“Do not worry about it, Mrs. Hamilton. I will take care of it. You will leave with your daughter on the morning flight,” Roarke says and smiles at the middle-aged blonde. They are standing in his office, another week of fantasies complete. One, however, has embroiled Roarke deeper than he expected.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. How can I thank you,” she asks, cheeks wet with tears. She had made a pact with The Devil, her soul for her daughter’s cure. In the end, the cure was simple. Her soul…well, that was another matter.
“There is no need for thanks. Sometimes our best intentions lead us down the wrong path.” He steps from behind the desk to show her out. His heart pounds a little faster than usual. He knows what he has wrought. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hamilton.” Roarke nods and allows the woman to kiss him on the cheek. She smells of the hotel shampoo, fragrant with hibiscus and a touch of vanilla. It lingers in the air as he closes the door.
“So, another trade? I had not expected it so soon, Roarke.” The Devil’s voice sounds from behind him as the room grows dim.
Roarke tugs on his white jacket, takes a quick breath, and turns to face Satan. His human guise is cast in shadow. The familiarity of his desk and chair fades, melding into darkness. Slowly the furniture of another room with heavy red trimmings comes into view. He keeps his eyes locked on his foe.
“You have skirted the rules once more,” Roarke says, his mouth turning down in disdain.
Satan laughs. “Oh, Roarke, you are so idealistic. Once again, you believe in the good of people. Mrs. Hamilton’s barter was in good, well, faith.”
“Mrs. Hamilton was a grieving woman and you took advantage.” Roarke has argued with Satan before, done battle and won. This time, however, his victory is not complete.
“It is no matter now. You have made a deal with The Devil and it is time to pay up.” Satan’s face flares briefly with an evil joy as he yanks at his white silk tie. He loosens it and pops the top button on his shirt.
“Indeed. I shall hold to my end of the bargain.” Roarke smiles tightly and shrugs off his jacket. He knows this room and he tosses the jacket without looking, hears the soft thud as it lands on the bed behind him. He loosens his own tie.
Satan watches, fascination evident as Roarke approaches.
“On your knees,” Roarke commands. With a barely contained smirk, Satan drops to the floor, his hands reaching out to touch Roarke’s thighs. The room pulsates with The Devil’s emotions, dark and wanting.
“Hands off!” Roarke snaps and cuffs him hard across the face. “You have to earn your right to touch me. Or have you forgotten, dear Satan?” The room responds and a chill breeze swirls around them.
The Devil bows his head and Roarke yanks at his white tie, slipping it away from his neck. Roarke ties it tightly around Satan’s eyes. He takes his own black tie and ties it around his wrists.
Roarke steps back, observes his obedient posture and sits on the edge of the bed. He breathes slowly, waiting for his foe to move, to test the bonds, to cheat as he is wont to do. The room tells the tale of his struggle, even after so many years, he cannot control his desires.
In a pleasant warm glow, Roarke finally speaks, “Come to me.”
Satan begins to stand, his head cocked towards the sound of his voice. Roarke scolds him sharply. “No! On your knees.”
He complies and shuffles across the white carpet, his breath coming visibly fast. The room smells of a dark spice. Roarke stands and unzips his trousers, letting them fall to the floor. Satan unconsciously leans towards him, licks his lips as deep red and purple flare. Roarke feels his own arousal, blood pooling in his groin. It has been more than a century since he’s been ensnared by The Devil. He’d forgotten his power.
Roarke leans over him, pulls the tie to free his hands. “You may touch me,” Roarke says.
His foe drags his hands up Roarke’s legs, pausing to squeeze his muscular thighs. He leans his face into the triangle of hair between his legs.
“No speaking!” Roarke cuts him off and yanks his hair. “Off!” Roarke pushes him down onto the floor and sits back on the bed. “We will wait until you can control yourself.” The room is in turmoil, a flash of red and black, then silver easing slowly to gray calm.
When the Devil’s black attire is stark against the cool white of the carpet, Roarke smirks, then chastises himself for enjoying the game too much. This is Satan’s will and he should not be so enthralled.
“You may return to me,” Roarke says, voice filled with command and disdain. “I warn you, though, I am close to ending this game.” They are careful about the rules and even The Devil must abide.
Roarke closes his eyes, lets his body feel the room, sense the emotions of his foe as Satan takes him into his mouth. The heat of it is almost too much to bear, hot and wet and made of the bitterest sweet that pulls him down. It drags lust and desire to a burning frenzy in his soul. Roarke breathes, searches himself for calm, cool light. The foe is soon to become victor if he loses control. Satan preys on lust. Roarke must stay strong.
With a calm exhale, Roarke opens his eyes again, watches the swirling tempest of colors, but feels none of its pressure. He divines his body to pure experience, lets his skin and blood and nerves react without emotion. He feels the crest of orgasm, the heat of The Devil’s mouth nearly searing his skin. It does not touch his soul. He releases, feels the rush of his body’s reaction, lets the pleasure rise and fall.
When it is over, Satan drags his tongue across Roarke’s hip, rests his head on his thigh. Colors swirl and slow, cooling to paler shades of orange and pink, settling on an amber hue. The Devil sighs and removes his blindfold.
When he stands his eyes are black, lit with irritation. “You have resisted me again, Roarke.”
“Our bargain is fulfilled,” Roarke answers, calm belying a turmoil inside him.
With a crack and flash, Roarke is dressed again and squinting against the bright island sun streaming into his office windows. He can smell the ocean, hears the chatter of voices outside in the garden. The Devil has gone in a huff, angry that Roarke has not been seduced by weakness or power, or by a familiar old desire.
Only Roarke knows how very close he came.