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.

Now, though, I didn’t want the foreplay. This wasn’t about physical gratification. This was that primal, life-affirming sex you have after a close brush with your own mortality. Brian, lover-extraordinaire, figured that out without me having to tell him. See why I’m selfishly holding on to him even when I think he’d be better off without me?

He played with me only long enough to get the worst of the stickiness off my nipples, then got down to business. Straddling my legs, he sat back on his haunches to open his belt and unzip his fly. He didn’t bother to take anything off, just shoved his pants and shorts down far enough to be out of the way, then kneed my legs apart.

Normally, I would have insisted on a condom. I’m on the Pill, but I believe in practicing at least two forms of birth control at a time, just in case one fails. But after last night, I wanted no barrier between us — wanted to feel nothing but him, stroking me deep inside, loving me with his body and his heart.

When he slid into me, it felt so right I couldn’t contain my moan. I pulled his head back down to mine and devoured his mouth. His hips started to pump — hard, jarring thrusts. I wrapped my legs around him and moaned.

He didn’t make love to me, not this time. He fucked me. And it was perfect. I came so hard I screamed myself hoarse. I hope the neighbors weren’t home.

When it was over, he was embarrassed by what he termed his lack of finesse. Still breathing hard, I reached up to stroke his sweaty cheek.

“There’s a time and place for finesse. This wasn’t it.”

“Yeah,” he said, and rolled off me. I don’t know if he was convinced or not. But at that moment, the afterglow was so wonderful I didn’t much care.

The problems started when I asked if I could borrow a pair of Brian’s sneakers. He’s bigger than me, but my feet are real gunboats, especially when wrapped in bandages, so I figured I’d be able to keep them in his shoes. He hadn’t minded when I’d insisted on getting out of bed and getting dressed. This, he minded.

“What do you need shoes for?” he asked me suspiciously. “You need to stay off your feet.”

I needed shoes because I had to visit Adam and see if he could exorcize my hidden demon. I planned to keep that little tidbit to myself. Not that I thought what I was about to say would go over any better.

I wished I could have gotten by without having this conversation, but it was inevitable. I sighed and patted the bed beside me. He crossed his arms and glared down at me stubbornly.

“You’re not going anywhere, Morgan.”

I begged to differ. “I have to.”

“Bullshit!”

I jumped. I’m not used to him getting angry so quickly and easily. It made me think I was having a bad influence on him.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I think someone’s really trying to kill me, and I’m putting you in danger by staying here.”

That got his attention. Color drained from his face. He didn’t sit on the bed beside me, but he pulled over a chair and leaned his butt on its arm so his eyes were closer to my level.

“You mean someone other than God’s Wrath.”

I nodded.

“Who? Why?”

I sighed. “If I knew that, my life would be a hell of a lot easier.”

Once I started talking about it, it wasn’t hard to convince Brian that I was right. He had to admit it was unlikely all this shit was suddenly raining down on my head by sheer coincidence. I didn’t even have to tell him about the mess with Val, which was a good thing, because I couldn’t imagine how I could explain it without telling him I was possessed.

Brian is in many ways the quintessential modern, sensitive man. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the same primitive instincts as other men buried deep under his civilized veneer. You can just imagine how much a man likes hearing that his woman is in danger and she’s going to keep away from him for his own safety.

I don’t actually remember much of the argument. I think my subconscious is protecting me from the pain, because it got pretty nasty toward the end. Brian bellowed at me, his face red with rage. This from a man who almost never raises his voice. I, of course, bellowed right back. We were so angry at each other it was lucky we didn’t resort to fisticuffs.

I slammed out of there, hardly feeling the pain in my tortured feet, at a little after three in the afternoon. I had a duffel bag with a change of clothes in it, Brian’s credit card, and two hundred dollars of Brian’s cash. He’d literally flung it at me when he realized that nothing he said or did short of tying me up was going to make me stay. Pride insisted I couldn’t possibly take his money after this. Practicality told me my other options were limited.

Practicality won out, and I spent the next few minutes picking scattered twenties off the floor while Brian just stood there and glared. I expected him to say something like “and don’t come back” when I walked out the door, but he didn’t.

For a while, I thought I’d have yet another crying jag, but I managed to keep the tears inside. He’d taken it about how I thought he would, and I was just going to have to suck it up.

I checked into the Marriott at the convention center because it was conveniently located. Despite my agonizingly painful feet, I had to stop by the mall and buy some replacement shoes and clothing. I didn’t try anything on. Somehow, I just wasn’t in the mood for shopping. Go figure.

I couldn’t get over the image of Brian yelling at me like that, of the raw pain that shone through his anger. Every time I thought of it, my eyes prickled again.