Immortal Desire. Denise Tompkins
Bartending at Atlanta’s hottest nightclub—side by side with what may be the world’s hottest man—fuels Bailey’s already overactive sex drive. So she’s beyond frustrated at her inability to reach orgasm by any means....
Bar owner and incubus Griff knows all about Bailey’s intense lust—because he feels it, too. So he’s taken it upon himself to ease her through the cataclysmic Change from mortal to immortal succubus. He tells himself it’s about saving her life, nothing more.
But somewhere along the line, the purely physical passion they feel for one another has become something much more complicated....
Immortal Desire
Denise Tompkins
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
Please accept my thanks for picking up Immortal Desire, the first novella in my Desire trilogy. These books are very special to me, and I’m honored to share them with you.
Griff and Bailey are the first couple in this series to find their way to each other. If ever two people deserved a happy ending, it’s these two—the self-loathing hero and the independent heroine longing for love. They’ve watched each other from afar for far too long. It’s about time we put them together and let the cards fall where they may.
The world and these characters have lived in my imagination for quite some time, and I hope you are as lost to it as I am.
Happy reading,
Denise
Dedication
To my most amazing agent, Deidre Knight, for the conversations, the conviction and the certainty that I would end up here. You are a force of nature!
Contents
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