I freeze with my hand on the door handle as every libidinous thought quickly exits my brain. I slowly turn to face my former seducer with distrustful eyes. “What did you just call me?” I ask. He quirks a bushy but sculpted brow, “Gabriella?” “How the hell do you know my name?” I ask accusingly as the redhead looks between us in amusement, taking a shot of tequila and downing it like it was water. “I asked around,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “Bullshit,” I clap back, crossing my arms over my chest. The look of shock on this man’s face is as if no one has ever dared speak back to him. Well, he’s in for a rude awakening. I don’t care if he has the body of a 28-year-old Adonis with hair whiter than pure amphetamines. “Why exactly do you think that’s bullshit?” he asks with genuine curiosity. “Because we have a code here, no one on staff refers to anyone by their real name and we sure as fuck don’t go handing out each other’s personal and private information to strangers. It’s a safety

I have existed longer than anyone can even begin to comprehend. In that time I have witnessed the birth of galaxies and have even destroyed a few. I have power beyond one's wildest dreams and yet, standing inside that tiny loft, telling that curvaceous and fragile spitfire what I am and what she is to me, I’ve never felt more powerless and insignificant. She confounds me in ways no one ever has. I don’t even know her and yet I find myself already changing around her. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say she’s turning me into someone I used to be. Someone I thought died a long time ago. As I pour myself a large drink, I feel the air shift and I look up to see Ezillus standing bright-eyed in my living area. “So, how did everything go?” they ask with a shit-eating grin as they lazily sit down on my lapis circular sectional placing their feet up on my marble coffee table. I walk out from around the bar sipping my drink, “Get your feet off my table,” I bark, walking over and sitting on

My nostrils flare and I feel heat prickle up my spine, but I manage to reign myself in. She is not someone I wish to snap at. “You have a lot of nerve to show such disrespect. Has it not yet sunk in that you’re talking to a God?” I say bitingly. “Has it not yet sunk in that I don’t care? I mean, whatcha gonna do, smite me?” she says mockingly before her body slumps in confusion, “What does smite even mean?” I stare at her, once again stupefied by her ambivalence to the fact she’s talking to a God. She genuinely doesn’t give a flying fuck. She’s the first person besides the Gods themselves to never fear me. On one hand, I don’t want her to fear me, but on the other, it’s disconcerting to have such a weaker species feel no fear or reverence for me. I’m not accustomed to it, and I don’t like it. “It means to strike with a firm blow,” I begrudgingly answer. She snorts, “That’s it? So all this time when people talk about being smited by God they just mean God’s gonna smack a hoe? That

His eyes light up, shining with so much hope that if I were standing would knock me off my feet, and with no preamble, his lips descend on mine in a kiss that consumes my senses. Instantly I feel my entire body light up like the Fourth of July while my brain is nowhere near the helm. As if rehearsed, my fingers find their way into his hair holding him in place – like I even could – as my lips press back firmly against his. His lips are soft as satin, but strong and commanding and as they begin to move against mine I feel my insides throbbing, waking up my libido from its dormant slumber once again. One large hand cups the back of my head gently, holding me in place as his fingers fist my hair tightly; possessively even, while his other arm snakes around me and pulls me flush against his body. I moan into his mouth as my lips move against his, committing them to memory and I feel myself getting wetter than I ever thought I was capable of. My tongue snakes out and teases the seam of hi

“So let me get this straight.” “There’s nothing straight about you,” I tease. He ignores me and continues. “You bump into the same guy who hooked up with you the other night, you get to talking and he escorts you home. You invite him in, more talking, he leaves and then comes back because he forgot his keys. Then things get hot and heavy and he ends up staying the night,” Derrick summarises the slightly truthful slash slightly fabricated story I told him while he gets dressed upstairs. “Yup, that’s pretty much the gist of it,” I say casually, laying back on the couch scrolling through Prime on my TV for something to watch as I chomp on some chips. I settle for that old 90s program Fact or Fiction. I’ve never finished the entire series, but I’m really good at picking which is fact and which is fiction. Derrick scoffs, “You know damn well he left his keys here on purpose.” I smile to myself, knowing Jartre probably doesn’t own a set of keys and even if he did, he doesn’t need them