Immortal Desire (Nocturne)

Chapter One

Bailey slammed the bathroom stall door behind her. Sweat dotted her brow. Her limbs ached. A low-grade fever burned beneath her skin. The familiar, flu-like symptoms were worse than normal, but they were secondary to the sexual hunger that rode her like an ever-present addiction. Desperate, she ripped at the button on her jeans and tunneled one hand beneath her underwear. A gasp escaped her as she rubbed the hard little bundle of nerves. Her hips bucked involuntarily. She ground her mound against her hand as the orgasm built. Need curled through her pelvis, and she worked herself harder, faster, not bothering to stifle her soft moan.

Then she crashed into that bitterly familiar invisible wall. The orgasm she craved hung right there, so close but unequivocally out of reach. Primal hunger scorched her veins. She couldn’t breathe. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she worked herself over, she couldn’t get any closer to that elusive pinnacle.

No. No, no, no. Body rigid and unfulfilled for what had to be the thousandth time, Bailey thumped her head against the stall wall. Hard. Frustration made her movements jerky as she yanked her hand free and zipped her pants. What was wrong with her? She was twenty-three, a normal woman with an abnormally high sex drive that couldn’t do more than redline.

An angry tear tipped over her bottom lashes. She always ended up here, denied release and pissed as hell. Every night she worked was punishment, watching strangers connect on the dance floor. They’d mingle, flirt, touch, and then, paired up, they’d go home together. She’d tried to follow that path, tried to take lovers both short and long term. It was so difficult to watch men walk away from her after hours, days or weeks. They left her feeling damaged, thinking themselves inadequate and blaming her for her inability to respond. They said all the right words—It’s not you, it’s me—but the looks on their faces said it all. It was her. She inevitably ended up equally as frustrated and even more alone.

Then there were the books, movies, toys—a veritable cornucopia of sexual paraphernalia that had passed through her possession before she tossed it all out, down to the last battery, as defunct. Nothing ever helped. Excluding attempted self-satisfaction when the need grew too strong to deny, she’d given up finding release. It wouldn’t have been so bad except for two things. First, she really, really needed to get off. And second? That was the kicker. She wanted it to happen with a partner, to share that intimate moment of connection with someone who mattered, to have someone look at her without disappointment or disgust.

Core aching, sex slippery, Bailey stormed out of the stall to the sink.

The other women in the bathroom openly stared. One smirked. Clearly they’d heard what she’d been up to in there.

Screw them. A bark of laughter escaped her. Maybe not the best term to use.

Bass from the club’s music pounded through her when she opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall. The thump-thump-thump caressed every nerve ending, driving her need back to fever pitch. The urge to rub her thighs together made her walk strangely. Whatever.

She slipped behind the bar, nodding to her boss. Griff was generally laid-back and definitely easy on the eyes. Over six and a half feet tall with ice-blue eyes, dark brown hair that brushed his collar and a hard body made for sex, he starred in every explicit fantasy she came up with. Lately she had him taking her against the wall, hard and fast. That full mouth would prove unyielding. His blue eyes would dilate. His breath would burn her skin, brand her. Capable hands would—

Bailey?

She looked up, unaware he’d moved in so close. Sorry. What? Her reply was short enough to sound irritable.

His nostrils flared. I asked if you were okay.

What was she supposed to say? Well, Griff, I just had another round of solo sex that didn’t work out. Want to take me to your office and bend me over the desk, see if you can maybe work out the kinks in my kink? Not likely. She wanted him beyond reason, but at what cost? Her employment? His respect? Their friendship? Every cost she came up with was far too high, the sacrifice too great, for a casual one-night stand, and that was all Griff ever offered anyone he bedded. Instead of answering, she closed her eyes and nodded. I’m fine.

One hand, hot and heavy, rested on her shoulder. You’re sweating.

Yeah. It’s just hot in here. Really, really hot. She stiffened as a wave of sensual hunger roared through her. Dizzy, she gripped the bar edge.

Griff’s hand tightened on her shoulder. You’re sure.

Yeah. The single word sounded thready and definitely unsure.

Sling a few drinks and we’ll talk.

Talk? she squeaked.

Yeah. He ran a hand over his chest, his silk shirt shifting sensually over his pecs and revealing the tips of his hardened nipples.

Bailey licked her lips, her thoughts dark as her eyes roamed down, straight to his... Whoa. Griff’s leathers were stretched tight, the head of his cock clearly defined.

Talk. The word was harsh.

Okay. She turned back to the bar, hoping her mind would get back to task and stop tormenting her with images of her boss naked and writhing beneath her as she rode him. He’d pound into her slick heat, his thick shaft spearing her with every thrust. Yeah, that’s not going to work.

What’s that? the guy across the counter asked.

Nothing. What can I get you?

One rum and Coke. One margarita on the rocks, shot of tequila on the side.

He became the first of many customers, another nameless face she would never remember as she pulled orders together by rote, slinging bottles with a finesse she definitely didn’t feel.

* * *

Griff slipped through the unobtrusive door marked Private and headed for his office. Every step rubbed the underside of his cock against the leathers he wore.

Bailey was so close to the Change. Putting himself in her immediate proximity had been criminally stupid. Her scent—citrusy with a sharp undertone of mint—coiled around him like an emotional noose. The morbid comparison didn’t stop his cock from reacting, though. Self-loathing soured his stomach. He absolutely hated being an incubus, hated this part of his nature, this part that marked him a predator. Get over yourself, he muttered.

He slowed his steps, relishing the burn of need that settled at the base of his spine. Pleasure and pain began an intimate, familiar dance. Hunger manifested as cold sweat at his nape. A single drop rolled down his neck like a specter’s caress.

You up for a little conversation?

Griff turned, every movement controlled and deliberate. If it’s not critical, it needs to wait.

Seth, the club’s general manager and one of Griff’s only friends, looked him over. Need me to send one of the JABs to your office? he asked, referring to the women who regularly hung out at the club with the singular goal of adding any of the preternaturally gorgeous men to their list of conquests. They’d been dubbed JABs—Just Another Body.

Not in the mood.

The other man arched a single brow. Sure.

Now’s not the time, Seth. Griff slipped into his office, shutting the door with a soft click. Hands shook as he ripped his pants open and shoved them halfway down his thighs. His erection sprang free. The silk of his shirt slid around the root and feathered across his balls. He hissed. Bending forward and bracing himself against the edge of the desk