“I dreamed of you in that skirt. Every time you wore it to school, I’d sit in Chemistry and imagine getting you out of it.”
“As I recall—” I took in a quick breath when he slid two fingers beneath the waistband of my jeans, brushing the lace at the top of my panties before flicking open the single button. “As I recall,” I tried again, “you never did get me out of it.”
“Didn’t need to.” He drew the zipper down, the sound muffled by the thick, heavy air. He yanked the jeans and the panties past my hips; I kicked them away along with my shoes. “I just lived out my dreams.”
I tilted my head; my lips parted, and his mouth crushed down on mine. As his palms traced up my thighs, then cupped my ass and lifted me, everything came rushing back.
The night, the moon, the fog—the heat of the air, the chill of that incoming front. Midnight. Everyone asleep but us. In the distance, a dog barked, too far away to matter. Not that anything would have stopped us then. Nothing was going to stop us now.
He’d taken my hand; we’d raced to the backyard where the shadows were deep and we could be all alone.
That skirt, he’d said, lifting the hem, which reached to mid-calf, floaty and flouncy, nearly black with a cast of purple that made me think of enchanted, starlit skies. I’d found it at Goodwill—we did a lot of our shopping there; just because Ruthie was the leader of the supernatural forces of light didn’t mean she was rich in anything but power. The skirt had probably belonged to an old woman, a former hippie perhaps, but it had looked almost new and had fit me so well.
You’d think a teenage girl would go for a shorter hem—not that Ruthie would have ever let me wear anything higher than my knees—but not me. Not the way I’d lived—on the streets, in foster home after foster home, a pretty child who’d turned into an exotically beautiful young woman who’d developed earlier than most. I’d wanted to cover myself, to hide from everyone but him.
Every time you wear it, all I can think of is sliding my hands underneath.
I wasn’t completely certain if the voice I heard was only memory or if he was speaking the same words now. He was definitely performing the same ritual. His calloused fingers scraped deliciously along the backs of my thighs as he parted my legs and setting my knees across his slim hips.
Then, he’d braced me against the back of the house. Now he was bigger and stronger—he had supernatural abilities—so he merely lifted, then entered me. I crossed my ankles at the small of his back, wrapped my arms around his neck and settled in for the ride.
With my eyes closed, the mist drifting seductively across my skin and the scent of Jimmy all around, I was transported into the past. All that had happened since—the pain, the betrayal, the infinite changes—disappeared. If I let myself believe we were in Ruthie’s backyard instead of the Otherworld, that it was October and not August, that we were still kids, still human—or at least believed that we were—it was easy.
I clung to him, let him take the lead, his hips advancing and retreating, his mouth covering my face, my neck, my breasts, with reverent kisses. Back then he’d worshiped me; I’d idolized him. It hadn’t lasted, but while it did the world had been such a glittering, glorious place. There’d been hope and love and chances. There’d been so many possibilities in life.
Now there were a lot more possibilities in death, or at least possibilities of death, which might be why I was letting reality slide. Time enough to worry about vampires and demons and the end of the world later. They’d all still be there after I came.
As good as this felt, the pressure wasn’t quite right. I tightened my ankles, arched my back, which pushed my breasts right into his face. He didn’t mind; he’d always liked them.
He took a nipple between his teeth, tugging, suckling, before gifting the other with the same treatment. The sensations danced across my skin, skated lower, yet still this just wasn’t right.
“Let go,” I murmured against his hair.
“Never.” He kissed one swell, rubbing his cheek against the other.
I tangled my fingers in his damp, curling hair. “Put me down. Please? I need to feel you—”
He lifted his head, and for an instant I could have sworn I saw a telltale flash of red at the center of his dark eyes. But it couldn’t be. If his demon were free, he’d never touch me so gently. When his demon was free, Jimmy was into—
I shuddered, remembering the time I’d spent in captivity in Manhattan.
“You need to feel me?” he murmured, laying his face once again against my chest. “I must be losing my”—he flexed his lower body, and I gasped as he slid ever deeper—“touch.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just—” I shifted, tugging on one leg.