by Jory Strong
He yielded with a groan, filled her slick, welcoming channel in a single hard thrust. The pleasure forced his eyes closed. “I’ll never get enough of this,” he said, unable to stay still for more than a second.
Her moans matched his. Her sheath clung, fisted, tried to hold him even as it made him fight to reclaim every inch he abandoned.
What breath he had came in ragged, rough pants as he fought toward ecstasy just as desperately as he tried to delay it. But when she orgasmed again, crying his name, he came in a hot rush of seed that left him shaking and weak, almost afraid he’d pass out as he let his weight carry them both to the blanket.
Bryn smiled in utter contentment. She liked having Atticus curled around her back, his hand cupping her breast, his cock still lodged inside her.
“I think your brothers would be hard-pressed to call you dull right now.” She wiggled a tiny bit to emphasize where his penis was. “And as for being a stick in the mud…”
Atticus’s groan widened her smile. His mouth on her neck made her sigh appreciatively.
“Are you close to them?” she asked, remembering her earlier question and hoping he had something she’d always wished for, a brother or sister to care about and who cared about her in return.
“I’d already taken the reins of the family business from my father’s hands when my mother arrived at the notion I might be lonely and set about to provide me with siblings. To be honest, it probably wouldn’t have occurred to her at all if she wasn’t visiting the temple of Aphrodite at the time. In fact, I suspect the birth of my brothers had more to do with Aphrodite’s reputation for inciting lust than anything else. But it wasn’t my place to protest, and who would have guessed Mother wasn’t going to stop with just Sammael? Beyond that, my father seemed quite happy with the situation, for reasons I understand completely now.”
Bryn laughed. The idea of being driven to lust in the temple of an ancient Greek goddess was a bit mind boggling, but given Atticus’ intelligence and familiarity with the metaphors of Death, it wasn’t completely shocking. “I gather your parents are intrigued and fascinated by history.”
He chuckled. “Ancient history is as real and relevant to them as modern history.”
“And your brothers?”
He snorted. “They believe anything important enough to know can be found in an Xbox.”
“Definitely a generation gap there.”
“Several lifetimes at least.”
“Did you see them much when they were growing up?”
“As soon as my brothers were old enough to start learning the trade my parents sent them to me.”
“You raised them?”
“It was more like trying to herd wild cattle and keep them together and going in a straight line.”
Bryn smiled, hearing the affection in his voice as well as the exasperation his memories caused. “I’ll bet you did a wonderful job raising them,” she said, heart tripping in her chest as the image of him holding their black-haired son sent hope shivering through her.
“They think I’m hopelessly old-fashioned and without imagination. For ages they’ve been chomping at the bit, anxious to show me they can do things better than I can.”
“That’s the highest compliment they can give you, you know, their being anxious to show you what they can do. It’s about wanting your approval, not about proving you’re hopelessly old-fashioned and without imagination. I would have loved a brother or sister, especially one who could see ghosts.”
“You were lonely as a child?”
She hated thinking about her childhood and the parents who were often mistaken for her grandparents by the time she started attending school, their age only exacerbating the gap between her and them, making her feel outcast in a home where silence reigned, commotion wasn’t tolerated and the wickedness of the world was kept strictly at bay. “Very,” she said.
His mouth returned to her neck. “Now that we’ve found each other, you won’t know loneliness again,” he said, his kisses and words chasing the chill of the past away.
He groaned when she rolled to her back, forcing his penis from her channel. But she wanted to look into his eyes, to see his face and memorize every expression, every beautiful feature. Against his mouth she said, “Your brothers are lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky to have you.”
One kiss led to a second, a third, a fourth, until the number was lost in a haze of intimacy and the intimacy led to renewed passion and cries of release, followed by lazy contentment. They cuddled, napped and forgot about the rest of the world until finally it was time to dress and return to the car.
Bryn’s contentment lasted until they got back to the Aston Martin. When she saw the piece of paper held against the windshield by the wiper blade on the passenger side, her first thought was the estate had sold and having seen her car here, the new owners or the lawyer were letting her know she could no longer come and go freely.
Disappointment crowded in only to be replaced by anger, embarrassment, uneasiness when she read the note. How could you let him take you like an animal? You deserve better.
The strokes were dark and bold, slashed across the whiteness of the paper and vibrating with anger and pain. There was no signature but she didn’t need one to know Mark must have followed them here and left the message after watching them have sex.
Bryn started to fold the paper. She hated the way her hands shook and her heart thundered in her chest.
Atticus took the note from her before she could put it away. She shivered as warm summer air seemed to turn into an arctic chill around them.
His face tightened. His eyes darkened to the gray of a deadly storm. “I will deal with him.”
“Atticus, no. I can—”
He stopped her with the press of his lips to hers, his kiss gentle despite his tense muscles and the anger she felt seething in him. When he lifted his mouth she tried again to say she’d see about getting a restraining order, only to be stopped with a second kiss.
Bryn gave in. She let his kisses take the edge off her worry.
“No violence if it can be avoided,” she finally managed when the need for breath forced their mouths apart.
His eyes were slate gray, clear and beautiful, coldly determined. “I believe I’ve proven myself capable in a fight. We met under those circumstances, if you’ll recall, though I believe this situation can be dealt with in another manner.”
She relaxed enough to tease him. “Dull? A stick-in-the-mud? Obviously your brothers don’t see the same man I do.”
The ice in his eyes melted. He laughed and rubbed his nose against hers. Heat rose between them in a heartbeat, renewed need along with it. “Let’s go back to my place,” she said.
“Let’s.”
* * * * *
The blinking answering machine caught Bryn’s attention as soon as she stepped into her office. She walked to the desk and hit the play button. It was Sheri.
“Bryn, mega thanks again for this morning. I’m indebted. The whole band is. And guess what? When Stoner told everybody what happened, the lead guitarist said he knew someone who could use your services. Since I know how you operate I called and made the pitch. I told Temperance your rates and it’s a go. I wasn’t sure when you could do it—I mean, Atticus is completely hot. I don’t blame you for taking some time off so I didn’t try to pump up the fee for speedy service. But please, please, please let me go with you. I mean, I’m in awe. I already left a message begging Marietta to let me work for you next week. And if you’ll let me go with you to Temperance’s place, it’ll be off the books, totally, no payment expected.”
Sheri rattled off a series of cell numbers. Bryn managed to write the last one down.
“You’ve got an admirer,” Atticus said, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back to his front.
Bryn grinned when she felt his erection. The man was definitely making up for lost time.
She wriggled so her buttocks rubbed his hard
cock. Joy rose like bubbles in champagne when his hips jerked and he moaned her name. Then it was her turn to shiver and whimper as his hands slipped underneath her blouse and bra to cover and torment her nipples.
“Do we call her back?” Atticus murmured between kisses to Bryn’s neck.
“We should,” Bryn said, her voice breathy. “Even though she’d understand if I don’t. You are completely hot after all.”
Atticus’ laugh deepened Bryn’s happiness. With a final kiss to her neck, his hands left her breasts to settle on her belly.
Bryn wasn’t sure that was any better. Her clit was standing at attention, her cunt lips slick and parted. It was all too easy to imagine his hand sliding beneath the waistband of her shorts and panties and cupping her mound, capturing her clit against his palm as his fingers pushed into her channel.
A shudder went through her as her cunt spasmed and arousal wet her panties. Against her back she could feel the rapid beat of Atticus’ heart and his shallow breathing.
Business first, she told herself. But the promise of pleasure called more loudly, more insistently.
It was completely wanton, completely irresponsible.
She’d never be able to sit at her desk again without remembering.
Still, she didn’t protest when his fingers deftly opened her shorts. A sound that couldn’t be mistaken as anything but encouragement escaped when his hands slid the garment over her hips along with her panties and both dropped to the floor.
“Bend over. Hands on the desk,” he ordered, the command making liquid heat pool in her labia.
“So you’re a fan of police shows?” she said, images of bondage crowding in as she obeyed him, a moan accompanying her shiver when he parted her blouse and bra.
“I’m your fan,” Atticus said, cupping her breasts, playing with nipples left sensitive by his earlier suckling. “Now spread your legs.”
His trousers were smooth against her bare buttocks as she pressed backward, rubbed against his cloth-covered erection in order to entice him to come out and play.
Atticus laughed, a husky masculine sound that made Bryn smile despite how desperately she wanted him to pierce her with his cock.
“Yes,” she moaned when his hands left her breasts to stroke over her stomach.
He gathered arousal from her wet, swollen cunt lips then found her clit, tormented her with silky touches as he held her stiffened knob prisoner between two fingers.
“Please,” she said, hips jerking each time he ran his forefinger over the tiny head.
She shuddered when his hands left, widened her stance when she heard the sound of his zipper sliding downward. And then he was where she wanted him to be, where she needed him to be, his cock thrusting in and out in a hard quick fuck that left her completely sated and sprawled across the top of her desk.
“I’m never going to be able to sit at my desk without remembering this,” she said, voicing her earlier thought.
Atticus chuckled. “I hope not.”
Somehow Bryn found the energy to stand. “I’ll just stagger in and grab a shower while you bask in your glory.” She kissed him to let him know she was teasing. “I’d invite you to come with me but I have a pretty good idea of where that would lead. As soon as I’m done I’ll call Sheri back and find out more about our next ghost appointment.” She kissed him again for good measure then scooped her panties and shorts off the floor before going into her living quarters.
Atticus watched Bryn until she was out of sight. It was probably just as well she hadn’t invited him to shower with her. One minute more of seeing her walk, naked from the waist down except for sandals, and he’d be hard again. Reluctantly he put his cock away.
“So what’d you think?” his brother asked.
Atticus prided himself on his reaction to Sammael’s sudden appearance. It was limited to a small twitch. He refused to consider that his brother was inquiring about anything other than the latest manifestation of Death.
He remembered his earlier decision to apply psychology rather than rant or try to convince his brothers to leave him alone as he worked toward revealing who he really was to his new wife. And as it so happened, given his current lack of power and his desire to keep Bryn’s worry over Mark at bay, he needed their assistance.
Atticus contemplated how best to point out the problems with respect to Charon the Coachman, namely that not only had Bryn, Stoner and Sheri seen the manifestation of the doorway opened by Death, but anyone who happened to be driving by or looking out their window had seen it as well. And then there was still the matter of the Death tarot cards taken from his private rooms, though he privately acknowledged that was a losing battle.
“Quite effective,” Atticus finally said, going for simplicity, “though a little more discretion might be in order.”
Sammael nodded, his mien serious, his mouth remaining straight though Atticus wasn’t fooled. Amusement, oh he read it in his brother’s eyes. Discretion was the mark of someone dull, someone—
Well, let them think him dull. The weight of that word no longer had the power to wear him down to nothing like water on stone.
When he’d become Atticus Denali he’d shed the labels affixed to him by others. He’d freed himself from the rigid role imposed by the name and title he’d previously called himself by.
He was a different man now, a changed man. One Bryn found interesting, attractive, enjoyable to be with.
Atticus ignored the amusement lurking in Sammael’s eyes. He pulled the note left on the windshield from his pocket and handed it to his brother.
Sammael’s eyebrows rose and a speculative glint replaced the amused one. His eyes strayed briefly to the front of Atticus’ trousers.
Justice prevails, Atticus thought. Imagine the sex and weep.
“This is the guy who brought the flowers and candy?” Sammael asked.
“The same. I need to know where he lives.” Atticus tilted his head to indicate the shower being turned off.
“You want us to take care of him for you? Put the fear of Death into him?”
“No. I’ll see to the matter myself.” Memories of his successful fisticuffs with Billy made Atticus add, “But the rest of you may accompany me if you wish.”
“I’m out of the shower if you want to grab one,” Bryn called from the next room.
“I’ll be back when I have the information,” Sammael said before fading from sight.
Atticus joined Bryn in the living quarters. She was standing in front of her closet, wearing only a towel.
“You’re giving me ideas,” he said, pulling her back to his front and placing kisses along her shoulder.
“As if you need me to give you any ideas.”
One last kiss against her delicate skin and he forced himself to release her. “I’ll be right back. If you’re not dressed don’t expect me to behave.”
Her laughter followed him into the bathroom. A hurried shower and he stepped back into her living quarters to find her cooking.
“I haven’t called Sheri yet. I thought I’d fix us something to eat just in case the potential client wants us to come over right away. Does fried vegetables served in pita bread with teriyaki sauce sound okay to you?”
“Sounds delicious.”
Atticus moved to where his suitcase was open on a chair and quickly dressed. As he buttoned his shirt the books on the nightstand caught his attention.
The first one made him smile as a now-familiar warmth spread through his chest. Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time was a particular favorite. The other books had him stepping closer, the images on their covers and the titles leaving little doubt as to what was inside them.
Erotic romance. Atticus thumbed through a well-read story. Bondage. Anal sex. Other scenes reminiscent of what he and Bryn had already done together. His cock filled.
“Food’s ready,” she called.
He put the book down, hungry now for more than fried vegetables served in pita bread.
<
br /> As soon as they ate Bryn returned Sheri’s call. She couldn’t suppress the smile when she learned Temperance owned a vintage clothing store. Not only was it the perfect location for a ghost, but having met Sheri and Stoner, she’d expect a friend of their lead guitarist to be equally non-conformist.
“She’s at the shop,” Sheri said, “and she’s psyched for this. I talked to her a few minutes ago. She called me to see if I’d talked to you yet.”
“Atticus and I can head there right now,” Bryn said.
“Great! And it’s cool if I show up, right?”
“We’ll meet you there.”
“I’m out of here.”
Bryn laughed and hung up the phone.
Chapter Eight
Temperance wore a sleek ankle-length white dress, gloves to her elbows and a five-strand pearl choker that made Bryn think Roaring Twenties. What was even more astonishing was how well Temperance pulled it off, given she probably got carded anytime she tried to buy alcohol.
“I really appreciate this,” Temperance said. “Sheri said it’d help if you knew who died here. I’ll tell you what I can then if you need more, we can call Gramps. He owns the building but right now he’s on a poker cruise. He’s not very good about checking for messages when he’s playing, so hopefully we won’t need him.
“The book guy is the one who died. After that happened Gramps hasn’t been able to keep a tenant here for more than a couple of months. That’s why he finally agreed to let me have the place for one dollar a month plus utilities.”
Temperance twined two gloved fingers together. “Gramps and I have always been tight.”
“Tell me about ‘the book guy’,” Bryn said.
“He was old. Think Albert Einstein, only off the deep end, and a lot smaller. I only ever came here once with Gramps when the book guy was a tenant. But I remember the shop was filled, totally packed with musty books I couldn’t imagine anyone would want. I still think it’s totally unreal someone would kill him over them. That’s what happened. A robbery gone bad is what the police told Gramps.”
