by I. T. Lucas
He shook his head. She was exhausted. The best he could do for her was make sure she didn’t fall and then carry her to bed and tuck her in. It was good Bridget was a small woman, or he would not have trusted himself to hold her up. He felt weak, and his coordination was all messed up.
Bridget had been too frantic in the days leading up to her presentation to notice that he hadn’t been himself. Not wishing to distract her attention from where it needed to be, Turner hadn’t admitted the severity of his symptoms, or that he was contemplating stopping the treatments.
Bridget would be furious with him, but Turner just couldn’t function like that. He would give it another week and if things didn’t improve he was going to stop.
As Bridget turned the faucet off, Turner grabbed a towel and fluffed it out, then waited with his arms outstretched for her to step into.
“Thank you,” she said as he wrapped her in the towel and lifted her up.
“How is your head?”
She frowned. “My head?”
“You’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not. You think such an itsy bitsy amount of vodka can get me drunk?”
“If not drunk, then tipsy.”
“A little,” she admitted, resting her head on his chest.
“You’ll be good as new tomorrow morning.” He lowered her to the bed, pulled the towel from under her, and covered her with the blanket. “Goodnight.” He kissed her cheek.
Bridget’s hand closed around his wrist. “Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom. Do you need anything?”
A crooked smile was his answer. “Always. I’m in the mood to celebrate.”
He felt his impaired libido stirring to life. “Aren’t you tired?”
Bridget flung the comforter off. “Not for this.” She beckoned him with a sultry smile.
Desire for her burned hot in his mind, but his body followed the brain sluggishly, the physical response diminished in intensity and speed.
Bridget had been most understanding and hadn’t complained. Nevertheless, her acceptance didn’t make it any less embarrassing.
It was quite ridiculous.
His sexual drive and his prowess in bed had never played a major role in Turner’s self-perception, and he’d been proud of the fact that unlike most men he wasn’t ruled by his dick.
Apparently, that wasn’t true. As soon as the chemo affected his sexual drive and performance, Turner’s confidence in his masculinity had taken a nosedive.
Hell, it was much worse than that. He was losing confidence in his ability to perform his job. If he had anyone he trusted to hand over the few open cases he still had to take care of, Turner would have done it without giving it a second thought. He couldn’t afford mistakes or oversights. In his field that meant unnecessary suffering at the least and unnecessary loss of life at worst.
“I’m waiting,” Bridget said.
“Let me grab a quick shower first.”
She frowned. “You showered this morning.”
“So did you.”
“What’s wrong, Victor?”
“Nothing.” Turner leaned, cupping a breast as he kissed her. “I want to smell good for you.” He tweaked her nipple before straightening up. “I’ll be quick.”
“You’d better.”
In the shower, Turner braced his hands against the glass enclosure and let his head hang between his outstretched arms. As much as his head wanted to get in the game, his dick had other ideas, hanging loose and useless between his legs. He couldn’t even get mad at the malfunctioning appendage because it wasn’t its fault.
The worst part was the loss of control over his body. He hated it more than all the actual symptoms put together.
It wasn’t even about letting Bridget down. She knew what was going on and was willing to pay the price, suffering the consequences of the treatment along with him. Besides, he knew how to pleasure the woman into an explosive orgasm in other ways.
Back in the bedroom, he found Bridget asleep, the comforter covering her up to her chin and hiding her beautiful body from his eyes. A moment of indecision passed as he contemplated letting her sleep or waking her up with a kiss. The former was the coward’s way out, the latter was what he wanted to do.
Hell, he wanted his mouth all over her, starting with those partially parted puffy lips, moving over to the long column of her throat, and then feasting on her luscious breasts.
He loved the way her nipples puckered at the slightest touch.
Bridget was the most responsive woman he’d ever been with. Was it because she was an immortal female who was more lustful than the average human woman? Or was it her reaction to him? And only him?
A guy could hope.
Still warm from the shower, Turner didn’t feel too bad about peeling the comforter off Bridget and quickly covering her up with his body, shielding her from the room’s chill.
“Hello,” she murmured without opening her eyes. “This feels nice. You’re like a warming blanket.”
Not exactly what a man wanted to hear. Except, he knew how to make her sing a different tune to lyrics that didn’t include nice and blanket.
As he kissed her, his palms followed the contours of her body, brushing the sides of her breasts, dipping into her narrow waist, then getting a handful of her flaring hips.
Her arms wrapping around his neck, Bridget licked into his mouth, deepening the kiss.
He brought his left hand just beneath her breast and brushed his thumb over her nipple.
“Oh, yes…” she groaned as he cupped her breast.
Turner dipped his head and sucked the hardened bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and flicking the tip before moving to Bridget's other breast. Not to neglect the one he’d just left, he covered it with his palm, warming it up before closing his fingers around the tip and tweaking it.
With a groan, Bridget’s fingers dug into his scalp and her thighs parted under him. It was an invitation he wished he could accept but couldn’t. His dick was semi-hard at best, and not for lack of wanting to be inside her.
Good thing that he hadn’t anticipated any miracles and was mentally prepared to remain on the giving end. Her pleasure was his.
Curling down, Victor kissed her belly button. He kept kissing and nipping until his mouth reached the top of her bare slit.
She moaned and lifted up to meet his mouth.
Denying her was out of the question.
He pressed a soft kiss to that most sensitive spot on her body then flicked it with his tongue, once, twice, before running it down her slit and then up again.
She was so wet, so ready for him.
Cupping her bottom, he lifted her up to his mouth and penetrated her, fucking her with his tongue.
Alternating his rhythmic thrusts with short flicks over the top of her sex, he was giving her just enough to stoke the flames but not enough to combust. She went wild under him, her hips churning against his mouth, her head thrashing from side to side on the pillow, the mass of her red hair all tangled and wild around her face and shoulders.
Beautiful, passionate woman. He would always be hungry for more of her.
There was no need to slick his fingers with saliva before pushing two into her welcoming heat. Bridget was more than ready.
The pulsing clenches around his fingers were echoed by the pulsing of his cock. He was getting hard.
Thank fuck.
Bridget let out a throaty moan, her hips arching up as she was gripped by the powerful climax ripping out of her, then collapsed down on the mattress when it was over. In her post-orgasmic languor, she was a vision to behold. Her porcelain white skin flushed, her ample breasts heaving with her panting breaths, her limbs lying loose on the bed, Bridget closed her eyes and sighed a content, sleepy sigh.
But he wasn’t done with her.
“Are you ready for more?”
Chapter 41: Bridget
Bridget’s eyes popped open. Was she ready for more? Of course she was. She could repay the
favor. “Always.”
Except, when she made a move to sit up, Victor pushed her back down with a hand between her breasts, and a moment later she felt the head of his shaft push through her wet folds.
“Ah…” she moaned as he filled her up so perfectly the sensation brought tears to her eyes. It had been a while since he’d been able to do that. Did it mean his body was finally getting accustomed to the treatment?
She hoped so, but the pleasure was too intense for her to focus on anything other than where their bodies connected in the primal dance of male and female completing each other in the most perfect way.
It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt that she’d missed this, but she still had enough presence of mind to swallow the words. The last thing Victor needed was a reminder of that.
There was no preamble, no slow build up, Victor went fast and hard from the first thrust on, as if afraid that his erection was going to falter at any moment and wanting to reach the finish line before it did.
She wanted that too.
Fates, she hadn’t realized how much she craved the feeling of his shaft swelling a moment before his seed shot out and filled her. It was about more than sex, more than pleasure, it was about the affirmation of life. Even though the chances of him giving her a child were slim to none, the possibility was there.
A miracle could happen, and she would have a piece of him to cherish forever. A little Victor or Victoria.
Damn, this was the least appropriate time for morbid thoughts.
Gripping his muscular ass, Bridget pushed up, meeting him thrust for thrust and relishing the delicious friction.
His entire focus on reaching the point of no return, Victor was breathing hard, and droplets of perspiration were dripping down his neck.
Afraid that any sound she made would break his concentration and ruin his forward momentum, Bridget clamped her teeth over her lower lip and kept pumping her hips up and down, following Victor’s increasing tempo.
This wasn’t about her, and she didn’t care if she got another orgasm out of it or not. This was for him.
Bridget almost cried with relief when Victor threw his head back and roared his release, and when his sperm hit her channel, she let herself go and climaxed along with him. It wasn’t an earth-shattering orgasm like the first he’d given her tonight, but it was so much more precious to her.
Letting go of his buttocks, she crossed her arms over his back, holding him so tightly to her, she was crushing him.
“Too tight?” she whispered in his ear when he started wheezing.
“A little. But don’t let go.”
She eased her hold. “Never. I got you.”
Fates, she was such a damn liar. It wasn’t a promise she could make. It wasn’t up to her, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who could blindly put her faith in the Fates and hope for the best.
It was such an impotent feeling.
What if she’d dedicated her time to cancer research instead of the elusive immortal genes?
Wasn’t that more important?
The guilt washing over her was irrational, her mind was aware of that, but it didn’t help her heart.
Even if she’d focused her entire medical career on researching cancer, chances were she would have not been more successful than others who did it on a much larger scale and collaborated their efforts. She was a one-woman show, and what she could do wasn’t enough to help her own people let alone humanity at large.
Still draped over her like a blanket, Victor croaked, “I need another shower.”
Bridget doubted he had an iota of energy left. She could have lifted him and moved him aside, but that would have hurt his male ego. Instead, she gave him a light push. “Roll over, lover. I’ll get us some washcloths.”
He chuckled as he did what she’d asked. “I like it when you call me lover. Makes me feel manly.”
“You are all male, Victor.” She rolled the other way and got out of bed. “You don’t have an ounce of femininity in you.”
“Are you saying I’m not in touch with my feminine side?” he said as she headed for the bathroom.
Bridget laughed. “I’m afraid not.” He wasn’t in touch with his inner self, male or female, but that was a talk for another time.
Wetting a few washcloths, she wiped her herself clean before returning to the bedroom with the rest.
“You’re pampering me,” he said as she wiped his chest and then his neck.
“I love doing so. In fact, I should be doing it more often.”
Victor was so self-sufficient, it was easy to forget that pampering was not about fulfilling a real need but about showing affection. However, in Turner’s case, it might have been a real need.
He’d lived such a solitary life. The man was probably starving for someone to care for him and not even aware of it. Bridget suspected he’d suppressed all such yearnings a long time ago.
Victor looked at her with guilt in his blue-gray eyes. “You’re tired. I should be the one taking care of you.”
“Next time. It’s my turn tonight. I’m fully awake. It must be the adrenaline pumping me up.”
Fortunately, he seemed too spent to argue.
Bridget put the second used up washcloth away and picked up a fresh one. “Turn around. I want to wipe down your back.”
He did as she asked, and a minute or so later fell asleep, his deep rhythmic breaths causing her eyelids to droop.
When she was done with the fourth washcloth, Bridget dropped it on the nightstand, lay down next to Victor, and covered them both with the comforter.
“Good might, lover,” she whispered in his ear.
There was no answer.
Chapter 42: Robert
After Robert had fed her, Sharon walked into the living room, sat on the couch, and put her feet on the coffee table. He liked seeing her so comfortable in his home. Unless she had an evening assignment, Sharon was coming over every day after work and staying most nights.
It was fortunate that she worked and lived in the same house and didn’t have to worry about changing clothes in the morning.
“Robert, come watch with me. There is a new episode of Altered Carbon.” She clicked the television on.
He followed her to the couch and handed her the Diet Coke she’d asked for. “Can’t you watch it later?”
“Sure. It’s Netflix. Do you want to watch something else?”
Sitting next to her, Robert cradled a bottle of Snake’s Venom. One of Julian’s many good qualities was stocking the fridge with a fresh supply of the beer whenever they ran low. Another reason not to kill the guy in a jealous fit.
Lucky for Julian, Sharon seemed indifferent to him, and the guy made every effort possible to make himself scarce when she was there.
“I’m not a fan of television.” Robert popped the cap and took a gulp.
“I’ve noticed.” She clicked the screen off. “Is it watching stuff in general, or is it just the shows I like to watch?”
Sharon was a big fan of science fiction and fantasy. Which was good. Her mind was open to the unusual. She wouldn’t freak out when he told her.
“Fiction in general. Reality is stranger than anything people can imagine, it’s more complex. I can see the plot holes in every episode, and it irritates me.”
“Do you like reading?”
He nodded. “I can skip the parts I find boring or unrealistic.”
Sharon chuckled. “Fiction is supposed to be unrealistic. If I wanted reality, I would watch the news.”
It was his turn to chuckle. “Most of it is fiction as well.”
“How so? Aren’t they reporting the facts?”
“It’s possible to report the exact same event in so many ways that the people watching one news outlet will be convinced it’s black and the other that it is white and so on. They can show only the fragments that support whatever that outlet’s agenda is, or their backers. They can interview supposed experts that will put the appropriate spin on the story, and
so on. Bottom line is, it is very difficult for the common people to get the bare facts and draw their own conclusions when what they are reading and watching is the equivalent of a dramatized version.”
She eyed him with curiosity in her eyes. “How do you know all that?”
He could’ve told her that he’d been at the center of some major events, and what had been reported had born little resemblance to what had happened on the ground. Instead, he chose the easy way out.
“You can go downstairs and buy three different newspapers, each following a different agenda, you can then read the leading story in all three, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
“Do you actually do that? Do you compare stories?”
He nodded. “I do that almost every day. I pick up several newspapers at the café and read the headline news, then I choose the story I want to get all the angles of. Sometimes you can piece together what really happened by reading opposing views.”
Sharon leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re a dinosaur. No one reads actual newspapers. You can get it all online.”
Small things like that gave away his real age. The young generation of humans didn’t read anything on paper if they could help it. “I know. I like spreading the big newspaper and hiding behind it, so my coworkers don’t bother me on my lunch break.”
Sharon cast him an amused glance. “I bet those pesky coworkers are all female.”
Mostly, but he wasn’t going to admit it, or she would go into full-blown interrogation mode. Sharon was possessive of him, if not outright jealous, and he loved that she was. It meant that she valued him and that she considered him as hers.
The thing was, she had nothing to worry about. His life as the keep’s gigolo was officially over. None of those females could compare to Sharon, and it wasn’t as if he was speculating. He’d been with most.
“Your silence is as good as admission. Tell them you’re taken.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Can I tattoo it on your forehead?”
“Tattoo what?”
“I belong to Sharon.” She made air quotes.
“What if you dump me? I’ll be stuck dating only girls named Sharon.”
