Somehow he continued to push in though they were both trembling on the edge of culmination. As pleasure spiraled tight in her womb, Naya felt how Elisha’s scrotum drew up, tensing against him. Both their loins grew heavy with the swell of bliss, and it only increased as he traveled deeper into her.
We’ll never make it. In her profound ardor, Naya wasn’t sure which of them thought it.
Somehow they did. At last Elisha was fully seated inside her, their bodies merged along with their minds. Now there was no division between their shared arousal, no knowledge where one ended and the other began.
As one they worked together, tangled in body and consciousness. All intelligent thought ceased as they thudded against each other, chasing exultation. There was only tumultuous pleasure, growing closer and closer to its end.
Billowing heat and expanding ecstasy. Jabs of rapture so sharp they were almost painful. Merciless friction. Swelling jubilation. Upsurging. Exploding. Flinging wide. Plunging. Erupting again. Pulsing. Waves of bliss. Undulating delight. Clinging to another’s solid body. Belonging. Softening flutters within as sound returned, gasping breath, soft moans.
Love. Warm, sweet, homecoming love.
“Forever.” That single word that meant so much more than time.
Some men deserved immortality. Naya could only be amazed she would share herself for eternity with such a man.
The End
Other books by Tracy St. John
Unholy Union
THE CLANS OF KALQUOR SERIES:
Alien Embrace
Alien Rule
Alien Conquest
Alien Salvation
Alien Slave
Alien Interludes: Clans of Kalquor Short Stories
THE NETHERWORLD SERIES:
Drop Dead Sexy
Blood Potion No. 9
Please visit Tracy’s website at http://www.tracystjohn.com/
and Tracy’s blog at http://tracystjohn.blogspot.com
Follow on Twitter http://twitter.com/@TracySaintJohn
Coming September 2012
NETHERWORLD III: ONCE BITTEN TWICE DEAD
I was tipsy and giggly. I sat in a grassy clearing in the middle of a stand of pine trees near the electrical station. The hum of transformers and distant traffic was a monotonous tone, hardly even noticed now that the five of us had been here for over an hour.
A Girls Only Thanksgiving Feast, Isabella had dubbed it. With only scraps of food left from our midnight picnic, we were a happy bunch of hens indeed. Sitting on blankets, three of the five of us huddled against the cooling night. We gathered around a spread bedsheet under the illumination of a full moon and security lights.
Lana Minchew, a roly-poly forty-something, her dyed blond hair styled in improbable Shirley Temple corkscrew curls, sighed and rubbed her belly. “Taylor, your amazing cooking has given me another five pounds to whine about. You are incredible.”
Isabella Rodriguez and I raised our champagne glasses, saluting Taylor Allen in complete agreement. Isabella, another cuddly lady who I thought was the quintessential image of a Hispanic mom, had allowed me to inhabit her body to sample Taylor’s stellar cuisine.
You read that right. Isabella is a channel, and I’m a ghost. My name is Brandilynn Payson, and I’ve been dead for around eight months now.
Patricia Keith, who’d been forced to spit out the delicious food after each taste, raised her bottle of Blood Potion No. 9 to the rest of us. Cool and elegant, she reminds me of a young black-haired Katherine Hepburn. Regal as ever, she’d managed to be subtle about getting rid of her tiny nibbles. Vampires cannot digest solid stuff.
With a cold smile, her glamour keeping it from turning too toothy, she toasted us. “Happy Thanksgiving to all my favorite turkeys … you four.”
We groaned and laughed, raising our glasses in kind. Isabella, Lana, along with Patricia’s trim and buttoned-up-tight girlfriend Taylor raised their glasses of Dom Perignon. I had a bottle of 1908 Pol Roger to myself, courtesy of the memory of a dead sommelier at the King George Hotel. We were all a little drunk except Isabella, who still sipped from her first flute. Of course, as a ghost I don’t get drunk from alcohol. My buzz came from the nearby electrical station. The power feed not only had me feeling happy, it also allowed my companions to see and hear me. Spirits are usually invisible to the living and undead.
In honor of the holiday, Taylor had eschewed her usual uniform of polo shirt and crisp creased pants. She always looks neat, but she’s not one to fuss over her appearance. Tonight she had actually curled her short brown cap of hair and looked lovely in black tuxedo slacks and a silk button-down blouse. Her leopard print ballet flats were a cool bit of flash, and the coral colored shirt set off her still-tanned skin to advantage. The town of Fulton Falls, located in southeast Georgia, is generous with the warmth and sun late into autumn. It’s no stretch for the living to maintain a bit of bronze even up to December.
Taylor grinned at me from across the blanket that held the sad carcass of the turkey she’d brined and roasted to perfection. “Brandilynn, you never gave us your list of what you’re thankful for.” She suddenly grimaced, realizing how that must sound. Shamefaced, she added, “I guess that’s to be expected, after the year you had.”
I didn’t take offense. Shaking my long copper-red hair back, I waved off her embarrassment. “I am thankful though. My killer is dead, no one’s trying to kill anyone I like, and I’ve got such charming, gorgeous, and witty friends…”
That earned a round of laughter. Lana nodded, her curls springing like yellow Slinkies. “True, true.” The psychic, one of the few breathing people who can hear and sense me even when I’m not soaked in electromagnetic energy, was typically over the top in a brown and green horror of a sweater. Pilgrims, Indians, and turkeys circled her pudgy waist. Red polyester pants joined the ensemble. Coco Chanel is weeping somewhere. Thank goodness Lana is enough of a sweetheart that her hideous fashion sense can be forgiven.
“You forgot smart,” Isabella informed me, which earned cheers. Her long black hair was twined in a French braid, and her pale pink eyelet dress with the white hand-knitted shawl was perfectly adorable.
Can you tell I love clothes?
It was Patricia who pointed out the best part of my afterlife. “Plus you have a couple of men who absolutely adore you.”
“Yes. I have that.” I looked away, smoothing my hands over my green pencil skirt which went so well with my ivory blouse that featured a scalloped sweetheart neckline. My two boyfriends were indeed something to be thankful for. They were also behind a lot of angst and guilt for me.
The others went quiet. They knew my struggle too well.
Lana can no more stand uncomfortable silence than she can leave sparkly blue eyeshadow to fashion-challenged pre-teens. “Still trying to decide?” she said.
I sighed and shrugged. “Well, look at my options. It’s like trying to pick between a Porshe and a Ferrari.”
Patricia’s tone held no rancor despite being closer to my too-many men situation than she would like. “You know my vote.”
I did indeed. Her brother Tristan is one of my lovers, a vampire like herself. She and I had already had the big talk about either committing to him or letting him go. To give her credit, she does understand I’m not stringing Tristan along because I get a thrill out of it. No, I am actually head over heels in love with two men. Plus I have serious commitment issues when it comes to settling down with just one of them.
A lot of people have had to be really patient with me. I’m not so stupid that I don’t realize there are limits to their patience though. I have to make a decision soon.
Lana sighed theatrically. “Some of us should be so lucky to have a problem like yours, Brandilynn. Then again, I wouldn’t want to have to decide between Tristan and Dan. Two handsome, smart, good men … on second thought, I would like to have those options!”
We chuckled at her effort to make light of what had become a very big problem for me.
<
br /> Taylor laid her head on Patricia’s shoulder, looking up into the vampire’s near-black eyes. “I can’t imagine loving two different people. Not when one is so perfect for me.”
As Patricia tilted her face down to kiss her sweetheart, we all groaned with good-natured disgust at the mushy display. I tried to ignore a little tremor of unease as lust made Patricia lose some control over her glamour, allowing her fangs to shimmer into view. Just because one of my boyfriends is also a vampire doesn’t mean they don’t creep me out when their true nature is revealed.
“Get a room!” Lana laughed. “I hate being the only unattached member of this group.”
Fortunately for us non-sentimental types, Patricia’s cell phone chose that moment to ring. Taylor blew an uncharacteristic raspberry as her girlfriend checked the caller’s I.D.
Patricia arched an eyebrow, flipping the phone open to answer. “Speaking of Brandilynn’s harem … What’s up, Tristan?”
Isabella took another delicate sip of her still half-full glass. “Boo. No men. This night is for the girls.”
Lana grinned as she rooted around our dinner’s remains for a deviled egg. “He’s so needy when it comes to an election.”
Tristan Keith was currently the only paranormal member of Ford County’s commission. A vacant spot in Georgia’s state legislature had him eyeing a representative seat in Atlanta. Paras don’t usually do well with the mostly human voters. However, Tristan’s involvement in stopping a nasty shapeshifting gang from killing thousands of humans as well as vampires had made him the frontrunner in the upcoming race.
Isabella plopped a second slice of sweet potato pie onto her paper plate. To Lana she sighed, “I’ve got news for you, my single friend. Men are always needy.”
“Hear, hear,” I agreed. Were they ever.
Patricia finished her low-voiced conversation. All the rare merriment had fled her expression. “Tristan would like us all to return to the King George. He says something bad has happened, but he won’t tell me what over the phone.”
Taylor huffed, champagne making her more emotive than usual. “You vampires and your drama. It’s Thanksgiving, for heaven’s sake. No one is working tonight.”
Patricia stood, her pantsuit blameless despite her having sat on a blanket on the ground for so long. Even wrinkles don’t dare challenge that chick. Her dark stare sobered us all. “He’s really upset.” To Taylor, she said, “Coming with me or riding with Isabella and Lana?”
Taylor stood and began to clean up the remains of our feast. “It’s too cold to fly. I’ll meet you there.”
Patricia gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and then gathered herself to launch into the air. With a superior smirk, both because I felt it and also wanted to take some of that grimness off her face I called, “Don’t be too slow.”
Vampires might be able to fly, but ghosts can materialize anywhere we want in the blink of an eye. Being superior is fun.
Patricia wasn’t going to let me have the last word. “Ha! I remember all those wrong turns you used to take. Aren’t you the one who ‘ported herself into a septic tank instead of the state aquarium?”
Oh yeah. Cancel haughty disdain. The stray thought of septic tanks instead of fish tanks had thrown me off course on my way to see the Titanic exhibit a couple of months ago. That misdirection had caused no end of delight to my supposed friends.
I stuck my tongue out at Patricia as she launched into the air. She was just jealous I’d get to Tristan before her.
* * * *
I materialized at the place I’d dubbed ‘Para Central’. It was actually the former ballroom of the beautiful King George Hotel, which had been southeast Georgia’s premier party spot back when railroad barons were in vogue.
The King George burned down in the Great Fire of ’36, only its ground floor surviving more or less intact. Like most of the charred remains of Old Fulton Falls, it’s buried under the new town, forgotten by most of the living norms. It’s gotten a second life as my sweetie Tristan’s headquarters. He’s done a lot to restore the ground floor; some to its original grandeur, and some of it for functionality.
There are guest rooms for people to use for sleep and other things – wink, wink. When I say ‘other things’, yes, I’m referring to sex. But it’s mostly of the vampire variety, and unless you’re a blood groupie, it’s best I don’t share anymore than that. For vampires, sex and blood-taking go hand in hand, and it’s utterly creepy. ‘Nuff said.
Those guest rooms aren’t fancy, not what you would have seen at the King George in its heyday. To experience the hotel in all its finery, you have to be a ghost. We dead enjoy this grand old hotel as it was, its spirit as solid to us as we are. Buildings, especially well-loved ones, can continue on in the spirit world, and it’s a joy to be able to experience the King George in all its former glory.
The newly rebuilt conference rooms and offices are thoroughly modern. Tristan is forever holding meetings with his staff, my ambitious sweetie constantly brainstorming plans and plotting moves to further his and Fulton Falls’ combined fortunes.
His latest renovation project is the once-grand lobby of the King George. As a ghost, I still see it as it was: the huge gold-and-crystal chandelier, the patterned marble tiled floor, the burgundy and gold wallpaper, and the gleaming white staircase that leads to the floors above. The giant fireplace always crackles with warmth, and fine furnishings allow the dead to lounge in the opulent surroundings. At the desk, a wonderful man named Charles greets everyone, his smile welcoming beneath his waxed mustache.
Work started just a couple of weeks ago to return the real world’s charred and debris-cluttered lobby to its original splendor. Contractors have begun to replace burnt timber, and we dead often hear the eye-watering racket of buzz saws, the head splitting thunder of hammers, the crash of large things tumbling, the roar of the generator that powers their tools. Once in awhile the living world appears in our midst even as we appear to it because of the energy their work generates. We stare at one another across the divide of death, the contractors with startled shock and us with eager curiosity.
Just as the mundane human population knows it shares the world with vampires, shapeshifters, gargoyles, and other paranormal creatures, it knows some of the dead don’t go on to … wherever we’re supposed to be. We just don’t appear to them that often. Ghosts are rarer than Bigfoot sightings.
The King George’s ballroom where I stood has already been restored. Large chandeliers hung over my head. The dance floor was rich parquet wood. There was a bandstand. Two large wooden executive desks sat on its raised stage. Also at odds with the sumptuous space were the three rows of utilitarian desks that marched across the room, covered with computers, paperwork, and telephones. Welcome to Para Central, where about fifty of Fulton Falls’ nonhuman population gathers to work for County Commissioner Tristan Keith.
It was a holiday, so the place was strangely quiet. Only four solid people were in residence right now, gathered around Tristan’s desk on the bandstand. Patricia’s desk was the other one that sat there. To call Patricia Tristan’s right hand would be downplaying her importance to her brother.
And speaking of tall, dark, handsome, and fanged, Tristan himself was among the tiny group. His haircut and clothing still reflects the 1920’s, the last decade he saw as a mortal man. But trust me when I tell you, he is present-day sex-ay. His short hair is as black as the night he inhabits, and his eyes are nearly as dark. He has model-perfect features and will be the cover boy for the first issue of Night, a vampire magazine set to launch in the new year. His long, lithe body has just the right amount of lean muscle. The man was built for sin.
During the day while his body lies in a coffin, Tristan is a ghost like me. His skin carries a golden-brown hue, his laugh comes easily, and his smile is warm and un-fanged. At night, however, it’s a different story. Oh, he’s still absolutely gorgeous … to die for, har-de-har-har … and just as elegant and charming as you can imagine. His skin is p
aper white though, like most vampires. If he relaxes his glamour, you’ll see those dark eyes go red-rimmed and his fangs will appear. And while that’s freaky enough, it’s not these physical changes that fill me with dread. It’s the cold, detached way he looks at others, at the way his hunter’s gaze sizes them up. Vampires are always hungry and even the most civilized has that hint of predator lurking beneath. I love Tristan, but if I was alive, we would not be sweeties, nor would Patricia and I be friends. I just can’t cope with being an item on someone’s menu.
My other boyfriend was here too, though he was a little difficult to spy. He was channeling through a young man named Jason Somerville, and the effect couldn’t be weirder to see.
Jason is in his early twenties, one of those too-cool kids who coasts the sidewalks on a skateboard, says ‘bro’ a lot, and wears the waistband of his pants in the mid-butt region. He’s a bit of a goofball, but he is a smart kid who studies engineering at the local college. He’s got the same gift as Isabella, the ability to consciously allow the dead use his body to communicate with the living. Tristan pays him pretty good to let my second sweetie Dan borrow some flesh time.
Ah yes, Dan Saling. Where do I start with this man?
He’d died young of a heart attack. I call him my Marlboro Man, not because smoking took him out, but because he has that robust masculinity the old cigarette advertisements used to promote. His face has that gorgeous ruggedness that screams All Man. Rough and ready. Muscled from good old-fashioned hard work. You know what I mean. Male, male, male, male, capital MALE.
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