No, I needed to wait it out in this mundane realm, serving the rich and prosperous. Sooner or later, I’d find a woman to serve as my affai, my intended bride. Until then, I’d continue to apply the persuasive strategies I’d learned as a boy, focusing on the here and now.
But as much as I tried to ignore it, my heart still yearned.
What I wouldn’t give to hear someone from the royal kingdom once again have need of the River Prince.
Chapter 3
Tessa
I slammed into my apartment, threw my keys at the hall table, and huffed into the nearest overstuffed chair, cursing Marcus Storm to everlasting celibate hell.
The minute I’d walked out his office door, I’d come up with several more satisfying rejoinders aimed at his shortcomings as a project manager, as a man, and as a human being in general.
My little goad about the proposed cutbacks becoming a reality, in retrospect, wasn’t as gratifying as slurs on his character and his abilities as a lover would have been.
My face heated, recalling his skillful mouth and persuasive tongue. Damn it. I’d been having such a nice Friday too.
I sat in my favorite chair, waiting for the soft leather and deep cushions to soak away the tension. Resting my head back, I closed my eyes. After several deep, measured breaths, I slowly started to relax.
My parched throat demanded something cool to drink, but I felt too comfortable to get up.
Peace and quiet replaced the stress that had hounded me all week, and as weariness invaded my limbs, I drifted into a light doze.
Without warning, something ice cold and wet nudged my hand, and I shot out of the chair in a shriek. Tumbling backward, I managed to land less than gracefully on the floor.
My heart racing, I shoved my hair out of my eyes and stared around for the source of my surprise. Anxiety mounted until I noted the water bottle dripping with condensation to my immediate left, floating in the air.
“Not again.” I groaned, grudgingly accepting what my subconscious had drawn from the refrigerator. Grabbing the bottle, I regained my feet and trudged to the couch.
Telekinesis was such a pain in the ass. Literally, I thought as I rubbed my posterior.
At least my short bout with pyrokinesis hadn’t returned. Since Charles Johnson had left the company, I hadn’t experienced any more repeats of setting my sheets on fire. Except I realized that now we had a telekinetic at the company. That or elderly Mrs. Morris next door had a sudden gift for moving things with her mind.
For as long as I could remember, I had been gifted with strange and unexpected extrasensory perception. To this day, I still wasn’t sure how I could do what I did. I had a weird ability to siphon latent ESP from people around me.
It sounds cool until it happens to you. The powers never come with a warning. They’re just…there. As I’d matured, my powers strengthened, as did the hit-or-miss control that accompanied them.
I wished I knew what triggered this siphoning. Johnson, the pyro, had been at the company for three months before my bouts with fire had started. As soon as he’d transferred, my pyrokinesis vanished. Problem solved.
Since no one had moved into my direct neighborhood within the last six months, my abilities had to come from someone at work, where I spent most of my time.
I’d found, over the years, that proximity to the target—instigator of such power—helped me to control the ability, and at times, call upon it at will.
But with the number of personnel changes and growth in the company, my target could be anyone. It could even be Marcus Storm.
Reminders of the arrogant Casanova made my body tingle. I’d known at first sight he’d be dangerous. Hell, he’d made my body sing on a whisper of breath.
Sensuality flooded my veins, washing me in the ecstasy from earlier. No doubt about it, Storm was a jerk. But for a few moments I’d forgotten his attitude and indulged in something very bad for me.
And it had felt so very, very good.
Sighing, I took a large swig of water and realized how desperate I was to desire a man as cold as Marcus Storm. The foreplay with Storm and the rumored sex with Davis notwithstanding, I couldn’t recall the last meaningful, intimate interaction I’d had with a man. Could I be any more pathetic?
The phone rang, startling me.
I stared down at my cell. Chances were, I hadn’t won Publisher’s Clearinghouse, so why answer? Why cap off a less than perfect day with more bad news? Then I saw my brother was calling.
I waited for him to leave a message then listened to it on speaker.
