By the time they had left Kian’s and got back to their own apartment, Bridget was swaying on her feet. Holding on to her, Turner wondered whether the culprit was fatigue or alcohol. She’d ended up drinking three of Syssi’s vodka and ginger ale concoctions.

Bridget kicked off her shoes the moment they crossed the threshold and, not bothering to pick them up, headed down the corridor to the master bedroom. She shrugged off her jacket, letting it fall on the floor, then pulled her blouse over her head and let it drop too.

With a smile, Turner collected the discarded items of clothing and followed her to the bedroom. The trail continued into the bathroom, where he found her standing naked and looking at the shower’s faucet as if it were an alien contraption she had no idea how to operate.

Bridget was definitely drunk.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?” He picked up the rest of the garments, put the suit and blouse in the dry-clean bin, and the bra and panties in the delicates hamper.

She glanced at the jacuzzi tub, then back at the shower, and again at the tub. “I can’t decide.”

He reached around her and turned on the faucet. “You look too tired for a bath.” Or rather too drunk, but he was being polite.

“Okay.” She waited for the steam to fill out the shower enclosure before stepping inside.

Leaning against the vanity, Turner watched her stand under the spray. Should he get in there with her?

He shook his head. She was exhausted. The best he could do for her was make sure she didn’t fall and then carry her to bed and tuck her in. It was good Bridget was a small woman, or he would not have trusted himself to hold her up. He felt weak, and his coordination was all messed up.

Bridget had been too frantic in the days leading up to her presentation to notice that he hadn’t been himself. Not wishing to distract her attention from where it needed to be, Turner hadn’t admitted the severity of his symptoms, or that he was contemplating stopping the treatments.

Bridget would be furious with him, but Turner just couldn’t function like that. He would give it another week and if things didn’t improve he was going to stop.

As Bridget turned the faucet off, Turner grabbed a towel and fluffed it out, then waited with his arms outstretched for her to step into.

“Thank you,” she said as he wrapped her in the towel and lifted her up.

“How is your head?”

She frowned. “My head?”

“You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not. You think such an itsy bitsy amount of vodka can get me drunk?”

“If not drunk, then tipsy.”

“A little,” she admitted, resting her head on his chest.

“You’ll be good as new tomorrow morning.” He lowered her to the bed, pulled the towel from under her, and covered her with the blanket. “Goodnight.” He kissed her cheek.

Bridget’s hand closed around his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. Do you need anything?”

A crooked smile was his answer. “Always. I’m in the mood to celebrate.”

He felt his impaired libido stirring to life. “Aren’t you tired?”

Bridget flung the comforter off. “Not for this.” She beckoned him with a sultry smile.

Desire for her burned hot in his mind, but his body followed the brain sluggishly, the physical response diminished in intensity and speed.

Bridget had been most understanding and hadn’t complained. Nevertheless, her acceptance didn’t make it any less embarrassing.

It was quite ridiculous.

His sexual drive and his prowess in bed had never played a major role in Turner’s self-perception, and he’d been proud of the fact that unlike most men he wasn’t ruled by his dick.

Apparently, that wasn’t true. As soon as the chemo affected his sexual drive and performance, Turner’s confidence in his masculinity had taken a nosedive.

Hell, it was much worse than that. He was losing confidence in his ability to perform his job. If he had anyone he trusted to hand over the few open cases he still had to take care of, Turner would have done it without giving it a second thought. He couldn’t afford mistakes or oversights. In his field that meant unnecessary suffering at the least and unnecessary loss of life at worst.

“I’m waiting,” Bridget said.

“Let me grab a quick shower first.”

She frowned. “You showered this morning.”

“So did you.”

“What’s wrong, Victor?”

“Nothing.” Turner leaned, cupping a breast as he kissed her. “I want to smell good for you.” He tweaked her nipple before straightening up. “I’ll be quick.”

“You’d better.”

In the shower, Turner braced his hands against the glass enclosure and let his head hang between his outstretched arms. As much as his head wanted to get in the game, his dick had other ideas, hanging loose and useless between his legs. He couldn’t even get mad at the malfunctioning appendage because it wasn’t its fault.

The worst part was the loss of control over his body. He hated it more than all the actual symptoms put together.

It wasn’t even about letting Bridget down. She knew what was going on and was willing to pay the price, suffering the consequences of the treatment along with him. Besides, he knew how to pleasure the woman into an explosive orgasm in other ways.

Back in the bedroom, he found Bridget asleep, the comforter covering her up to her chin and hiding her beautiful body from his eyes. A moment of indecision passed as he contemplated letting her sleep or waking her up with a kiss. The former was the coward’s way out, the latter was what he wanted to do.

Hell, he wanted his mouth all over her, starting with those partially parted puffy lips, moving over to the long column of her throat, and then feasting on her luscious breasts.

He loved the way her nipples puckered at the slightest touch.

Bridget was the most responsive woman he’d ever been with. Was it because she was an immortal female who was more lustful than the average human woman? Or was it her reaction to him? And only him?

A guy could hope.

Still warm from the shower, Turner didn’t feel too bad about peeling the comforter off Bridget and quickly covering her up with his body, shielding her from the room’s chill.

“Hello,” she murmured without opening her eyes. “This feels nice. You’re like a warming blanket.”

Not exactly what a man wanted to hear. Except, he knew how to make her sing a different tune to lyrics that didn’t include nice and blanket.

As he kissed her, his palms followed the contours of her body, brushing the sides of her breasts, dipping into her narrow waist, then getting a handful of her flaring hips.

Her arms wrapping around his neck, Bridget licked into his mouth, deepening the kiss.

He brought his left hand just beneath her breast and brushed his thumb over her nipple.

“Oh, yes…” she groaned as he cupped her breast.

Turner dipped his head and sucked the hardened bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and flicking the tip before moving to Bridget's other breast. Not to neglect the one he’d just left, he covered it with his palm, warming it up before closing his fingers around the tip and tweaking it.

With a groan, Bridget’s fingers dug into his scalp and her thighs parted under him. It was an invitation he wished he could accept but couldn’t. His dick was semi-hard at best, and not for lack of wanting to be inside her.

Good thing that he hadn’t anticipated any miracles and was mentally prepared to remain on the giving end. Her pleasure was his.

Curling down, Victor kissed her belly button. He kept kissing and nipping until his mouth reached the top of her bare slit.

She moaned and lifted up to meet his mouth.

Denying her was out of the question.

He pressed a soft kiss to that most sensitive spot on her body then flicked it with his tongue, once, twice, before running it down her slit and then up again.

She was so wet, so ready for him.

Cupping her bottom, he lifted her up to his mouth and penetrated her, fucking her with his tongue.

Alternating his rhythmic thrusts with short flicks over the top of her sex, he was giving her just enough to stoke the flames but not enough to combust. She went wild under him, her hips churning against his mouth, her head thrashing from side to side on the pillow, the mass of her red hair all tangled and wild around her face and shoulders.

Beautiful, passionate woman. He would always be hungry for more of her.

There was no need to slick his fingers with saliva before pushing two into her welcoming heat. Bridget was more than ready.

The pulsing clenches around his fingers were echoed by the pulsing of his cock. He was getting hard.

Thank fuck.

Bridget let out a throaty moan, her hips arching up as she was gripped by the powerful climax ripping out of her, then collapsed down on the mattress when it was over. In her post-orgasmic languor, she was a vision to behold. Her porcelain white skin flushed, her ample breasts heaving with her panting breaths, her limbs lying loose on the bed, Bridget closed her eyes and sighed a content, sleepy sigh.

But he wasn’t done with her.

“Are you ready for more?”