Aphrodite's Kiss (29 page)

She couldn’t speak, could only murmur soft sounds of pleasure as he stroked her secret places. Her body tightened as a rainbow swallowed her, reds and purples dancing on her skin, oranges and blues shooting from her fingertips, yellows and greens crackling and sparkling in her hair.

The rocket in her soul burned hotter.

T minus two and counting.

“Taylor.” She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him closer, losing herself to the feel of his skin, his musky male scent. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

“Never,” he said, rolling her over on top of him. His hands trailed down her back, his kisses covered her face, and she shivered, losing herself to the sweet sensation of his touch.

* * *

Lord, he was floating. Buffered by a haze of pure sensual pleasure, he truly felt as if he were floating on air.

Eyes closed, he trailed his hands along her bare back, caressing the sweet curve of her delicious behind. She moaned, the sound soft and satisfying and making him harder than he’d been just moments before.
Amazing. Man, oh man
. This woman did astounding things to his body. Unbelievable things. Just the way she writhed over him right now, trailing kisses down his chest, inching up to catch his mouth with hers ...

He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to break the spell. He’d never felt so light before, so charged, so full of passionate energy. Like a live wire, his body tingled and hummed, and the only thing he could feel was the sweet press of Zoë against him, her body melded over his.

He shuddered and opened his mouth wider, hungrily devouring her lips, greedily sweeping his tongue inside her, needing to taste her, to possess her, to take her.

“I want you, Zoë,” he said.

A shudder skimmed through her body, her reaction absurdly satisfying.

With a low groan, he rolled over until her back was against the floor again and he was straddling her. The back of his mind registered that his knees were pressed against the carpet, and he realized that they must have been on the floor the whole time. But—
oh, man
—this woman had him floating, and the feeling of being weightless in her arms was exquisite.

With something akin to reverence, he kissed her breast, kissed her belly button, and lower still, wanting to taste all of her. Wanting to know all of her secrets.

And he would, too. Zoë Smith would be his. Of that he was absolutely certain.

* * *

Zoë moaned as he kissed her intimately, his mouth moving lower and lower as her temperature spiked higher and higher. She was frantic, needy, writhing with desire. Silently urging him on. Silently begging him to touch her, caress her, take her.

The lightbulb in the kitchen blew out, and the television turned on, an old episode of
Love, American Style
playing softly in the background.

He was tasting her, and she shivered, burying her fingers in his hair, trying not to scream, but unable to stand it any longer. She urged him back to her and kissed him hard on the lips, running her hands over the strong muscles of his back.

“Now.” His whisper caressed her, gentle but intense.

“Oh, yes.”
Oh, yes, please
.

T minus zero and counting.

She spread her legs in a silent invitation, which he accepted with a low moan. A sharp burst of red exploded through her as he entered her, and she bit back a cry. She moved with him, slow and languid, trying to quell the pain of being filled by him.

“Zoë?”

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. The red was fading, the colors cooling, dancing on her skin. And then there was a different kind of red. Not pain, but heat and need. She arched against him, and he pulled her close as they moved together, more frenetic, more needy, and—
oh, dear Zeus
—how she needed him.

Now. Needed him ... needed something ... now.

And then, when she wanted it the most, he thrust again and found release. Their bodies melded together, her soul bursting as a thousand bits of her exploded in a fiery mass.

Liftoff
. She heard herself scream. A shudder ripped through her as the overhead light flickered on, then burned out with an explosive pop.

They drifted back to the floor and she sighed, thoroughly sated, thoroughly satisfied.

Zoë smiled.

Houston, we don’t have a single problem.

Blip, blip. Bleep, bleep.

Mordi scowled at the tracker. He’d fixed it properly. He was sure of it.

And yet here he was in the park, and there was absolutely no sign of the mortal female. Irritated, he settled himself on a bench, then started drumming his fingers on its green metal. He stopped immediately, realizing what he was doing. The last thing in the world he wanted was to acquire one of his father’s irritating habits.

He scowled at the sky, wondering if Hieronymous was watching him right now. Considering the council’s intricate network of satellites, it was certainly possible. He glanced at his watch. And as far as he could tell, the major world markets were currently closed.

If Hieronymous wasn’t watching the financial reports, he was probably watching his son.

Damn.

It was just past midnight on Monday morning. Only seventy-two hours before the eclipse, and still Mordi had failed to acquire the stone. A stone he didn’t even want, all for a legacy of power that was his father’s dream— not his own.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. This was his golden chance. All his life he’d wanted his father to want him. To see him as a son, not a halfling. The legend had given him the chance to prove himself, and he intended to do just that. All that followed—the uprising of the Outcasts, the downfall of the mortals, the throne upon which he would sit next to Hieronymous—none of that mattered. Not really.

But if he could get the stone to Hieronymous in time for the eclipse, then surely he would feel worthy.

He sat up straighter, his resolve renewed.

He’d find the damn stone. No matter what he had to do, he would find it.

Frustrated, he lurched to his feet, the tracker held in front of him. Its green light blinked eerily in the dark. Where the hell was the female? According to the damn tracker, she should be right here. Right under his nose.

A mangy mutt padded by, stopped to sniff Mordi’s shoes, then continued on. Mordi scowled, wondering at first if the dog was one of his father’s little pets. But the dog was only a dog and it stopped in one of the landscaped areas and began digging, its paws churning with purpose into the soft earth beneath the birds-of-paradise.

Driven by a mixture of curiosity and boredom, Mordi approached the mutt, then glanced into the hole. Beneath a well-chewed bone, a glint of gold caught his attention.
Surely not
...

He dropped to his knees, digging with as much vigor as the dog until he could pull the chain free.

It was the necklace, all right, along with the intricate mounting to which his father had aimed the tracking device.

The stone, however, was nowhere to be found.

Lane paced outside Jerry’s Scripts and Scraps, conveniently located across the street from the Tripoli Tower and right in front of where she’d been mugged just a few days ago. She still felt a little guilty not telling Taylor she’d been mugged, but what was the point? Taylor would only get obsessed and worry, and it wasn’t like he could find the guy and arrest him.

She glanced at her watch: 9:58. It was only two minutes later than it had been the last time she’d looked. Frustrated, she grabbed hold of the metal gate and shook it.
For cryin‘ out loud
. This was Hollywood. Tourists galore. Why the devil couldn’t these folks open their stores before ten?

So far the only area shopkeeper she’d been able to talk to was the owner of All American Donuts—open twenty-four/seven with specials every hour on the hour. After three cups of coffee and four glazed doughnuts, all Lane knew was that there wasn’t a public bathroom in sight, and that the owner of the doughnut store hadn’t seen a thing. Heck, the woman hadn’t even realized there’d been a mugging, a movie crew, or a woman flying off the tower. Which meant Lane had sacrificed her thighs to four doughnuts for nothing.

She gave the gate another yank in frustration, and was still rattling the linked metal bars when a bearded man with a belly escaping over his waistband, headed toward her.

“You lookin‘ for me?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

She unlocked her hand from the gate, smoothed her skirt, and tried to look respectable. “Are you Jerry?”

“Nope. Ain’t Jerry.”

“Oh.” She waited for him to say something else, but he just looked at her and blinked. She blinked back, not sure what to do. This detective thing wasn’t really her forte. But when she’d called Taylor’s apartment, she’d only gotten his machine. And if they wanted to find that necklace, they needed to get started.

He held up a key ring. “You wanna step aside, lady?”

“Right. Sure.” She stepped back. “This is your store?”

“Look, lady. I got a business to run. You wanna buy a script, I’m your man. You wanna chat on the sidewalk, you go find someone else.”

Okaaay
. She stepped back farther, giving him some space. Hell, who was she kidding?
Space, schmace
. She wanted a free path if she needed to turn tail and run.

Not-Jerry managed to open the door, and she followed him in. The second her nose hit the interior, she started to sneeze. The place was decorated in early American plywood bookshelf, and each shelve was crammed full with stack after stack of photocopied scripts. A glass case ran down the center of the room displaying more scripts, only these looked like the real deal, with autographs and lobby cards. In the layer of dust that coated the case, someone had written
clean me
.

“What can I do you for,” Not-Jerry asked, suddenly all charm.

She sneezed again. And again. And one last time. Then she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and explained about looking for the two women working on the movie.

“What movie?” The voice was high and nasal and came from behind her.

Lane whipped around and found herself nose-to-nose with a surfer type wearing an
X-Files
baseball cap and a
What I Really Want to Do Is Direct
T-shirt.

“What movie?” he repeated.

“That’s Boomer,” Not-Jerry said, as if that meant something to her.

“Oh. Well, last Friday, there were some folks filming a movie here.”

“Nobody was filming a movie here last week,” Boomer said.

“Yes, they were. I was here.”

Not-Jerry spread a newspaper open on the glass case, sending more dust flying. “If Boomer says they wasn’t shooting, then they wasn’t shooting. Boomer’s my eyes and ears.”

“I don’t care if Boomer’s your heart and soul. I was here. It was called
Boopsey Saves the Planet
or something. And I’m looking for the woman who flew off the tower.” Even to her own ears, the story sounded crazy.

So much for that ten grand. No way were they going to find that mysterious flying woman.

The kid snorted. “Flying woman, my fat ass.” Considering the kid was skin and bones, it wasn’t much of a curse. “I want some of whatever you’ve been dropping.”

Lane bristled. “I am
not
on drugs. A woman jumped off that tower. She had a cloak. She flew to the ground. She kicked a mugger. She saved my kid. I was there.”

The kid held up his hands in a back-off gesture. “Whoa, there, baby cakes. Slow down. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

“My panties are fine, thank you.” She looked to Not-Jerry for help, but he just flipped a page of his newspaper and looked bored.

“Where’d you say this flying nun came from?”

Lane rolled her eyes and sighed. “The tower. She and her friend.”

Boomer looked to Not-Jerry. “Coulda been one of them two chicks.”

“Coulda been,” Not-Jerry agreed.

Lane restrained herself from strangling them. “What chicks?”

“We see these chicks,” Boomer said. “Every Friday. Blondie usually grabs a six-pack at the corner store. They hang out on the roof over there.” He nodded vaguely in the direction of the Tripoli Tower.

So far, so good
. “Do you know their names?”

Boomer looked at Not-Jerry, who shrugged. “Nope,” he voiced for both of them.

“Ask at the tower,” Not-Jerry said. “Maybe the guard’ll know who your flying lady is.”

“Right,” she said, stifling the urge to kiss both of them. It wasn’t a very strong urge, so it didn’t take too much effort to squelch it. Instead she smiled. “Thank you both so much.”

She left Jerry’s Scripts and Scraps with a spring in her step, and an old copy of an
I Love Lucy
script in her bag. After squeezing the info out of the store’s owner, it had only seemed fair.

Whistling, she headed for the tower. Maybe she had a knack for this detective thing after all.

The morning light streamed in through the sheer curtains, tickling Zoë’s nose and easing her out of the sweetest sleep. She woke to find herself trapped—but it was a nice trapped, safe and warm in the protective circle of Taylor’s arms. Somehow they’d made it to the bedroom, and now he was sprawled out upon her king-size bed, managing to cover all but the tiniest sliver of mattress. Laid out on his back, softly snoring, Taylor was about the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

Idly, she wondered if the newness would wear off after a while and the snoring and bed hogging would just be annoying. She didn’t think so. Something told her she’d put up with a lot from this man.

Over and over last night she’d lost complete control, abandoning herself to this miraculous experience as her soul burst with the power of a million supernovas. And each time, she’d come back to herself to face the wonder in Taylor’s eyes, the desire and passion reflected there nearly enough to bring her to tears.

Gently she extricated herself from his arms, propping herself up to look at him, and only then realized that she had a goofy smile plastered on her face. Well, after the night she’d just experienced, why shouldn’t she smile?