Mistake number two—being anywhere in the same small space as Clyde.
So here they were.
In a clinch, swaying to the strains of “Lost.”
Delaney wasn’t even sure how it’d happened—how his arms, like granite, had encompassed her, or how his chin had come to rest on the top of her head while their feet found a slow, rhythmic pattern.
Her eyes closed without her realizing, her head lying nestled in the crook of his shoulder. Dogs one through six lay splayed out across the bed after they’d thoroughly sniffed her half-packed suitcase.
Clyde’s hands moved across her spine, trashing her resolve to keep her hands off and get to the business at hand—getting Clyde to where he belonged.
And she’d been doing a fantabulous job of it until now. First, she’d called Kellen and alerted him to what was going on, offering to send Marcella to look out for him while she was gone. In light of the fact that Kellen’s name had been brought up in the conversation Clyde had heard before he left Hell, Delaney couldn’t take any chances he’d be caught off guard. But Kellen had refused Marcella’s help—which didn’t surprise her. He’d even offered to come along and help them, and she’d refused. She needed someone to check on Mrs. Ramirez for her.
Second, she’d made reservations to go to North Dakota and Clyde’s house. He’d assured her that he had money for plane tickets in this account no one had come across since his death to pay for them. So she’d used her credit card to secure two seats to North Dakota.
The only way to end this was to go back to the beginning.
And to the scene of Clyde’s death.
There had to be a clue, a body, a cemetery that had a tombstone with his name on it. Something.
They were on a fast train to nowhere if they kept looking for clues on the Internet. Time was running out for Clyde. If he didn’t decimate her all right and proper like he was assigned to do, Hell and all its minions would come looking for him—for her. She had to find out what was keeping him in Hell and cross him over.
So you’d think that’d light a fire under their respective asses.
However, Bublé’s “Lost” turned into “Home” and “Home” turned into something she couldn’t recognize for the plunking of her heart and the peaceful utopia of being held by Clyde while they shuffled their feet.
“I was never a Bublé fan in life,” Clyde mumbled.
She sighed. “Yet another stark difference between the two of us. I’m not only a Bublé fan, but a Feinstein fan, and I’d probably hurt little old ladies to sit front row at an Andrea Bocelli concert. Not to mention the damage I might be inclined to do if someone were to rival me for five minutes alone with David Cassidy. It would so be on.”
His chuckle vibrated against her ear. “I’d have figured you for a Shaun fan, not David.”
She tilted her head back to gaze up at him, wrinkling her nose. “Again, might I point out, different, we’re very different. No way was Shaun cuter than David. I lived—
lived
—for
Partridge Family
reruns.”
“I stand corrected,” he said with a chuckle.
She let her head fall back to his chest, allowing the moment to just be.
“Mind if I borrow your Stephen King book for the plane ride?”
“I’d have never pegged you for a King fan. I thought you’d be more of a
Calculus in Your Everyday Life
kind of guy,” she joked.
“Then you were wrong, and maybe that makes us not so different.”
“Well, then,
I
stand corrected.”
“You reading Stephen King makes some kind of weird sense to me.”
She giggled. “It should. His imagination is far creepier than almost anything that happens to me in real life.”
Almost.
“I always end up feeling two things when I close one of his books: lucky and superior.”
“So you’re an action-adventure, supernatural kind of girl—movies, I mean.”
“I haven’t been to a movie in ages, but if I had my druthers, it’d be a thriller or a horror flick like they used to make them—
Halloween
, Michael Myers style.”
“Again, not so different. Though, for me, it was
Friday the 13th
.”
“So tell me something?”
“You bet,” he hummed against her ear.
Why was he making it a point to mention their commonalities? Her head fell away from his chest to tilt upward. “Are you trying to rub in the things we have in common for a reason—or do you just have to be right?”
“Do you have to be a sore sport or are you just sensitive? I was just making conversation. Ease up there, ghost lady.” He smiled, all bright and cocky, before he tucked her head back against his chest. “If neutral’s your thing, we could always talk about the theory of relativity or the evolution of man.”
“Again,
very
different. I’d rather have my eyeballs gouged out with one of Marcella’s high-heeled shoes.”
Clyde laughed. “What do you like to do besides read and watch
Ghost Whisperer
? Got any hobbies? Like decoupage or sculpting?”
She paused for a moment, then frowned. Okay, enough with how small her life was. “Nope, as of late my only hobby is crossing souls for sport.”
“I didn’t have any either, but I always wanted to try parasail ing.”
“I’m afraid of heights.” So, yeah. Not so much in common.
See me stick my tongue out at you.
“That’s not all you’re afraid of.”
“You made your point, Atwell. Back the hell up.”
Clyde laughed against her ear, but without warning, his voice took on a serious note. “I think we might need to stop now.”
“Is it time to leave for the airport already? I thought we had another two hours.”
“That’s not why we need to stop.”
“So why are we stopping?” she mumbled, forgetting her promise to herself that she wouldn’t succumb to his charms. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to stay like this for as long as her legs would hold her up, and long after.
Clyde pressed her hips to his in answer.
Oooooh. Yeah. If there were a reason to stop,
that’d
be a solid one. Reealllly solid. Because she wasn’t getting too attached, and what lay between them might be hard to detach her from if this kept up.
Yet neither of them pulled away.
The music had stopped, but the sway of their bodies hadn’t.
“Your call,” he murmured against her ear, sending a sinful cluster of tingles across her neck.
Yeah, like she should be responsible for calling a halt to anything at this weak moment. That was like leaving Bozo the Clown in charge of world peace.
Delaney knew this shouldn’t happen again. Compiling the already fantasticalness of the other night with more of the same was asking too much of herself. She needed some willpower here—some nads—some something to stop this madness that would leave her doing exactly what Marcella had said she’d do.
Cry.
A lot.
Her body disagreed wholeheartedly and so did her fingers. Fingers that trailed up over Clyde’s arms and wound around his neck, threading through the hair at his nape.
She stood on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his, coaxing, tasting, savoring the taste of his mouth. Clyde’s tongue rasped against hers, dueling with it, demanding she submit to him while his arms dragged her closer. Their moan was shared, as though neither of them could survive a moment longer without each other’s lips.
Clothes were peeled without hesitation from hot, achy bodies, falling to the floor without so much as a thought. Delaney moaned with husky need when Clyde lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, then sitting at the edge of her bed.
His cock slipped between her thighs, skimming the wet, swollen bud of her clit. Her head fell back, luxuriating in the press of Clyde’s thighs against her ass, the stiff shaft of his cock seeking entry. All brain activity ceased, all common sense about the state of her heart followed.
A tilt of her hips allowed her to sink down on his rigid shaft; it filled her, stretched her with deliciously slow increments. Wrapping the length of her hair around his hand, he tugged her head back, making her spine arch upward. Clyde used his other hand to cup her breast, muttering his approval when she offered it to him in total abandon.
She rode him as he thumbed her nipple, tingles of ecstasy pricking her skin. Leaning back, she placed her hands on his hardened thighs, enjoying the feel of the springy hair that covered them.
His hips lifted upward, driving into her, surging, pushing her to yet another height. Lust drove her to reach between them and drag her fingers through the hair at the base of his cock. Clyde bucked, jerking inside of her, filling her so full it took her breath away.
Her climax was swift as she drove downward one last needy time, rolling her hips with a whimper. A trail of sweat trickled between her breasts, and Clyde licked it away, pressing his hot lips to her skin as he came, too. His grunt of satisfaction was thick, muffled by her exposed flesh. Delaney tugged her head back upward, loosening his grip on her hair, and laid her cheek atop his head, inhaling the shampoo he’d used when he’d showered earlier.
They sat for a while, Clyde still in her, drawing her close and pulling the throw blanket from the end of the bed to cover them when she shivered.
Delaney squeezed her eyes shut at the rightness of this. How easy it had been to make love to this man she knew so little about, but longed to spend every waking moment with discovering.
So this would be a primo moment to bust a move.
Yet she just wanted to rock back and forth like this forever.
At the edge of her bed.
With Clyde.
“Heeeeey, you two—stop, you’re burning my eyes,” Marcella said with scorn, parting the desire-induced haze Delaney was in with her cold words spat with rapid fire.
“Coitus interruptus,” Clyde said with sigh and a frown, blinking his eyes at the light Marcella’d so rudely turned on.
Delaney fought for breath, struggling to right herself and shimmy off the end of the bed, but she dragged Clyde with her, his right ankle still wrapped around her left. “Did you forget how to use your phone, Marcella? You know, that cute pink thing with all the shiny buttons?”
She waved her hands in a flurry of agitated motion. “Get off of each other and skip being all offended that I’ve interrupted the festivities. You and me, D? We gotta talk and we gotta do it now. I’m not looking—get dressed.”
Delaney pushed her disheveled hair from her face, untangling herself from Clyde and scooping up her clothes, throwing them over her head. “Wow, sounds urgent. Oh, no. Did you miss the buy one shower gel get one free sale at Bath and Body Works?”
“Yeah, yeah I did. So I’m cranky. And guess what? I missed it because of
you.
Now—get out here now.” She stabbed a slender finger in the direction of the darkened kitchen.
Marcella’s voice bordered on seething and hysterical, and while she might get upset over missing a sale at one of her favorite stores, she’d never get this hinky about it.
Which meant she needed to unstick herself from Clyde.
Delaney gave Clyde a sympathetic look before fully dressing and hurrying off to the kitchen. “What the hell is so important you couldn’t wait until . . .”
“You were done? Sorry,
chica
. Next time I promise to put my social skills to better use, but this can’t wait. Now sit. We’ve got to talk.” Marcella yanked down the edge of Delaney’s skirt and buttoned a button on her blouse with a look of disgust.
Delaney didn’t want to sit. “So talk.”
“Who’s Vincent?”
Her stomach plummeted. “Why?”
Marcella rounded her, lingering with a menacingly close stance. “D? Now wouldn’t be the time to play stupid. Don’t fuck with me. Cut the bullshit, and answer me. Who—is—Vincent?”
Her mouth went arid with fear. “Someone I knew a long time ago.” Which was totally the truth. Totally.
Marcella’s lips popped in skepticism. “
How
did you know him, Delaney? Was he a friend, a lover you conveniently forgot to mention to me? What did he mean to you?”
“I don’t get what this has to do with anything.”
“If I didn’t just have my nails done, I’d haul off and clock that fake question mark right off your pretty face. It has to do with your life, dipshit! Tell me what this Vincent means to you, and maybe I can piece this together.”
“Piece what together?”
“The shit I heard tonight.”
“How about you tell me what you heard.”
“I heard that Vincent’s time was up, and so is yours!” she hissed in Delaney’s face. Fear, crystalline and bright, shone in her green eyes; it was visible in every line on Marcella’s smooth skin.
But that was impossible. Vincent’s time couldn’t be up.
He was dead.
That meant no more time to be up.
“Delaney, I swear on every last throw pillow I have, if you don’t tell me who the fuck Vincent is, I’ll beat you until the words fall out of your toothless mouth! Who is Vincent, Delaney?”
“He was just someone I knew a long time ago—when I was in college.”
“Was he your lover?”
Her face must have belied the bile that rose in her throat at the very thought. “No. Christ, no.”
Marcella paced, her white wedge sandals clacking on the tile. “Okay, look. Now’s not the time to hide shit from me,
mi amiga
. If you won’t tell me how he’s connected to you, then I don’t get it—but here’s the gist of what I overheard. Vincent’s contract is up, and according to the evil, douchebag fuck I caught talking about this—so is yours. How in the bloody fuck can you have a contract with Hell, Delaney?”
Now that was curious. “But I don’t have a contract with anything. Swear it on my echinacea.”
Marcella latched on to Delaney’s shoulders, digging her nails into her flesh. “I swear, you’re going to make me kick your ass, aren’t you? What are you protecting?
Who
are you protecting and why won’t you just tell me so I can help?”
“There’s nothing to help me with, Marcella. Vincent’s dead.” Dead, dead, dead. The whoring, boozing, fuckfest of a freak pig was cold and dead.
Marcella froze, the wild look in her eyes tearing at Delaney’s gut. “That doesn’t explain a goddamned thing and you know it, and admittedly, I only heard pieces of this conversation. But riddle me this, if this Vincent’s contract’s up, how does that have anything to do with you? I literally had to clamp my jaw shut to keep my mouth from unhinging when I heard the words
contract
and
Hell
with your name in the mix. The world’s gone mad, and if you don’t give me some answers, I’ll hunt them down myself. Whatever you’re doing this for—whomever you’re protecting—they’ve got you by the short hairs and I promise you, I’ll kill them before I’ll let them touch one strand of hair on your head.”