The Wanderer's Children

by L. G. O'Connor

  The husky voice that rises from his throat surprises him. “I won’t.”

  He shifts off the sofa and rises to stand, settling between her thighs. As she lies open to him, he wraps her legs around his hips and pulls her onto his swollen shaft. His body quivers the moment he enters her warmth. Wet and tight around him, he eases into her to ensure he doesn’t hurt her before sinking himself in deep. The feeling blows his mind, turning him into a mass of pure sensation and forcing his eyes to clamp shut. His jaw goes slack and he releases a guttural sound of pleasure he doesn’t recognize.

  Afraid to come too quickly, Michael controls his thrusts, memorizing every silky contour. Sienna tightens her legs around his hips and coaxes him in faster. Picking up speed at her urging, his toes curl into the rug to keep him upright as his knees weaken with each satisfying stroke.

  Head thrown back, a low growl escapes from his throat as the exquisite pressure of release mounts inside of him with each rock of his hips. His fingers firmly grasp her thighs, his forearms flexing with each inward thrust. He can’t imagine Heaven feeling better than this. And right now, there’s no place on earth he’d rather be than buried inside Sienna. He glances back down, meeting her heavy-lidded gaze as she watches him wearing a look of pleasure.

  “I won’t break. Don’t hold back,” she breathes. Her words almost snap his control.

  Time to bring her home.

  Still joined, he sinks back onto the sofa and positions her beneath him. Caressing her face with his fingertips, he traces a trail over her cheekbone and down over her soft, parted lips. Her beauty both stirs and inspires him. He presses his mouth to hers, their tongues meeting in a sensuous dance for a deep, penetrating kiss.

  Breathless, he breaks away and grits his teeth, willing himself to hang on to seek out the spot he knows will drive her wild. Changing his angle with a small rotation of his hips, he hits home and smiles when she screams and her body pulses around him.

  Something exhilarating and unfamiliar shifts inside of him.

  Unable to hold back any longer, he slides his hands to her waist and increases his pace, surrendering to the moment. Thrusting fast and deep, his stomach muscles bunch with each stroke as her wet heat surrounds him in a tight handshake, setting his nerve endings ablaze in ecstasy. One last thrust and his thick shaft kicks wildly inside her as he explodes.

  “Sienna!” he screams, not caring if the whole world hears him. His body shudders with pleasure for what feels like an eternity. Spent, he collapses down next to her, breathing hard.

  Wearing a satisfied smile, she meets his eyes. “That was”—she gasps, trying to catch her breath—“amazing.”

  “You inspire me,” he whispers back, his chest heaving. But that was only half true. More than inspire him, Sienna strips away his inhibitions and allows him to fully express himself without a care or worry. How she does that, he doesn’t know, but he’ll take it.

  Closing his eyes, his lips find hers, needing to taste another kiss. Then he recognizes the unfamiliar feeling coursing through him… a feeling he hasn’t experienced in more years than he wants to count.

  Happiness.

  The buzzing alarm clock shattered Michael’s bliss-filled dream. He woke up covered in a thin layer of sweat with an unrelenting hard-on. Deep disappointment hit him in the chest—like it always did—after he dreamt of Sienna. What he’d do to make something like that real…

  “Ugh,” he mumbled, kicking off the wet, sticky sheets. He hoisted himself out of bed and padded naked down the hall toward the bathroom in search of a cold shower.

  This made the sixth dream with Sienna in the San Francisco recording studio since their kiss eight weeks ago. The dreams usually ended at the moment of climax. In this one, he got to linger in the afterglow.

  Too bad the hottest sex he’d ever had was while he was unconscious. Sienna may have provided a hot fantasy, but they were far from dating, much less having mind-blowing sex.

  Michael grabbed a fresh towel from the hall closet, his dark brows drawn together in thought. He wished that he could actually let himself go like that in real life—without a care or hesitation. Or a condom.

  What he’d told Simon was true: he was afraid to go there with her, or anyone for that matter. He wasn’t ready to lay himself bare… he may never be. But he couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed their kiss, which is all that ever happened. The dreams were another story. They took him to a place they could’ve gone had he not backed away. He wished… on second thought, better not to wish for something he may never be able to have.

  Damn dreams. Because of them, the mere thought of her made him rock hard. He’d never experienced such a visceral reaction to a woman like he did with Sienna, conscious or unconscious. His super intelligent strategy? Avoiding her like a case of typhoid rather than dealing with it like an adult.

  What a jerk, he thought with a shake of his head.

  He turned the water to cold and jumped in, letting it chill his skin and kill his hard-on. Once his dick shrunk to half its normal size, he flipped the water over to hot.

  He wasn’t exactly sure what his problem was, per se, when it came to relationships. Well, maybe he did. He just didn’t like admitting it. As long as nothing was expected of him—like with Cara—he was fine. Over the last couple of months, they had developed a very close friendship, which he’d welcomed. It was nice—refreshing even—and he didn’t have to worry. She’d never fall in love with him or ask him for more than he could give. No use denying it— whenever a relationship headed toward commitment, he bolted. Not for lack of caring or an inability to love, but out of terror—overcome with his irrational fears that his secret would be exposed.

  Michael drew in a breath and fought back the revolting smell of cinnamon that rose up to torment him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed away the shameful reminder. Would his past ever release him?

  Anger gripped his gut. This never happened with the ones he didn’t care about, the ones he dated under his “friends with benefits” policy. They knew the ground rules. Just sex. No commitments. No strings. For him, that meant no nightmares, no reminders of his past, just safe companionship.

  Funny, he hadn’t called any of his “friends” since he’d met Sienna.

  Michael paused as he ran the soap over his chest.

  Then again, it wasn’t like he’d never had a relationship before. He’d had two. The first was with Deva, his high school girlfriend, now a friend and loyal employee. And a second with a girl named Cathy when he’d attended Yale. Both had ended with him hitting the self-destruct button.

  He’d learned his lesson, sticking to nice girls who let him call the shots and ending things before he could fully risk getting found out.

  He rubbed shampoo onto his hair, lathering it up. He’d been doing just fine until he’d met Sienna. Even with all the picking, prodding, and provoking she’d done during their trip to Connecticut back in March, he’d held his own until that morning on the porch… when she’d exposed his secret about his former modeling career and the Calvin Klein campaign to Cara.

  It wasn’t so much what she’d found, but how she’d used it against him, making him feel violated and ashamed of an accomplishment he’d been so proud of. And then when she’d called him “pretty boy,” he’d almost snapped.

  He sighed deeply, rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, and slapped on some conditioner.

  As much as he wanted to avoid the mess he’d made with Sienna, the fact that she was Cara’s best friend meant chances were good they’d continue to cross paths.

  He blew out a breath. It was about time he manned-up and confronted her. He’d keep his promise to Cara and talk to Sienna at the party tomorrow night. Honestly, the thought of doing battle with a demon caused him less anxiety.

  Turning off the water, Michael leaned over to grab the towel he’d placed on the rack. Glancing down, he frowned at his naked, well-endowed body. If he could only be sure he wouldn’t be sporting wood the moment he saw her, he’d
be just fine.

  SIENNA

  “Michael!” Sienna screamed, waking herself in the middle of a powerful orgasm.

  Why can’t I have sex like that when I’m actually awake? she thought panting, and collapsed back against the pillow, deflated.

  Ever since the kiss they shared in San Francisco, dreams of Michael provided nights of sweet torture. By her count, this was the sixth dream of them back in the recording studio. Too bad waking up meant dealing with reality and her hurt feelings.

  Rather than keeping his promise to address what had happened, Michael had managed to sidestep any real conversation for their remaining time in San Francisco. Even so, something had changed between them after their encounter. A new respect and awareness, affection even, crackled between them. At least from her perspective. He’d barely left her side while Cara was unconscious in the hospital.

  That’s what made it so annoying. They had reached a truce, yet he’d treated her like a leper… for two solid months.

  The corners of her mouth dropped into a pout. Why do men promise things that will make you happy and then take them away? Everyone was happy, why not her? Didn’t she deserve to be happy?

  She couldn’t bear telling Cara about the dreams when they’d had lunch. If Cara hadn’t pressed her, she wouldn’t even have told her about the kiss. How could she admit that she’d been having wet dreams that had surpassed anything she’d ever experienced in real life, with a man who’d been avoiding her for months?

  Let’s just say, her lips were sealed. Well… at least one set of them.

  Sienna closed her eyes and thought of the dream. Her heart skipped a beat and a rush of heat filled her lower body as she remembered Michael, moving himself deep inside of her and touching parts of her she’d never known existed.

  The most shocking part wasn’t the sex, but that Michael had given himself over to her so completely. In real life Michael was a little… um… uptight. Or more accurately, he had a major stick up his ass. But underneath his tenderness that night, she’d sensed a strong passion trying to break the surface. Would having sex with him in real life be as good as in her dreams?

  Hell if she knew. The only thing she could be sure of was that she’d be seeing him tomorrow night at Cara and Simon’s party.

  She’d make sure she looked extra hot and bring her best game. Even if he didn’t speak to her the entire evening, he sure would know that she was there.

  Chapter 19

  ACHANELECH

  France. Château du Feu. Friday, May 24, 2:00 PM GMT +1

  “WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, Master?” Achanelech warily eyed his visitor from across his desk.

  Luc Morningstar smiled pleasantly at him from his chair. One leg crossed over his knee, he clutched a jeweled staff planted vertically next to him. Achanelech gave Luc’s staff a brief glance, but he had more pressing matters to worry about than the smoldering hole it would leave behind in the antique Aubusson rug covering the library floor.

  Quite the handsome Devil, Luc was finely dressed in a Savile Row suit with his sleek, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He had a handsome face worthy of female attention… until you looked into his eyes. Appearing black, they blazed a deep red more often than not.

  He hadn’t seen Lucifer topside parading in human form lately, and wondered about the nature of his visit. After he’d phoned in the names of the Twelve garnered from their source, he’d expected some peace and quiet while plotting his next move.

  “Can’t an old friend drop in for a visit?” Luc asked with a brilliant, white smile.

  How Achanelech wished that were true. Old, yes. Friend, no. Suppressing a shudder, fiery discomfort crackled over his skin with the memory of their last encounter in April. Lucifer hadn’t been wearing the attractive guise of Luc then; rather, he’d been in demon form with full scales and red skin—the creature of nightmares.

  The meeting had been far from social. He had the healing scars to prove it.

  “Don’t think me rude to assume that this is more than a casual visit,” Achanelech replied, unable to stop the involuntary twitch of his eyelid. “Have you an assignment for me and Em?”

  A tendril of dread coiled around him. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to continue his convalescence with Emanelech while his plan to capture Cara Collins came to fruition.

  “Nothing like that,” Luc said, his eyes flashing red. “I want you to host… a party.”

  “What kind of party?” he asked slowly, immediately suspicious. When Luc held a party, Achanelech wasn’t typically invited.

  “More like a business meeting really,” he said. “I think the time has come to formulate our execution plan.”

  Achanelech’s stomach dropped. “Why me?”

  A hiss escaped Luc as he shot out of his chair and lunged across the deck, his hand clasping Achanelech by the throat. “Because you’re the idiot who forced our hand with the Angelorum,” he said, breaking into Hellspeak.

  Achanelech felt the force of Luc’s grip nearly crush his windpipe as he choked for air. Stars danced in front of his bulging eyes as he fought for breath.

  “Any more stupid questions?” Luc asked calmly, his head tilted to the side.

  Tearing at Luc’s hand, Achanelech gasped a nearly inaudible “No.”

  “Good.” Luc replied and released him. Achanelech fell back into his seat with a thump, while Luc returned to his relaxed position across the desk.

  Achanelech picked up a pen in his unsteady hand. “When would you like to have it?”

  “Soon.”

  So much for peace and quiet, Achanelech thought with a painful swallow. “Do you have a guest list that I can reference?” he rasped.

  “All of them. Invite them all for a little strategy meeting.”

  Achanelech paled. “You want a Convocation?” Not just any strategy meeting. Lucifer wanted him to host all of Lucifer’s Thirteen Lieutenants—a thankless endeavor at minimum. After the last Convocation held four hundred years ago in Rome, the hosting Lieutenant spent a decade recovering. Then there was the cost and potential unwanted attention. The capture of food alone would require full-time help, and there were only so many bodies that could be hidden in and around Paris in this day and age without raising suspicion.

  That’s if they didn’t destroy each other first.

  With that much pride and envy under the same roof—not to mention a heavy representation of the other deadly sins—anything could happen.

  Luc glared at him. “Exactly.”

  “Yes, Master.” Lowering his head, he jotted down some notes.

  Em’s going to have a herd of Holsteins when she hears this, he thought, using the latest phrase Em had taught him in an effort to modernize his vernacular. She hadn’t felt up to guests, and having Lucifer’s Thirteen in their midst would be nothing short of harrowing. He didn’t know which he feared more—Em’s wrath or the Convocation. But his refusal would only spell his demise.

  Luc leaned his staff up against the desk and tented his fingers. “Anything new from our source?”

  “Nothing since the names and their estimated arrival,” Achanelech said.

  Cling-clang-clong. The door chime echoed off the high plaster ceilings of the château. A shudder rolled through him. “I’m not expecting anyone,” he muttered, not meaning to speak aloud. None of his invited guests used the front door.

  Flashing a smile and checking his watch, Luc picked up his staff and tapped it into the rug eliciting a hiss followed by the smell of burning wool. “I am… and they’re right on time.”

  A few moments later, Achanelech’s personal butler entered escorting the unexpected guests. Achanelech bit back a gasp behind an impassive face as he watched Escher Grant, the only one of the Thirteen with whom he maintained a mutually beneficial unholy alliance, walk into the room. More shocking, standing by his side was Achanelech’s pet Nephil. No longer wearing white slave garments, his Nephil stood tall and proud, draped from head to toe in black leather—a s
harp contrast with his light coloring.

  “Escher! So good of you to come when called,” Luc sneered, popping up out of his chair.

  As impeccably dressed as Luc in custom tailoring, Escher could easily blend into a crowd of London bankers. With short dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a British accent, females dropped at his feet. But that only suited him if they were willing to play in his sadistic dungeon.

  Escher bowed at the waist and gave a brief tip of his head. “But of course,” he replied in a pinched upper-class accent.

  Luc swept his hand to the chairs in front of the desk. “Sit. We have a few things to discuss.”

  Achanelech tracked his Nephil as it trailed behind Escher. “My pet has behaved well under your care?”

  Escher gave him a tight smile. “Very. As a matter of fact, while we’ve been waiting for more information from your source, Samuel has been gathering an inordinate amount of intelligence on our enemy.”

  “Samuel?” Achanelech asked, confused. “Who’s Samuel?”

  Escher snorted. “Acchie, you really are a wanker, you know that?” He pointed at the hulking Halfling standing with his eyes averted behind him. “Your Nephil, you idiot. You’ve had him for a hundred and fifty years, and you still don’t know his bloody name? Or is it that you just choose not to use it?”

  Heat rose in Achanelech’s fingers until they snapped and sizzled. He pointed at Escher and threw a bolt of white fire. “Show some respect under my roof. Since when have you developed a love of lesser creatures?”

  Escher’s palm shot up to block the attack, the heat turning to mist. “You’ll have to do better than that, old boy. And I’ve never supported cruelty to animals,” he said with a glint in his eye and a knowing smile. He winked. “You know I have a penchant for blonds.” Achanelech cringed at the thought, knowing more than he wanted to about Escher’s penchants.

  “Children, stop arguing,” Luc snapped. “We have more important things to discuss.” His eyes bore into Achanelech. “Like how you’ve managed to attract even more attention to our revenue sources in the United States.”