asshole.” Without warning, he cracked Dominic’s thigh with the bar towel.
Dominic danced backward, rubbing the stinging spot. “Ow! That hurt, bitch.”
The djinn chuckled as he turned to the bar. “For such a big guy, you’re a complete wuss. Sometimes I have to wonder if you really were a battle angel. You could have been a gardener for all I know.”
“And for a genie, your servitude button’s broken. Whoever rubbed your bottle must have been pissed at the payback.”
Seth glanced over his shoulder as he slid behind the slick mahogany counter. “I don’t serve anyone but myself, my friend.”
“Whatevs.” Pulling out his cell, Dominic hit speed dial for the pizza joint around the corner as he walked into his office. “Mike, it’s Dom. I need an extra-large supreme, and load it up.” He shuffled papers on his desk. “Charge it to my card on file and deliver it to the guy outside the back door. Oh, and throw in an order of those cheesy breadstick things. And a Coke.” Dominic shook his head and chuckled at Mike’s smart-ass reply. “You should know better than to insult a guy who’s six-nine and bench presses Volkswagens—plural. One of these days I’m gonna go Hulk on your ass.” He let the guy ramble for a second. The portly old man talked shit he could never back up, but he was a good guy. Dom finally interrupted. “Keep this between us and add your regular thirty percent tip. ’Night.”
The way his chair creaked when he dropped into it sounded ominous, like the rickety thing was simply biding its time before dumping him on his ass. Might be. Everyone teased him about the need to replace the decrepit piece of junk. They might have had a point. Its wheels constantly fell off and the arms were held on by duct tape. He couldn’t do it, though. The chair meant something to him, represented his time at Desire. It had been new when he was new, both at the club and on this plane. “And here I am getting sentimental over a piece of office equipment. I need professional help.”
Dominic glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes to opening. The crowds would have already built, the line to the entrance trailing down the block. He shoved out of the chair, his shaft semierect behind professionally faded denim, and headed for the main entrance. “Let’s fight the good fight, my man, and see what we take home tonight.”
* * *
Rhyan’s days were numbered. If she wanted to regain her place in the Realm of Angels, she had to make a choice, commit to one of two paths. She could hide in her barren apartment and pray that the Caste relieved her of her charge, but the governing body of seven high angels wasn’t known for their compassion. Besides, groveling and pleading had never been her style. Second option? She could suck it up and do what the Caste had persuaded her to do—gather intel on the only nephilim to defy cosmic law and retain many of his angelic powers after falling.
There could be a variety of reasons, she supposed, from deals with the League—Hell’s own ruling body—to some aspect of the Divine’s plan. Whatever the explanation, she had no doubt the Caste intended to destroy him as soon as they understood him.
Striking the deathblow wouldn’t be her responsibility. That had been the only concession she’d been able to garner from Ramiel, the Caste’s leader. Token relief at best. To save herself, all she had to do was glean the truth from the nephilim and report her findings. Then the Caste would act according to Realm law. But since no fallen angel had ever managed what this one had, Rhyan was sure no law existed. That cleared the way for the Caste to deem him a threat and execute him.
Technically, though, that wasn’t all. They had also demanded she deny temptation while she was here. It sounded good in theory, but there was one fatal flaw. She had a history of reveling in temptation and giving in. Each time. Every time.
And isn’t that the very reason you find yourself here, settled unwillingly in the path of an unknown immortal while acting at the behest of a governing body you despise?
Her conscience, a nearly sentient thing, sucked ass.
Language.
“Screw you. He’s not unknown.” Not really, anyway. Stories had been circulating for more than three centuries about a fallen angel who looked like sin and moved like wind. She’d given in to temptation’s siren call and sought him out, watching him from between planes of existence. The rumors hadn’t done him justice. Wanting him had proven easy. Staying away? Impossible. Returning to watch him had become a compulsion she couldn’t ignore, her craving for him illogical yet unstoppable. He represented everything she craved, from strength to freedom.
“Shakespeare had one thing right,” she muttered. “This way madness lies. Tally ho.”
Stalking down the sidewalk like it was a Milan runway during Fashion Week, she disregarded the humans’ undisguised fascination with her.
Music cut through the raucous sounds of Saturday night traffic and pedestrian partiers. A stranger paused and offered to buy her a drink. She passed with a shake of her head. Gripping her clutch tighter, she stepped into the street and looked around. Anxiety strangled her guilt. Anticipation drowned her trepidation.
There.
Blue neon lights blazed, wrapping around the corner of the building in a vivid nebula. She could see a line of people weaving back and forth as the patrons shifted from foot to foot, awaiting entrance. Women wore heels as high as hers and dresses even shorter. Men sported everything from jeans to dress slacks, sneakers to Ferragamos.
Desire. The fallen’s dance club. Music pumped through the open door. The throbbing bass made her heart beat faster before settling between her legs. Her nipples tightened to aching points. Her clothes scraped against nerves gone raw with wanting. Her hips swiveled. Her long hair slithered across exposed skin.
In the five weeks, two days, thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes she’d spent in this city, she’d been here again and again. And before that, when she’d watched the nephilim of her own accord? A sharp shake of her head. No time to think about that right now.
She moved toward the door. Every caress of the senses, every stranger’s accidental touch, every sound of riotous pleasure that wove through the crowd fueled her need. Their lust smelled like frankincense—that familiar pine and lemon scent hovering over undertones of something woody and earthen.
A shroud of undiluted sensuality settled around her, tempting her with dark promises of physical contact, sweat-slicked skin and primal sex. Her lids slid to half-mast. The tip of her tongue traced her lips’ full contours. Temptation had a taste—rich yet delicate, effervescent yet colossal. Those who argued had simply never tasted it. And those who had? They always hungered for more.
Someone plowed into her back, knocking her out of the madness that rode her. She stumbled forward and nearly fell. Unfamiliar hands caught and righted her.
“You guys watch your shit back there or you’re blacklisted. We clear?” that deep voice shouted. “Desire’s policy on the treatment of women inside the club extends to everyone waiting in line, too.” A few grumbles made their way forward. The man turned on the crowd, a lone but powerful voice in a sea of desperation. “You don’t like it? Leave.”
She straightened her dress. “You could incite a riot—” the first thing that registered was the length of his legs “—if you insist on making them conform to rules—” then there was the V of his narrow waist and the breadth of his chest, broad shoulders, thick arms, a veritable mane of blond hair “—before they ever make it inside—” and, may the Divine save her, that face “—Desire.”
