I chose the window escape route, but before I leapt out, it occurred to me that I might need a little extra protection. My feet propelled me toward the bathroom before my brain caught up with me. Holding my breath, I turned the shower on and hopped in, soaking my PJ’s with freezing cold water.
I hopped out, my lungs burning from lack of oxygen, then sprinted to the window.
The bonfire had grown, but I had no choice. I ducked my head down into the sopping wetness of my pajama top and jumped, trying for as much horizontal distance as possible.
Intense heat surrounded me, tried to eat me alive. I landed on the ground on my hands and knees, my feet still in the fire. I rolled away as fast as humanly possible.
I pulled the pajama top away from my face, trying to see if I was on fire anywhere. Nothing seemed to be burning. Nothing except my house, that is.
Panting, coughing, dazed, I watched the flames spread through my beautiful English cottage.
CHAPTER 12
I escaped the fire with nothing worse than a few second-degree burns on my feet. My house, however, burned to the ground. Everything I owned, my books, my clothes, my furniture, even my car…gone. One of the neighbors called the fire department, but by the time they started pumping water on it, it had a life of its own. The good news was they got to it before it spread to any of the neighboring houses. When the shock wore off, I’d try to be grateful for that.
The police followed soon after the fire department. Having escaped out my back window, I hadn’t seen the burning cross on my lawn. God’s Wrath and the KKK both agreed that the burning cross made for a neat calling card.
Now why, you might ask, would God’s Wrath burn down the house of an exorcist? We’re supposed to be on the same side, right?
Wrong, according to God’s Wrath. They think that exorcists are soft on demons because we don’t target the demon hosts. They’re really, really into burning people alive, and we spoil their fun. Plus, they feel the human host is just as deserving of death as the demon-even hosts who were taken against their will. Because in the World According to God’s Wrath, only the Wicked can be Possessed by Satan’s Minions. They were the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, and the Salem Witch Trials all rolled into one.
The neighbors poured out of their houses to watch the show as I sat with the EMS folks, sucking down oxygen and wishing my burned feet would do me a favor and drop off the ends of my legs so I wouldn’t have to feel them. When the paramedics finally let me take the oxygen mask off, Mrs. Moore, my next door neighbor, brought me a cell phone so I could call Brian.
If I’d had a choice, I’d have spent the night in a hotel. Not because I didn’t want to be with Brian, but because I was scared to death I’d be endangering him. You see, although this had all the classic makings of a God’s Wrath attack, it was just too damn coincidental. I mean, really, what were the chances my best friend would try to Taser me, armed men would invade my house in the middle of the night, I’d be framed for murder, and God’s Wrath would just happen to pick that moment to burn down my house with me in it?
I hoped like hell whoever was out to get me only had one murder attempt in them for the night, because without a wallet, I wasn’t getting a hotel room. Reluctantly, I called Brian. I let him think the police were right and it was a God’s Wrath attack. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, I’d tell him my fears that someone was seriously out to kill me and that I didn’t want him caught in the cross fire. I figured that would be a really unpleasant discussion, especially since I wasn’t willing to admit why I thought it was happening. Honestly, I didn’t think he would turn me in as an illegal demon host, but after his performance at the police station the other day, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
I borrowed something that looked like a moomoo — yes, I know that’s not how you spell it, but I defy you to wear one and not feel like Bessie the milk cow — from Mrs. Moore. It was better than my wet pajamas, but not by much. It hung almost to the ankles on her, but it barely skimmed my knees. And there was no way I was getting my size-nine feet into her size-six shoes, even without all the bandages.
I looked like the Mummy’s grandma when Brian arrived to pick me up. My knight in shining armor scooped me into his arms anyway and carried me to his car so I wouldn’t have to walk on my raw, bandaged feet. He held my hand for the entire drive. We hardly spoke a word. I stared out the window at the first hints of dawn, trying not to think, as tears leaked out of my eyes and cooled my cheeks.
When we got to his condo, Brian carried me again. If I’d been anything like my normal self, I would have objected. Once inside, he got me out of the muumuu in record time, but for once seemed oblivious to the fact that I wore nothing underneath. He tucked me lovingly into his bed, then climbed in beside me, still fully clothed. I laid my head on his lap and fell asleep to the feel of his gentle fingers stroking my hair.
Annoyingly, Lugh didn’t fix my French-fried feet during my sleep. I guess he’d learned his lesson, but when I finally woke up around noon, I wished he hadn’t. Every step I took made my feet blaze. I had to keep reminding myself how much worse it could have been.
Brian was downright incredible. During the time I’d slept, he’d gotten me a new bank card, ordered me a new credit card, and had me added to his own credit card account to tide me over. Not only that, he brought me breakfast in bed.
I was ravenous, so I scarfed down the syrupy, delicious waffles in record time. Brian watched me eat with a satisfied little smile on his face. My heart swelled, and I came close to crying for the second time in twenty-four hours. How could I have allowed myself to have even the most fleeting lustful thought about Adam or Lugh when I had Brian? I was ashamed of myself, and when Brian tried to take the empty dishes back to the kitchen, I wouldn’t let him.
“Just leave them on the nightstand,” I said, my voice gone husky.
His eyes darkened with desire, but a concerned frown puckered his forehead. “Are you sure this is a good time? You’ve had a really rough night.”
I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to me. He has the softest, smoothest lips I’ve ever felt. They tasted like home and heaven.
It didn’t take much to banish his concern for my welfare. At the first brush of my tongue, he toed off his shoes and climbed all the way onto the bed, cupping my face in his hands as our tongues danced.
He came up for air, licking his lips and grinning wickedly. “You taste like maple syrup.”
“And how do you feel about maple syrup?” My voice was little more than a breathy whisper.
He pulled the covers down to expose my breasts. Still looking like quite the naughty boy, he dipped his index finger in a pool of leftover syrup on my plate, then rubbed that finger lightly over one nipple. My back arched uncontrollably and I moaned. He repeated the process with the other nipple, then gave me his finger so I could suck off the excess.
Our eyes were locked on each other as I took his whole finger into the wet heat of my mouth. The darkness of his eyes, the flush of his face, told me he felt the caresses of my tongue somewhere other than his finger. I imagined dribbling maple syrup over his hot, hard cock, then filling my mouth with him. Moisture dewed my core, and I wanted him inside me now.
For one brief moment, I thought about my unwanted guest, experiencing everything I experienced right along with me. Then I shoved the thought aside.
Unlike a lot of men I’d known, Brian loves the foreplay almost as much as he loves the main event. He could spend an hour, easy, on the sensual torture, so that when we finally gave in, the immense relief of it made the pleasure that much more precious.