Free The Immortalist by Scott Britz Page B

sorry, Charles. I swear.” Then he went out and slammed the door.
    As soon as Niedermann was gone, Gifford hurried toward the secret door. He had known Yolanda was there all along. “Thanks for coming,” he whispered. “The kids okay?”
    â€œNapping. What’s with Jack?”
    â€œStress. We’re all pretty stressed-out this week.”
    â€œHe snapped at me this morning over the guest list for the banquet.”
    â€œDon’t worry. We’ll all get back to normal after Friday.”
    She felt Gifford’s arms encircling her waist, and closed her eyes as he kissed her. It was a long kiss, alternately teasing and mashing her lips, probing along every part of her mouth. No one but he had ever kissed her like this, in such an examining way. Perhaps it had something to do with his being a doctor. She was embarrassed that the kiss did not arouse her. Her head was throbbing and it felt as if she had a sunburn at the corner of her mouth.
    â€œYolanda, I need you so much!” Gifford caressed her back with his strong, knowing doctor’s hands. “Now more than ever. Today . . . especially today. We need to celebrate this moment. Did you see how it went, Yolanda? Did you see how it went?”
    â€œYes. I was so proud of you.”
    â€œI feel like I’m going to burst.”
    Taking her by the hand, he pulled her across the room and dropped back onto the leather button sofa, drawing her against his knees.
    Yolanda sniffled. “I was ready to cry for that man when he won the race. It was a miracle.”
    â€œIt was. It was.” He squeezed her hand and tried to pull her onto the sofa, but she resisted. She wanted to be there for him and to satisfy him, but she was afraid that her headache would show and she would only be a disappointment.
    He pulled her again. This time she gave in and let herself fall upon the squeaky leather. He knelt over her, keeping one knee between her thighs, as he began kissing her in that place where the collarbones came together at the base of her throat. She knew he liked that special spot. “Give me your love, mi corazón ,” he said, “before I devour you altogether.”
    She knew little about science, but she understood that something important had happened that day that would make people live a long time, perhaps forever. It was the greatest possible luck for her that the genius who had made this possible begged to share his triumph with her. No one could ever take away this honor. The great doctor Charles Gifford had desired her. It was like being the mistress of Beethoven or Einstein.
    Over the three months that they had been intimate, his demands had always been great. He might ask for her at any hour of the day or night. But in the past few days, he had needed her as never before—sometimes several times in a day. She wondered what it meant. Was it possible he was falling in love with her? She was ashamed of her pride in thinking so. The woman, Doreen, whose picture stared at her from over the mantel—that woman was not common. She had not come from a slum. But what of it? There was more than one way to be worthy of a great man.
    So she did not refuse him. As he began to kiss her throat, she clasped her legs about him, sighing and moaning to show her receptiveness. He moaned back. It awakened her own desire. Pulling her dress over her head, she offered her breasts to him and kissed him with wet, hungry kisses until even the headache did not matter anymore. She implored him to enter her. She didn’t make him use a condom. They had used one at first, but there seemed no reason for it. Charles said he hadn’t had sex since his wife died. She herself was on the pill. But today the act felt strangely uncomfortable—burning inside her. She dared not tell him. It would have spoiled his triumph. So she called upon the woman’s art—pretending. Had she not done so, he would have gone on for