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She felt light-headed. She had waited so long for this, to explore the world again, to cruise the Mortal Earth bars and know a lot of men.
Men different from the only one she’d known for the past century.
Aw, shit, why did she have to think of Thorne right now. He hadn’t wanted her to leave Second Earth, but she’d left anyway. She’d had to leave. She had a life to live and men to devour. One hundred years in that godforsaken Convent, the one with canings, and strappings, and beatings, had left her needing so much more of life than what Second Earth could offer right now.
Why couldn’t Thorne get that? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?
She saw from her peripheral vision that he was done with holding up the wall. Huh, so maybe he’d finally taken the hint. He’d glowered and looked so hot in jeans and a wife-beater shirt that it was all she could do to keep from going over there and attacking him.
But she needed him to get the message. She couldn’t go back to him and she sure as hell couldn’t go back to Second Earth. As much as she knew this would kill him, she’d been putting off the inevitable for three weeks now. She’d spent some time getting her bearings, learning to drive, then driving through state after state and back again. It was late March and most of the lower states were a piece of heaven.
But tonight she was crossing over, ending her connection to the past. She was beginning the real adventure, the fantasy that had kept her sane during her hundred years in that Convent.
She forced memories of Thorne down deep.
She lifted her gaze to the dark brown eyes in front of her, the man flirting with her, casting out signals. His gaze was slung low on her chest, as it should be. She’d hardly covered her girls up at all, and even though the bar was a little steamy her ni**les were firm and probably nicely puckered, pushing against the dark blue silk.
He leaned in close, his hand sliding up her leg and squeezing her bare thigh. The man had a nice firm, possessive touch. He whispered against her ear, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a place close by.”
Shivers chased down her shoulders and sides from all that breath over her neck. Her heart set up a racket in her chest.
She didn’t answer him. She just slid off the stool, took his big hand, and headed for the door. This is what she remembered it being like, the excitement, meeting some stranger, getting worked up after a couple of drinks, wondering how good he’d be in bed.
She had a knack for picking men who knew how to work it. This man had good lay written all over him. God, what a body, almost as big as Thorne.
Thorne again! Dammit!
She reached the cool clean desert air and drank in a big gulp, hoping to clear her head. But there it was again, cherry tobacco, stronger now that she was outside. She looked to her left and could see him in the shadows but lifted her chin and moved on. She needed him to get a clue: He could glower all he wanted, but this was the life she wanted, the life she’d chosen. Hell, this was the life she’d earned after so many decades locked up.
But when she got a few feet down the sidewalk, suddenly he was just there, all misted up so her new man couldn’t see him. He didn’t try to touch her but she couldn’t help looking straight at him. Oh … God.
Don’t do this, his mind sent straight into hers. Please.
His hands had dropped to his sides and were balled into fists. She could tell he was holding on by a thread.
She dropped her gaze to his chest. She couldn’t bear looking into his eyes. How could she explain the why of all this? But then explaining wasn’t necessary. This was what killed her about Thorne: He got her, he understood her, he knew she had to do this, had to leave, had to move on. In his way, he was letting her go. He sure as hell could have just thrown her over his shoulder, and maybe that’s what she wished he would do so that she didn’t have to choose.
But she had chosen.
Thanks for not making a scene, she sent.
Fuck, he responded, probably not meaning to.
Let me go, Thorne. Please.
Another quiet Fuck left his mouth, but he dematerialized.
Her new man leaned down. “We good?”
She looked back up at him. “We’re good.” She still had hold of his hand so she gave it a squeeze.
But something deep inside her trembled. She felt an overwhelming need to get back to Thorne.
Would this torture never end?
Would she ever truly be free of Second Earth?
She forced the trembling to stop.
Forget all that.
She had a life to live.
She ran a hand through her short blond locks.
He put his hands on her waist. “What’s your name?” He dipped his head low and kissed her cheek.
“Marguerite.”
“That’s a beautiful name. Marguerite.” He said it slow, like he was practicing, like he intended to say it a lot and at exactly the right time.
“What’s yours?” she asked. He shifted her beside him and set them both moving slowly in the direction of a big Chevy Silverado, the kind with four wheels on the back. A big man needed a big truck.
She needed a big man.
“José. My name’s José.”
“Mexican?”
“Sí.” The word popped out like a whip. “Mexican okay with you?”
“You mean, do I discriminate?”
“Sí.” Again, like a whip.
She put her hand on his hip and moved lower, sliding her fingers so that she rested over the entire beautiful length of his erect cock, the jeans rough against her fingers. “Oh, I discriminate. Right here, José. Is that okay with you?”
She pushed.
He hissed. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
She smiled. “Let’s go, José, before I change my mind.”
This time he smiled. He had a wonderful smile full of big teeth. She wanted those teeth on her.
Thorne had big teeth, too. He’d use them nipping, pulling, biting, plucking. He’d done it for a hundred years and knew exactly how to work her up.
Dammit, Thorne again.
* * *
Thorne stood in the shadows of the building. He didn’t know what to do. Her scent was heavy in the air.
He watched them get into the truck.
He created more mist. He lost his shirt and mounted his wings. He shot into the air high overhead and followed the truck.
The red strobes still flashed through his brain but at least some part of his mind was functioning because his rational side had begun to calculate, to figure this damn thing out. The man, José, would die tonight unless Thorne got his shit together and connected some dots.
