A splash of cool water to her face did nothing to cool the fiery mess her stomach was in.
Her reflection said it all. Clyde was right. She was astonished. She’d expected he’d be okay, maybe awkward because he wasn’t exactly grace incarnate walking. She figured they might need to find a happy sexual medium, overcome a hurdle or two, but she’d never in a mill suspected he’d be so completely fantabulous her eyes would wobble.
There was nothing awkward or self-conscious about Clyde between a set of sheets. Dude had mad skills.
Or maybe she just thought they were mad because it’d been nigh on a friggin’ millennium since she’d been so blissfully stomped.
But if she remembered her old life correctly, the one before ghosts and Lucifer and his demons had shown up, the sex hadn’t been that fucktacular. Not on the level Clyde had taken it to. Of course, she’d been very young when her sex life had been in full swing. Maybe age and maturity, and okay, a dash of desperation changed your perspective.
Or did Clyde’s demonicness play a role in his mastery?
Suck it up, princess, maybe it was just one helluva mating.
How depressing and exhilarating all at once.
Depressing because she might need to get as many rounds in as she could before Clyde blew this Popsicle plane and left her with nothing but erotic memories—her probability for any kind of relationship beyond a chance supernatural one was slimmer and slimmer by the year. Especially one as fulfilling as that encounter had been with Clyde. Yet she couldn’t deny this slinky, I’m-a-total-woman, sex-kitten vibe she had going on—the shine of her eyes and the blush in her cheeks—was exhilarating.
She’d irrevocably changed the dynamic of their relationship, and that Clyde would leave had begun to fray her nerves, gnaw at the edges of her heart. Though, the risk she’d just taken by letting her instincts take over was one that had proven worthy on an intimate level she hadn’t experienced with a man in many years.
And might not ever again if the only man on the planet willing to become even just a little involved who understood what she did, who believed, was Clyde.
What if she never had sex like that again? Was there anyone, dead or alive, who did what Clyde did?
Of course there was. It was silly to believe he was the only man ever to possess such incredible aptitude.
But what if there wasn’t . . . if she ever became involved again, and the poor slob didn’t live up to Clyde, what was she going to do? Ask him to do it like Clyde did it?
Deaf, dumb, and blind had a whole new meaning. She’d been better off in the dark about that particular brand of banging. The can of worms was officially open—Pandora’s box blown wide-open.
The torrent of emotions involved in what she’d thought was just two people relieving some pent-up sexual energy was turning too deep, and that couldn’t be allowed.
She inhaled, closing her eyes and searching for some inner calm.
But a familiar shiver called to her, forcing her to open her eyes. “Now is a bad time, Michael,” she whispered, pushing her fingers through her tangled locks, trying to tame them.
The ghostly form nodded in agreement, but she wasn’t sure if he was agreeing this was a bad time to catch her in the bathroom, or a bad time because she’d created a situation that might cause a great deal of pain—for her. Typically, he was playful and as well known for his pranks in the afterlife as he was in his life on his ghostly plane. Tonight? Not so much. “So what’s up? What’s on your mind tonight? Wanna hit Walnut Grove and play Name That Little House on the Prairie Episode? I think I’ve proven I know ’em all. You just can’t stump me when it comes to the Ingalls clan, bud. And I’m really tired. So make it snappy or better yet, maybe we could hook up tomorrow?”
His dark, curly hair shook when he moved his head to the left, then the right.
No. He definitely didn’t want to piddle tonight. She held her hands up in defeat. “Okay. I’m all out. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Michael pointed a finger at her in an almost accusatory way. “Highway to Heaven,” he said, but it was minus the fond smile that normally accompanied what Delaney considered reminiscence on Mr. Landon’s part about his heyday as Charles Ingalls.
Delaney rolled her eyes—okay, message sent. Yes, yes, yes. Clyde should be upstairs. God, the pressure to perform. “Dude, I’m doing my best here. I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t be in Hell, and yeah, yeah, what I just did in there was probably a bad idea. I don’t need you to tell me that. And knock off the voyeurism—it’s creepy. I’m going to help Clyde—swear it, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”