Sympathy for the Devil

by Christine Pope

“I’m glad.” The car moved forward in little fits and starts; it was probably going to take awhile for us to climb our way out of the garage. “I’ve followed opera for quite some time now.”

  Of course you have, I thought. You’ve been there since the beginning, haven’t you?

  That made me think of all the different voices he must have heard over the years, all the different venues where he’d seen these works performed. The Pavilion was lovely, elegant and spare in a late-’60s sort of way, with its blond wood and modern chandeliers, but I wondered what it would be like to see an opera performed in an old theater in Paris, or Milan, or even New York.

  Finally we inched our way out of the parking structure. To my surprise, though, Luke didn’t turn the car south back toward Wilshire. Instead, he headed north on the Hollywood Freeway.

  I turned in my seat to look at him. “Is there some after-party going on that you forgot to mention?”

  He kept his gaze straight ahead. “I thought we could go back to my place for a drink.”

  Normally that comment would have sent up all sorts of warning flags. You know, the “he’s going to take you back to his house and have his wicked way with you” warning flags. But I thought about it for a minute and realized I didn’t care. At this point I had the thought that it might be a race to see which one of us could rip the other person’s clothing off more quickly. He’d probably win — I was wearing a lot less than he was.

  “That sounds good,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the edge of nervous anticipation in my voice.

  Without comment, he got off the freeway at Vermont, then headed south to Beverly Boulevard. Fairly soon we were back in the high-rent district near the country club where his home was located. He turned down a side street, then another. Within another minute or so, the wrought-iron gates that shielded his driveway swung inward, and we came to a stop under the porte-cochere.

  I waited while Luke came around to open the door for me and tried to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. Just because he had invited me back here didn’t necessarily mean he intended for the two of us to go to bed together.

  Yeah, right, I thought. And the NSA isn’t reading all my emails.

  However, I thought I maintained my cool pretty well, except for the part where the stiletto heel of my sandal caught in the mat at the side door. I would have pitched over on my face if Luke hadn’t caught me by the elbow.

  “Maybe a drink isn’t such a good idea,” he said with a laugh.

  “Very funny,” I retorted. “You try walking in three-inch spikes and see how well you do.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that one,” he replied, relinquishing my elbow and pushing the door inward.

  The side entrance opened into a short hallway that branched out to the kitchen on one side and then continued into the main part of the house directly in front of us.

  “Go ahead to the living room,” Luke said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I nodded and kept moving forward, hoping that I was recalling the layout of the place correctly. Soft light from a series of wall sconces illuminated my way, and without too much trouble I found the center hall and the living room beyond it. A low fire burned in the enormous hearth. The real thing, too, not one of those bogus contraptions of ceramic-composite logs and gas flames. No doubt he’d willed the fire into existence as we entered the house, along with the series of pillar candles that flickered from both the mantel and the low, heavy table that fronted the sofa. The air was warm and smelled faintly of sandalwood and spice.

  Great setting for a seduction, I thought, and kicked off my uncomfortable shoes. Again I felt that uneasy thrill in the pit of my stomach. Even putting aside the fact that he was the Devil, Luke and I had known each other for less than two weeks. All right, if we were counting time elapsed in actual evenings together rather than calendar days, then I’d probably spent more time with him than I had with some of my previous lovers before I ended up in bed with them. But still....

  I shook my head at myself. “Previous lovers,” my ass. There was Alex Akullian, whom I’d lost my virginity to during the summer between high school and college, mostly because I refused to start college still a virgin. A big gap between Alex and Brad, the love of my sophomore year. Another exciting dry spell that lasted until well after I had graduated and which was finally broken by a five-month relationship with Scott Tanaka. That one had actually been going fairly well — until his company transferred him to London. End of story. Then finally the wonderful Danny, although I wasn’t sure I could really count him since we’d never actually made love.

  All in all, it was a pretty pathetic roster for a single girl living in a city as supposedly happening as Los Angeles, but unlike Nina, I couldn’t jump into bed with someone just because I thought he had a nice ass. With the others, I’d truly believed I loved them…with the possible exception of Alex Akullian. No excuses for that one — you do some stupid stuff when you’re just eighteen.

  So did this mean I loved Luke? Oh, I was completely infatuated by him, and pretty seriously in lust if my physical reactions to his mere presence were any indication, but it’s still a big leap from that to love. Especially when I had to consider that he wasn’t even truly a man. I’d always needed to believe there was some sort of future in every relationship I pursued, but what possible future could I have with someone like Luke?

  At that inopportune moment he returned, carrying a bottle in one hand and a pair of small crystal cordial glasses in the other. My face must have given something away, since he gave me a piercing look before setting the bottle and glasses down on the cocktail table.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said automatically. Although I found him very easy to talk to most of the time, the subject of where we were headed seemed fraught with problems. I just didn’t want to go there yet.

  One eyebrow lifted as he gave me the lie, but he remained silent as he pulled the cork from the squat bottle and poured some dark garnet-colored liquid into each of the glasses. “Here,” he said.

  I took the fragile little glass from him and asked, “What is it?”

  “Port. I think you’ll like it.”

  Up until that point, I’d only come across references to port in the historical romances I indulged in every once in a while when I wanted to entertain myself without fully engaging my brain. Port had always sounded like a fussy Victorian drink to me, out of place in a world of martinis and mojitos. But what the hell.

  Lifting the glass to my lips, I took a very small sip. The liquor was sweet and rich, tasting of deep, dark grapes with a raisin-y undertone. I could feel the warmth pulse its way down my throat, gentler than the kick you got from brandy or cognac. Damn — if only I’d known what I’d been missing all these years.

  Ignoring the knowing smile on Luke’s mouth, I drank again. “You are the corrupter of the innocent, aren’t you?” I asked at length.

  “I prefer to think of it as ‘broadening horizons,’” he answered.

  “Rationalization,” I shot back, but I had to admit that he had a point. At any rate, just looking at the curve of his mouth and the strength of those shoulders under the proper evening jacket made me hope that my horizons were going to get broadened very soon.

  Almost as if my thoughts were a trigger, Luke drained the rest of the port in his glass and then set it down on the table. I did the same, recklessly tossing back the contents of the little glass even though I knew the stuff had to be much higher-octane than regular wine.

  He pulled me into his arms then, his mouth finding mine. I tasted port, smelled again the faint spicy scent that seemed to permeate his hair and skin. His hands moved over my bare shoulders, and the flare of desire I felt as his skin touched mine exploded through me like a match setting off gasoline.

  We kissed until I was gasping for air, and even then his lips moved against my throat, finding just the right sensitive spot behind my ear. My fingers reached up, fumbling with the unfamil
iar knots of the bow tie at his neck. Then it was loose, and I flung it down on the couch, shakily moving on to pull at the studs down the front of his shirt. A series of metallic little pings sounded as they hit the wooden floor.

  Probably we would have ended up right on that floor, or at least the sofa, if it weren’t for Luke’s ability to whisk us from one place to another in the blink of an eye. The next thing I knew, we were standing in a chamber slightly smaller than the living room, but with an enormous canopied bed. Another hearth occupied the far wall, and a fire burned there as well, providing the only illumination. A huge Persian rug covered the floor, soft against my bare feet.

  Could I have stopped him at that point? I didn’t know. For an eternity we stood there, staring at one another as our breaths sounded, ragged in the half-lit room. Then our mouths met again, and this time his hands were moving down my body, pushing the straps of my gown off my shoulders, sliding it down until I stood there only in the red satin underwear I’d bought at Victoria’s Secret, on a night that now felt as if it had taken place a century ago. Likewise, I pulled off his tuxedo jacket, and then went to work on the rest of his shirt buttons.

  His body was as beautiful as I had thought it would be — strong and toned, not particularly defined, but solid. The faintest dusting of dark hair trailed down his chest and disappeared into the waistband of his pants.

  A flash of his teeth as he grinned in the semi-gloom. “I told you red was my favorite color.” His fingers worked the front closure of my bra, and I gasped as he pulled it away and cupped my breasts in his hands. I moaned as he touched me, even as I worked the button on his pants and then pulled down the zipper. Although he didn’t stop touching me, somehow he managed to step out of his trousers, kicking them to one side.

  And then we were on the bed, his body pressed against mine as his hand slid down beneath my underwear, his index finger unerringly locating just the place to touch me…there. I moaned even more loudly, lying back and letting him stroke me. His breath came warm against my breast, and I felt his tongue touch me, swirling against my skin. The climax came with shocking suddenness — I’d never come that quickly in the past, but then, no one had ever been able to make me feel like this before.

  I lay there gasping for a few seconds, then turned over and feverishly reached for his underwear, pulling it off, my hands wrapping around him, feeling the strength of his arousal. His breathing quickened, and I bent and took him into my mouth, tasting him, the heat in my body increasing as I heard him give out a low, strained moan.

  Then he said, “Enough,” and pulled away, pushing me under him.

  “Yes,” I whispered, and he was inside me, our bodies moving as one, the warmth of his flesh against mine. It was as if we’d been made to fit together — no false moves, no awkward miscalculations. I felt the surge in my veins again, and knew that I was about to come once more.

  I climaxed just a few seconds before he did. With a groan that sounded as if it had been ripped out of him, he exploded inside me, the heat of his orgasm like a small supernova at the very core of my body. We clung together, both gasping, as the waves of passion slowly receded.

  How long we stayed like that, I wasn’t sure. Eventually, though, reality set in, and I eased myself away from him to find the bathroom and get myself cleaned up. When I returned, he still lay there in the bed, his dark hair mussed and sticking to his brow, the blankets pulled halfway up his chest.

  Did the Devil even sleep? I didn’t know for sure, but he was giving a pretty good imitation of it. Lifting the covers, I carefully slid into bed next to him. For a long moment I stared at his profile as it was silhouetted against the glow from the dying fire. I knew better than to say the words aloud, but I couldn’t help thinking them.

  I love you…I love you…I love you.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dim light slanted across my eyelids. I blinked, then looked up at the heavy drape of blood-colored velvet above my head. Last night I’d barely registered the fact that this bed had a canopy, but now I could see a little more clearly. The sheets were dark red as well, along with the heavy brocade comforter that now lay in a crumpled wad toward the foot of the bed. The overall effect was womblike, to say the least.

  Luke’s voice came from somewhere over to my right. “Rested?”

  I started, then clutched the sheet against my naked torso. Not that he hadn’t seen my body already, but somehow what happens between two people in the dark gets overridden by the light of a morning after. My hair was a disaster, half still pulled up and held in place by some very determined bobby pins, the rest tangling over my shoulders.

  “Um, yes,” I said. Rolling over, I saw him standing next to the bed in a white T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. He held a dark glazed mug in each hand. The thick smell of fresh coffee drifted slowly toward me.

  “I thought you could use this,” he said, and extended one of the mugs.

  Still clutching the sheet against my bare breasts with one arm, I sat up and took the coffee from him with the other hand. “Thank you.”

  “I suppose this could be awkward,” he went on, his tone casual. “Would it put your mind at ease if I told you that I had a wonderful time last night?”

  “Uh…so did I,” I replied, then bent my head to sip at the coffee. The heat in my face told me I was blushing furiously once again, but at least this time I had a good excuse.

  “And that I certainly don’t mean for last night to be our only time?” His voice sounded teasing, but when I glanced up at him, he looked serious enough. His hair was mussed as well, but in an adorable bed-head sort of way. A trace of dark stubble showed on his cheeks.

  “Okay,” I said. “If you insist.” I kept my tone light, but the pressure in my midsection eased a bit. At least it didn’t sound as if he meant for this to be a one-night stand.

  “Some breakfast after the coffee?”

  That sounded wonderful, but I felt a little used up. What I really wanted was a long, hot shower. A change of clothes would be nice, too. I hated the thought of sneaking into my apartment still wearing the previous night’s evening gown. I wouldn’t exactly call it the walk of shame — I certainly wasn’t ashamed of what I’d done — but it would still be a dead giveaway for letting my neighbors know that I’d gotten got lucky the night before.

  “Sure,” I replied, then hesitated.

  “Over on that chair you’ll find some of your clothing. And I have toiletries for you as well in the bathroom.” His eyes gleamed at me, impossibly blue. “Meet me down in the kitchen when you’re ready.” Then he leaned down and kissed me, just a swift touch of his lips against mine, but it was enough to get my blood racing all over again. After that he turned and went out through the door that led to the hall.

  I should have known he’d have all the contingencies figured out. Glancing over at the chair he’d mentioned, I saw a pair of my jeans, a sweater, and a bra and panties folded neatly there, just waiting for me. On the floor beneath the chair were my flat brown boots, with a trouser sock tucked into each one. Shaking my head slightly, I pushed my way out of the oversized bed — I had to be careful getting out, as it was a good deal higher than what I was used to — and went over to the chair. After picking up the stack of clothing, I wandered down the hall, found the bathroom in the same place I’d left it last night, and set my clothes down on a marble-topped chest at the far end, under the window. Sure enough, sitting on the counter was my little striped cosmetics bag. All the necessities were tucked away inside: toothbrush, deodorant, moisturizer, even my purple container of birth control pills. So much for Luke using me to conceive the Antichrist.

  I poured some water into the heavy glass tumbler I found next to the sink, popped a pill, then went over to the shower to turn on the hot water. Like my own bathroom, this one had a separate tub and shower stall, but there the similarity pretty much ended. In keeping with the rustic, Tuscan-villa feel of the house, this bathroom was completely tiled in shades of cream and rust and dark
blue. Every so often one of the tiles had a little hand-painted vine-like design on it. Although the place had probably been built in the early ’20s, the fixtures were up-to-the-minute Moen pieces that looked as if they should be in a museum. The water was hot, and felt wonderful. Inside the shower I found my regular Biolage shampoo and conditioner, along with the vanilla sugar soap I loved so much.

  All in all, everything had been provided to make the experience as enjoyable as possible, and I felt myself relaxing as the glorious massaging shower head pounded hot water against my neck and shoulders. No matter how great the sex, the aftermath can be messy, and it felt awfully good to get clean again.

  Then I thought I sensed movement out beyond the frosted glass of the shower door. I froze, soap still in my hand. The door opened, and Luke stood there, naked as I was, and obviously ready for another go-round.

  “I decided I couldn’t wait,” he said, and entered the shower. Reaching out, he pulled me against him, then smothered my mouth with his as his hands moved to cup my breasts.

  After the first second of shock, I responded with equal passion. How many times do you get to make love in a shower, after all? Reaching down, I took him into my own hands, using the soap as lubricant. His breathing grew harsher and more rapid. He leaned back against the tiled wall, his eyelashes dark crescents against his water-flecked cheeks.

  The orgasm came quickly. I had a quick thought that it helped to do this sort of thing in the shower — no muss, no fuss. But after a few seconds of slumping against the wall, Luke straightened, then slowly knelt, his lips moving down my torso until his mouth reached the damp triangle between my legs. And then it was just his tongue, and the waves of pleasure that pulsed through me until I almost collapsed. My shaking fingers found the metal bar of the washcloth hanger, and I gripped it so I wouldn’t fall down in a heap on the floor of the shower stall.

  He stood, his hair looking almost black as it lay wetly against his head. His breathing still sounded a little hurried, although nowhere close to the post-marathon gasps I was taking. That heart-stopping smile touched his lips. “Mind if I borrow some of that soap?” he asked.