A - Immortal Sea

“We are not so different, you and I . ”

She sighed. It wasn‟t that simple. Even if you believed.

She heard the slam of a car door as Dylan left. Morgan still stood in the front yard, eyeing the sky like a man debating

whether or not to mow the lawn before a rain. What was he doing out there alone? She glanced at the clock. Not even nine, the

second feature hadn‟t even started, plenty of time to wash the smoke from her hair before Dylan brought her children home.

Shower, shampoo, condition, moisturize. More rituals, female and familiar.

By the time she padded from the bathroom, the light was fading, the night sliding in on a wave of clouds. Her skin felt

scalded and tender from her shower. The towel rasped against her breasts. She cocked her head, listening to rain spatter against

the glass, and walked to her bedroom window. Restless. Yearning. Confused.

He was there, Morgan, alone in the overgrown yard, his head flung back to the pouring rain, his palms turned open to the

sky. Her lips parted in longing and in wonder. Power flashed around him like lightning, power and sex. Rain ran in rivulets

down his strong face, plastered his hair to his skull, molded his wet white shirt to his body. He was beautiful, the most

beautiful man she‟d ever seen, his pale skin glowing in the dusk, a marble garden god come to life, primal, elemental.

Not-a-human , not-a-human , beat her heart.

She tightened her towel around her. She‟d never liked the myths in school about the old gods descending to earth to satisfy

their lusts with the daughters of men. She‟d always felt slightly sorry for those women they had sex with, who got carried

away by bulls or swans and ended up with wars and pregnancies and eternal punishment, got turned into trees or nightingales.

No Disney studio transformations from Beast to Prince, no happy endings in those stories.

Nothing good ever came from sleeping with a god. She didn‟t need that kind of fantasy in her life. That kind of grief. She‟d

stick to reality, thank you very much, no matter how limited.

Or lonely.

He looked up and saw her, and her heart stumbled, and it was just the two of them, caught in the storm and the twilight,

caught in the moment, her wet from her shower, him wet from the rain. His eyes darkened with everything she was feeling,

desire and regret, surprise and confusion, and whatever else was the fairy tale, this was real, the emotion was real, she would

never get over him this time.

This time, she vowed, he would never get over her.

Still holding his gaze through the window, she took a step back and dropped the towel.

Her image burned his retinas, Elizabeth naked with the light behind her, her strong calm face, her strong soft body, breasts,

belly, thighs.

Her eyes, dark with invitation.

Morgan‟s blood surged. He lunged up the stairs, his heart pumping, his head swimming.

The door to her room was open. A yellow square of lamplight spilled onto the rug in the hall. He bared his teeth, electric

pinpricks racing over his skin, the gale crackling, collecting, inside and out.

He stalked into her room. He had a vague impression of order and softness—tall, dark furniture, white, billowing curtains,

a thick white comforter on the bed—but all he really saw was Elizabeth silhouetted against the rain, her damp hair dark against

her bare shoulders, her towel crumpled at her feet. Need crashed through him bright as lightning. He wanted her. He had never

wanted a woman so much.

And what he wanted, he took.

He strode across the room to her, ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and lightly down to her breasts, watched the

storm swirl in her face and in her eyes. The coolness of his palms made her skin prickle. She tilted her head back, exposing the

strong, lovely line of her throat. He wanted to bite her right there, at the tender join of shoulder and neck, wanted to feel her

tremble, hear her moan.

Her heart raced under his hand. She wanted this. Accepted him. Even knowing what he was, even after she‟d been

threatened and attacked, she welcomed him.

Unless . . .

The thought slid into his mind, disturbing and unwanted.

Unless she wanted him because she had been threatened. She was frightened. Who else could she turn to for comfort, for

relief?

For protection.

Cursing himself for six kinds of fool, he released her.

“Elizabeth.” Only a breath separated her naked body from his. He could feel his control slipping, seeping like water

through his fingers. “You do not know what you are inviting. I am not . . .” Her scent was in his head, tangling his thoughts,

tripping up his tongue. “Fully in command of myself.”

“I don‟t want you in command.” She smiled at him, making his blood pound. Tugging open his shirt, she trailed her fingers

down his chest, over his abdomen. “I‟m seducing you,” she said, and followed her hands with her mouth.

He had the most amazing body, she thought, hard and smooth and strong. She opened her mouth, breathing him in, licking

the cool moisture and hot salt dampness from his skin, feeling him tense, absorbing his quiver. His stomach muscles

contracted. He slid his hands over her torso, cupped her breasts.

She allowed that—he had wonderful hands, big and strong—but when his thumbs brushed her nipples, she slipped out of

his grasp. “Take off your clothes.”

He lifted an eyebrow, surprised. Amused. Aroused, she hoped.

Holding her gaze, he stripped out of his shirt and shucked his pants. He stood before her, all clean lines and heavy muscle,

magnificently naked. Her eyes slid down his broad torso, following the trail of dark blond hair that ran from his navel to his

thighs. Definitely aroused. Hers to seduce and command.

Or not.

Her heart fluttered. She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “On the bed.”

His eyes flickered. His shaft jerked. Tension throbbed in the air between them. She held her breath, testing the limits of his

control and hers.

With a shrug, he stalked to her wide, white bed. He lay across her mattress, arms and legs slightly spread, his moonlight

hair captured on her pillow, his body powerful even in repose.

Agitation surged from her breasts to her loins, a thrill of desire, a trickle of doubt. She squeezed her thighs together.

She was the thirty-seven-year-old mother of two with a limited sexual repertoire. How could she make him ache as she

ached, yearn as she yearned?

His gaze met hers, hot, golden, intent. His mouth quirked. “I am in your hands.”

His gentle taunt restored her confidence. Her skin bloomed. Her breath caught. Everything female in her rose to his

challenge.

“Not yet.” She smiled. “But you will be.”

Her hair fell forward, a sleek waterfall sliding over her shoulders, against his skin. She flowed over him, restless and fluid

as water, lapping, teasing, caressing, seeking the paths of least resistance, the points of greatest pleasure.

Morgan strained and quivered under her attentions, thrusting his hips forward, his cock jutting, demanding, pleading for her

attention. She hummed low in her throat, a sound of pleasure and possession, and took him in.

Sensation sluiced through his limbs, blanketed his brain. Hot, wet suction. Her neat doctor‟s hands skimmed over him, her

neat nails raked lightly up and down his ribs. He fisted his hands in her sheets as she fed, vulnerable in a way he had never