I feel that noise all the way down my entire body. I determine at this moment to introduce her to every pleasure I can imagine. To memorize her every sensuous sigh and gasp that I can introduce her to.
I wish she had not closed the door between us and that I could see her face as she devoured the pastry. I would give away half my wealth to see the look of ecstasy that accompanied that little moan.
Patience.
I have to stifle a groan of my own. I am bad at patience. It is not one of my virtues. Not that I have many of those anyway.
A slight slurp as she sips the coffee and a bite into the pastry again with a softer sigh this time. How she tortures me. Does she know?
I breathe out.
