Caleb runs ahead of me, stripping off his clothes as he goes, throws open the heavy ornate door, and whips the blankets down the bed. This Tate, who now burns with cold fever, curls into a ball and whimpers, making it easy for me to strip off the hospital gown. Heat rolls off Caleb in waves as he brushes by me and climbs onto the bed. He grabs this Tate and hauls her up and back against his chest as he scooches up onto the pillows. I strip and follow him in on the other side, lying to face the moaning woman.
As I look at the beauty lying between us, a shot of recognition bolts through me Yet, she doesn’t resemble my Tate in the slightest. I lift a finger and brush a strand of long, flowing amber hair off a very pale face. Nothing at all like her.
Remember, it’s all an illusion. She could look like a troll under Aphrodite’s paranormal Snapchat filter.
“Make it stop. Please, just make it stop.” This Tate suddenly opens wide eyes bright with panic. Eyes that remind me of my Tate. The thought vanishes as soon as it hits.
“Please.” She writhes between the two of us. Despite the deep chill of her skin against mine, a bolt of heat shoots straight through my cock. Oh God.
Caleb moans on the other side of her. “Fuck, it’s her.”
I block out his hope, grab her head, and look deep in her eyes. “I need to kiss you. Just to heal—”
She grabs my cheeks, a smile melting across her face. “Bob,” she sighs into my mouth just before she captures my lips and devours me. My dead heart skips a beat when it hears her say my name. No. I misheard. Hera said she’s not my Tate.
I lie back and let her take from me. Suck the very essence from me. A slow fire licks through me despite the fatigue that accompanies any healing session. But this fatigue is overwhelming. That’s new. Usually I just need to sleep for a few days and I’m back and kicking. I close my eyes, and my Tate’s beautiful face greets me. I respond to the heat in her lips and let her take me to another place.
“Let go, man.” Sharp pain shoots through my head, pulling me back to the surface as Caleb yanks my hair. My eyelids fight to slide open, but my gaze finally meets Caleb’s alarmed brown eyes an inch from mine. “You’ve got to stop. I’ve got this.”
His concern rouses me enough to let go. “Save her,” I whisper as I collapse back on the pillow.
“Joe Bob,” she whispers, hands reaching for me. This time, a pang hits my heart. I don’t know why she’d call me such an unusual name if she thought I was her Bob. No. Hera was right after all.
“It’s her, man, I’m telling you. It’s her.” Caleb’s sigh of contentment follows me into sleep.
Well, at least he’s happy.
Memories of burning pain and the most intense kiss of my life flash through my mind as I wake into intense fatigue. And hope. I saw my love. My Bob. He’s here. Here? And just like that, reality drops a curtain over my joy, and I bolt upright. I’m naked, itchy as hell, and possibly high on some weird drug. Letting out a long breath, I rub my eyes to focus . . . and end up staring into the faces of three delicious male beings—beings, because they don’t quite look like men. Shit. I grab the sheet and cover my breasts, ignoring the throbbing pain in my left bicep.
“I told you she’s gorgeous.” This comes out of the mouth of a thick, muscular manly man—classic lumbersexual minus the beard—with unruly dark hair and a huge predator grin. His familiar voice is like sinking into a vat of warm honey, making me all sweet and gooey.
A tall blond man leans in to look at me as if I’m a prized lab specimen he’s about to dissect, and heat pools in my pinkish parts. I shiver. His red-rimmed, cornflower blue eyes shimmer with something reminding me of the ages.
“Be that as it may, there’s time enough to explore your hypothesis after we’ve taken care of him.” He points to the bed. At the same moment, a moan comes from beside me.
Somehow, I jump even though I’m sitting, and the sheet falls around my waist. Hot honey lumberjack chuckles, but I don’t have time for that because Joe Black, the angel of death, the honest-to-god ridiculously cute movie one, or more likely his clone, lies bare chested and deathly pale next to me. And, um, a sheet is barely covering his semi-erect cock. This is where I get confused. Or more confused. Last night, or whenever it was, he didn’t look like Joe Black, he looked like my Bob. I distinctly remember calling him Joe Bob. I must have been hallucinating, but something strong pulls me to this man . . . and the other three standing before me. Something other than the fact that, if I weren’t married, I’d swipe right on every one of them based on looks alone.
“She either fucks him or he dies, and that might not be a bad thing.” A shorter, wiry dark guy with a guitar slung across his back glowers down at me. I’m pretty sure I see nubs for horns sticking out of his head. Dark energy rolls off him, almost burning me with its intensity. I can’t hide from the pull of desire—his or mine?
I look down at the man almost as beautiful as my Bob. I need to have sex with him? This Joe Bob? I must be dreaming. That’s it. Last thing I remember, I hovered over my body in the ER, and now, I’m naked in bed with the angel of death and memories of the worst dream of my life.
The meaty guy with the dark unruly hair bounces over and sits on the side of the bed. He puts a hand on my arm. His heat sears through me, and I snatch my arm back as the memory of his hot body spooning mine stokes more heat between my legs. And upward. And onward. These men are going to make me burst into flames.
“Sorry. Look, I know all this is confusing. I get it. But here’s the thing—if you don’t heal each other, we’ll lose you both,” he says.
I scooch away from this big beast, more to separate from his heat than from any sense of fear, and I bump into Joe Bob. He moans, rolls on his side, and gathers me against him. Just like my love, except he’s clearly not my Bob. The itching ramps up to fire ant status. Nope. I’m clearly not through the pearly gates, not in Kansas, not in Oz, and it’s starting to feel easier to just slip back into sleep.
Right, that’s it. I’m dying, and this is part of the process. Soon, I’ll see my Bob. I slide back onto the pillow, letting the angel of death pull me against him. Today is as good as any day to die. I let my eyes drift closed on the happy thought that I just might see my husband and he’ll help me get rid of this crazy heat between my legs, heat I haven’t felt since his illness took away any thoughts of lovemaking between us. And then took him, too.
“Everyone out.” A voice full of command and strength breaks through my fog.
“But Francis—” That sounds like my warm blanket. His heat leaves. And though I tried to put space between us only moments ago, I miss him instantly. I snuggle closer to Joe Bob. It seems I need heat.
“Out!” The word cuts through my mind like a cold switchblade, forcing me to action. I struggle to sit again. A cool hand drops lightly on my shoulder, but I don’t have the strength to fight against its weight. I fall back onto the pillow. Something compels me, and I look up into the angelic face of the man my warm blanket called Francis. A small smile tugs at the corner of one of the most perfect mouths I’ve ever seen. Well, almost . . .
I’m not an angel.
And, he reads minds. But of course he does—he’s an angel. A very Scottish angel.
I’m a vampire, but there’s time for that later. Eyes as fathomless as the skies remain fastened on mine, forcing me to meet his gaze.
Vampire-movie lore fills my head, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Oh, come on. Are you casting a spell on me?”
He appears momentarily nonplussed and then shakes his head. Do what comes naturally. Save him and yourself. His melodic, gorgeously accented voice drifts through my dreams like a symphony.
That’s right. My dreams. He’s put some kind of sleep spell on me . . . I let the dream drag me into its depths.
When I open my eyes, my Bob’s face hovers before me. I kiss the tips of my fingers and touch them to his lips, lacking the strength to do anything else before I slide back into oblivion. Next time I surface, I’m looking at
the sculptured lines of Joe’s perfect face. He opens radiant blue eyes burning as much with desire as fever. His strong hands cup my head and pull me to his lips. And I’m consumed. His kiss sends waves of energy coursing through me. He kisses me, and the kiss revives me. Soon, nothing exists but the heat of it. He draws my tongue into his mouth as if he needs it. As if this is more than a kiss.
Save him.
Eventually, I break away, gasping for breath. My beautiful Bob and the equally gorgeous Joe’s faces flicker back and forth. Joe Bob. What the hell is happening? Not the pearly gates. Not Kanas. Not Oz . . . but maybe The Twilight Zone? As air fills my lungs, I drop into oblivion for the third time.
Joe Bob’s sweating, thrashing body pulls me out of a deep sleep. And my eyes are instantly riveted on his . . . um . . . Maybe in whatever alternate reality I’ve dropped into, sex really is like medicine. Maybe the demon with the guitar wasn’t kidding. The sheet is gone, likely flung off, and nothing hides Joe Bob’s cock, purple with need. I do something I’ve never done before in my life, not even with my Bob—I climb on and sink down on his burning shaft. Just like that, I spread my legs and drop my hot cunt onto his swollen cock. Girls Gone Wild: Afterlife Edition.
An instant of pure joy jolts through me before I’m hit with searing pain. Every instinct makes me want to bolt, but my body has other things in mind.
Do what comes naturally.
I grab his shoulders and arch my back, taking the heat and imagining it as the simmering warmth of an itch that needs to be scratched. Joe Bob’s eyes fly open as his body surges into mine. Fatigue nibbles at the edges of my desire, but I don’t stop. I clamp my hands on his shoulders and grind into him, the essence flowing between my legs already bathing us both. He grabs my hips and thrusts into me. I moan and say unintelligible things as I fight against my flagging strength.
“Kiss me.” His ragged voice pulls me to him like a magnet. Whatever magic flows between each breath and thrust melts the remains of the burning cold. He’s healing me, and I’m healing him. The simmering at my core wants to boil. I moan, kiss, and rut in crazed need. Joe Bob matches me and goes one better, flipping me onto all fours in a single, smooth move, barely breaking contact. He drives into me, one hand pulling my head into his kiss, the other gripping the flesh of my ass. Bucking those hips into mine, drilling his cock into my pulsing cunt. Filling me with energy while he drains me. Reminding me what I’ve missed.
Our frenzy builds. Moans turn to groans as we ride our way to release, our movements becoming frantic and uncontrolled. Joe Bob pants against my mouth. The simmering heat hits its boiling point. I scream as the overwhelming sensations rocket through me. Joe Bob’s deep roar joins my screams as we collapse in a tangle.
The next time we wake, we slide into sex so sweet, it almost gives me tears because I miss my Bob. I miss being loved. I miss the feeling of a full heart. Joe’s kiss is gentle, his lips warm and tender. Would Joe want me to be kind to myself and receive the comfort of this man’s touch since he’s not here to give it to me? My heart tells me he would.
I sigh and let myself relax in his arms.
Do what comes naturally.
And it seems natural to give myself to this man. Anyway, it’s all a dream, right? But the logical part of my brain that has followed me to this Bardo says otherwise. Where are you, Bob? I suspect he’s gone away, or he’d already be here, his tongue sliding down my neck to find his way to my erect nipple. Bob’s tongue knew how to pull me away from all rational thought. God, how I want him back.
I climb slowly out of the fog remaining after healing this Tate from ascension cold. Images of raw sex, frantic and frenzied, fast-forward through my head. Our bodies are still intertwined in a tangle of sheets. I lift my head and look into the most startling eyes. Her vivid violet irises have a rebel patch of color under each pupil. Amber on the left and a brilliant seaweed green on the right.
My cock stirs as I look into those eyes, eyes that are as familiar as they are strange. Eyes that widen as my gaze travels to her full red lips and back. I roll her onto her back and kiss her. And I do it without giving a thought to my vow to stay chaste until I reunite with my Tate. Because it feels right. Because the pull to this woman is that strong.
I savor her lips, taking time as I have with only one other woman. This Tate curves her arm around the back of my head and meets my tongue with hers just like yesterday, over and over again. Only this time, we set a leisurely pace, exploring, tasting, teasing. I close my eyes and let my mouth and tongue expose the mysteries of this woman’s exotic face. She moans as I slide my tongue down the side of her neck. There’s something . . . What is it? I try to grasp the memories rattling the cages deep in my mind, but each time I get close, they slip away. Her luscious body pulls me back to the present.
This Tate lies back and closes her eyes as my tongue brushes across a plump nipple. Different strokes raise different hues of color on her skin as I lick, nibble, and suck my way down the canvas of her flesh. When I slide down between her legs, she simply sighs and spreads them wide. I take a moment to gaze at the beautiful flower of her cunt as it unfolds before me. I breathe in the scent of her, push her knees up to her chest and settle in for the feed my body craves. The need to please this woman is as strong or stronger than the magic that makes our sex refuel my stamina.
It’s almost as if my mind fuses with hers and nothing exists but my need to react to the way her body responds. I know intuitively when a moan means more and a muscle contraction signals me to move on. I lick and suck my way to such a high, I’m almost ready to explode. Her body tenses on the cusp of her orgasm. I plunge two fingers deep in her cunt. Curve them to thrum her G-spot. And watch as convulsions roll through her and her hot pussy pulsates around my fingers, flooding them with more of her healing ether. I keep licking until she yanks my head, shuddering from the intensity of her orgasm.
I slide up her slick body, mouth dripping with her juices, and seal her mouth with mine as my cock finds her molten, pulsing cunt. Slowly, deliberately, I fuck this addictive woman, each thrust like the beat of a slow bass drum. Those startling eyes, now heavy with lust, stare up at me. I thrust. She arches. I thrust. She throws her arms above her head. “Oh my God” or maybe “Oh Bob” slides out through another moan. I grab her wrists with my right hand, bracing my body against the bed with my left. My balls tighten, and I pull back, clamping down on my own approaching orgasm.
I bite back my moans so I can absorb every one of hers, feel every one of her groans vibrate against my chest. When watching the rapture on her face gets to be too much, I rear up and watch my throbbing cock, slick with her juices, slide in and out until the only sound in the room is our ragged breathing. The pull of another explosive climax shatters my self-control. I implode into her.
I think she moans my name as she comes again and again, but I can’t tell. And I don’t care whether she calls me Bob or Joe or Joe Black or Moses for that matter. Whatever the name, there’s something between us. Something strong and . . . preternatural. Yes, that’s the perfect word to describe it—this something is inexplicable and exceeds what’s natural. So if she isn’t Tate, I’m in one fuck of a wad of trouble.
I’ve been in Bardo long enough to know there’s a ton of things that we can’t explain from our earthly perspective. Hera and Athena have a reason for bringing her here and putting us together. Very much unlike me, I open myself to the magic of this place. If it involves this woman, I’m ready to go along for the ride. This Tate doesn’t look like my Tate, but I’d know that body anywhere. The way it met with mine. Maybe it’s a case of possession and I’m the hero who’ll cast out the evil demon. I smile at the unlikely image as I drift.
But one thing’s for damned sure, I can’t keep calling her Tate. That’s just too fucked up. “What’s your middle name?” I ask.
Her voice is muffled as she’s tucked into my shoulder, but I hear something that sounds like Anya.
“Do you mind if I call you Anya?” I
ask. “My wife’s name was Tate, and—”
She puts a finger over my mouth. “I get it. It’s fine. I kind of like it, actually.” She snuggles in tighter and yawns. “I’m so tired.”
That makes two of us.
“Wakey, wakey.” Caleb’s cheerful face beams down at me. He’s holding a tray of steaming coffee that speaks to me. I drop a hand to Anya’s hip. She’s still here. Relief floods through me. I groan as the aftereffects of healing Tate’s fever attack my muscles. I prop myself against the pillows and let Caleb drop the tray over my lap. Anya’s body is tense and alert as she cautiously rolls over and pulls the sheet up to cover herself before joining me sitting against the headboard. I glance at her, and a boyish grin takes over my face before I can stop it. She doesn’t smile, but a sheen of heat drops over those startling eyes. She licks her lips . . . and my cock goes rock hard. Again.
This woman. I healed her, and now she’s going to be the death of me.
“Oh no you don’t.” Francis’s controlled voice rings through the room as he steps forward. He drops a tray over her lap.
Looking him over, Anya asks, “Who are you again?”
“You thought I looked like an angel, and now you don’t remember me. Will I ever recover?” He gives her a wink. “Francis Fraser, former Laird of Salton, at your service, mo chridhe.” He sweeps into one of his courtly bows, and with one of his impossibly swift moves, captures her hand in his, kissing the back of her fingers in a gesture so tender it could only be sensual. Jealousy shoots through me as I feel the heat rise in the woman beside me. Catch the scent of her arousal. This can’t be happening. She’s mine.
Tate's Tale Page 2
