In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 (5 page)

“So…” Tingles cover my scalp when Mace winds his fingers in my hair. “See you tomorrow night?”

“And hopefully many more after,” I purr, then run my finger down his chest and hook it in the waist of his low-slung jeans.

His grin is slow, burns like fire, then he says, “It’s a date.”

“What about tonight?” I suggest. I can’t hide my eagerness. “You could come back to my Temple with me…”

“With me all sweaty?”

“Did I not just lick your skin?” I tug on his pants and catch a flash of skin. “I don’t mind the taste of a man’s salt.”
 

“Really?” His eyebrow rises, and a note of piqued interest warms his voice. “What kind of a goddess are you?”
 

“A goddess of feminine sexual heat,” I answer. “And of vengeance.”

It’s Mace’s turn to smile. “An interesting combination. ‘Hell hath no fury—’”

“Something like that,” I say, dropping my voice low, winding another purr through it. I pull him close, using his jeans as a handle, then slide my hands around to cup his butt. We’re so close, our breaths mingle. “So, is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ to my invitation?”

His eyes shadow a moment, but then brighten. “Oh, hell yeah.”
 

“You won’t be in hell,” I promise, sliding a hand around his body to graze across his strained zipper. “But, ‘yes’ is a good answer.”

“Then maybe we should get off this stage,” he suggests, poring a stare down my body, “and out of here.”

“That would be divine.”
 

He turns to Jazz, busy unplugging instruments and coiling cables, and says, “We’re out of here.”
 

“Uh-huh.” Jazz grunts. “You and the ‘Sex Goddess’ go have fun.” A rather facetious comment, I’m certain, yet the musician has no idea how correct his jibe is. Jealousy is his motivator, not truth—it’s written on every line of his sunken eyebrows and tight-lined lips. But he will never know the full extent of my goddess powers—those are for Mace’s sole exploration.

Hand in hand, Mace and I step offstage. At the edge of the dance floor, Jeneva stands holding my lace shirt in her furled fist. Mace freezes beside me, his gaze snapping back and forth between me and the snipe I believe is a follower to someone of dark magick.

A grin curls my lips, one I know is as sharp as my leonine teeth would be. With a snap of my fingers, the shirt disintegrates to a fall of white, shimmering on its path from her fingers to the floor. Her eyes open to goblet-size, then narrow to a glare before she stomps away. She’ll contact whoever her master is, I’m certain. Small consequence. It’s Mace’s reaction I care about, not hers.

He stares at the scattering of white on the floor, then shifts his gaze back to me. I arch an eyebrow. We have much to discuss if he cannot handle a teensy show of magick.

His lips crook in a lopsided smile. His expression shows surprise, but not the shock an inexperienced mortal would have. The black thread that once strangled his soul comes to mind. He’s no stranger to magick—even if he doesn’t know he has his own.
 

One of the men in the crowd staggers closer, spilling beer from his cup with every lurching step. “Hey, Mace.” He stops talking to wipe spittle from his chin. “When’s the next live sex show?”

Every muscle tenses in Mace’s body. He untwines his fingers from mine, and balls his hand into a fist. He has no hackles, yet I feel him bristle against the slur. Rosy red mist leeches into my vision, and almost instantly I seethe for vengeance. Yes, it was a private moment made public—it wasn’t meant for cretins to make rude comments about.
 

However, this is Mace’s time, his chosen place, and it would look bad if I ripped the man’s lips off and fed them to him. Mace doesn’t act on his obvious anger though, choosing instead to remain by my side.

“Sorry,” Mace deadpans. “One time only. But maybe your sister’ll give you a little action.”

The antagonist’s jaw drops. Then, seeming to favor an appearance of intellect, he snaps it shut again.

The palpable tension eases in my consort, he unfurls his fist and draws me to his hip. Pausing for a moment, he gives the loudmouth an opportunity to answer the barb. The man sways on his feet, blinks, opens and then closes his mouth. With a wave of his hand, he refuses to engage in verbal battle. Mace snorts, laughs and then says, “Well, then, maybe not.”

Laughter can be healthy or harmful. This time Mace’s laughter hit as hard as a fist.

I once led pharaohs into battle, slinging arrows of flame to vanquish all enemies. Times have changed. Mace has every capability of dealing that man serious physical harm, but he chose better. I pull closer to him, appreciating him all the more for his sensibility.
 

Wrapped in each other, we lurch through the door. I let my predator out and pin Mace to the outside wall. A surprised breath woofs from his lungs, then he makes a moaning sound deep in his throat when I run one hand along his chest, his stomach, and then stroke the tightening bulge in his jeans. Taking a cue from my aggression, he growls and fists his hands in my hair and pulls my mouth to his.
 

The kiss is deep, his tongue in my mouth, me biting his lip. He frees one hand from my head and glides it down my back to squeeze my ass.

I stroke him harder, moving from his lips to kiss a path down his neck. Mace groans, low and throaty, then says, “We’ve got to stop this.” At my pouty expression, he gives me an awkward grin and hitches at his pants. “These jeans are getting uncomfortable enough as it is.”

“That is not a problem.” I take his hand and lead him toward my darkened alley. “I don’t plan on leaving you in those clothes long. You can bathe at the Temple. Or…” I trail a fingertip down his chest and stop just short of his denim-clad erection. “I can bathe you…”

“A bath would be good. But I don’t have any clean clothes…”

“Little consequence,” I say. “I can create servants for the laundry.”

“Wait a minute. What kind of Temple are you talking about?”

“Mine.”

“You own a hotel named The Temple? Or you are a goddess with a Temple?”

“The latter,” I answer.
 

Mace stops dead, as though running hard up against a wall of reality. His fingers loosen their grip. His eyebrows pinch together. I sense a war in him, desire fighting some kind of hesitation. Before he can second-guess his, or my, intentions, I turn toward him. I bring my palms, pulsing with red light, up beside his temples. I hold his gaze, reaching in, trying to burn out the fear I see vining through him like the black thread once had.

“Do not be afraid.”

He’s silent.
 

His cocoa irises cloud over with questions. My only answer for him is silence and the sick, twisting sensation I know results from touching my flaming hands to his head. Humans aren’t made for realm travel. Mace’s gorgeous eyes roll, then he slumps against the brick wall.

Our bodies deliquesce and disappear…
 

Chapter Six

The Prey

Spinning. So damn dizzy. Every vein burns like someone filled them with acid.
 

I focus on slow, deep breaths, in and out. Each breath drags in the spicy perfume of the blonde goddess who had already worked her way into my heart. Whose hands caught fire. Who pressed that red flame into me and set my body burning, and then pumped my melted mass through a giant funnel.

At least that’s what it felt like.

Oh, fuck me. This is worse than any morning after Naami stole moments of my life.
 

I let out a groan. And peel open my eyes.

Holy crap.

I’m not leaning on a wall, I’m flat on my back. Plumes of incense drift over my face. Pale sandstone walls replace pitted concrete. Then temporal vertigo hits, and I slam shut my eyes. This place is not a street corner in Michigan, and it’s not nighttime. Heat and light fill this place, press on my skin and eyelids, zing in the lines of my tattoos.
No no no no…
Disbelief runs through my mind, snipping my thoughts into ribbons of nonsense.
 

Where the—?
 

How in the fuck—?
 

Just who in the hell—?
 

I can’t believe this. And then one coherent thought:
Does any of it matter?
 

No woman has made me feel the way she does—sickness of the moment aside. She’s a need pumping in my blood, a craving, itching on every nerve. The “goddess” has grown into the sun my pathetic rock-singer life wants to orbit around.

“Where the hell…” I mutter, then wipe a hand across my forehead. She’s kneeling by me, her full lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed in a look of concern. “Where the hell have you brought me?”

“I told you once already,” the gorgeous blonde purrs, “that you would not be in hell. This is my Temple.”
 

She stands, her jeans and black tank top totally out of place here. I can just imagine how wrong I look in her life. Sheer curtains billow in a hot breeze, polished stone floors spread wall to wall. Gold shines on altars, burgundy pillows fill a bed and most of the seats. Metal baskets cling to the walls, exhaling scented smoke.
 

The goddess sighs, a wistful smile plays on her lips. She’s home, I can read it in the energy she puts off. She’s more…powerful here. There’s nothing muting her magick. Her arms lift, an almost casual motion. Shimmers in the colors of sunlight and red wine swirl around her body, glowing like fire and smelling like cinnamon and ginger.
 

There’s no longer room to question her divinity. Or that Naami will rip what’s left of my life out through my ass when Jeneva tells her who I’m sleeping with.
 

 
“Temple…” I sit and take in the ancient Egyptian shrine. It’s still so hard to believe. It’s a holier, elevated version of my bedroom. It’s…impossible. “So, you’re really a goddess? No playing around?”

“No playing around.” She nods. “Except for me playing with you.”

She steps forward, her intent on my seduction screaming from her. Damn my heart for racing. This can’t be real. I’m Mace Reynard, from Michigan, nobody special. And I sure as hell don’t fall for ancient goddesses.

Scratch that noise. Who am I trying to kid? Despite it all, my heart knows the truth, and my cock agrees. Impossibilities aside, I still want her. She hesitates at my knees, an obvious indecision shadowing her sexy smile. Still, she drags her fingernails up my thighs. Little electric jolts shock my groin, and then she pauses with her fingers at my fly.
 

“What’s stopping you now, Goddess?”

“Nothing.” She tips her chin down, her voice all breathy and her eyes in that sexy come-and-get-it angle. “I promised you respite from these clothes, did I not? And a shower…”
 

“You hinted at washing me…”

“So true.”

With one elegant hand held up, she snaps her fingers. To my slack-jawed surprise, a servant—tan skin, white linen wrapping his waist, shaved head—snaps into existence out of nothing. He looks like a 3D version of one of those hieroglyphs, only with straight legs and arms, not bent limbs at funky angles. He eyes me, then bows to his mistress and stokes the flames beneath a cauldron high up on the wall in the corner. He backs away and moves behind a curtain.
 

The mental me is still fighting to make sense of it all, so I let the physical me take over. My dick has done me wrong before, but this goddess is everything right.

“Follow me,” she says. Dizziness whooshes in my skull for a second when the goddess takes my hand and tugs me to my feet. It adds another layer to being turned on, almost heightens it. Like that’s necessary…

She leads me toward the corner, the steaming cauldron and what could only be the goddess’s shower. Deep red curtains spill like liquid from the ceiling to land on the floor and wall off the area when she pulls on a gold cord. Flames jump to life with a snap of her fingers and dance in sconces on the wall, their light as gold and warm as the glow from the goddess’s eyes.
 

Blood surges just with her stepping closer. The warmth of her cheek touches mine, her breath bathes my neck. But nothing makes contact. The connection we’d forged the first night builds and spreads, from a single thread to a mesh net pulling me into her without moving.
 

Her breath tickles when she inhales. I’m not sure if mine penetrates her wild mane of hair, but when I draw her in I smell magick and musk and spice. This close, without touching, smelling her skin while my head is buzzing… God, it’s an aphrodisiac for my dick. Blood surges, pushing against my veins. My want careens into craving, the craving crashes into need.
 

I break the spell first, sliding my hands up her back, then down and curl my fingers under the hem of her tank top. The goddess follows my cue, hooking her fingers in the beltline of my jeans.

Lust takes on a life of its own, uncoiling and filling me.

Burying my face in her neck, I pull up.

She pulls down.
 

Both of us stop here. After all we’ve done in clothes, even half-naked we’ve crossed some barrier, and there’s no going back.