Effervescence

"Here. Take this." He thrust the fraying copy of Otherworld Laws into her hands and shut the door behind him.
Poor foolish Claudia. She's on her own merry path to hell. Heather has the Seal of Metatron and enough hatred to birth a dozen gods. My dear deluded Claudia doesn't stand a chance.
He traipsed down the corridor his shoes striking the hardwood floor softly...he had time to kill. Opening the door to his room he sat heavily on the small bed. The scratchy wool blanket made his palms itch. There was a difference between living a holy life and living like a damn mendicant.
Vincent lay back and closed his eyes, his hands behind his head. I wonder what Claudia will say when she finds out her little plan has been foiled. Probably tell me I'm going to Hell. She has a fixation with burning. Probably came from hanging around with Alessa.
Alessa.
Heather.
Now there was a topic that he had been deliberately keeping out of his mind. The first time he met her she had stumbled into the old medical clinic, full of fire and anger and only wanting to get the hell out of her nightmare. That was, of course, before the nightmare became her life. Poor trusting Harry had been sacked in his own living room. An unnecessary touch on Claudia's part - far too heavy handed and tactless. It had been quite the blow for Heather.
She's much more beautiful when she hasn't been crying.
He blinked his eyes hard. Beautiful? Maybe that was an overstatement. Heather wasn't beautiful on the classical academic scale of beauty that the old masters would immortalize. But there was something about her. The fire in those brown eyes. The determined set to her jaw.
She's a survivalist, like me. She's looking out for herself and preservation and the rest of the world be damned. She may not admit it but she is. We're two of a kind.
He had to admit he had been tempted when he met her in the hotel room. He had waylaid the old fellow...what was his name? Douglas. He had sent Douglas off to the amusement park. Maybe to kill Claudia. Maybe to amuse himself. He didn't care one way or the other. It had however given him time alone with Heather no matter how brief it was.
Something in the way she looked still stirred him. Still called the impure thoughts to his mind. It was a hotel room. There was a bed...and she was a woman...and he was a man. What would it have been like? Would she have protested? Screamed? Would he have had the added rush of power as he pinned her to the bed? Or would she submit? Would she be the typical melodramatic heroine and fling herself into his arms, begging him to take her away and take her.
He wrinkled his nose at that thought. Not only was it completely out of her character, but the thought disgusted him and grated on him much as the wool blanket grated on the sensitive skin of his neck.
Yes, Vincent and Heather happily married with a little blue house on Bachman Street and a dog and a doghouse....
He shuddered violently. Boredom was doing strange things to his imagination.
Yet she had been alluring in that hotel room. The blood stains on her clothes brought him back to that wonderful survivalist quality that prickled his mind. The thought that she was anything like him made the gears start turning again. Even though her hair was stringy and separated with sweat and a smear of dirt blocked the little path of freckles on her cheek. She had wonderful cheeks...probably soft with untouched innocence and an easy life. And her eyes...a wonderful light shade of brown. Not the brown that any common gutter rat would have. In his mind she devoured him with those amber eyes and her soft pink lips darted over his. And her hands were...were....
Vincent's eyes shot open. They were not Heather's hands but rather his own...he had been consumed by his own reverie, not by the feisty creature he conjured to his mind. Ruefully he rubbed at the hardness in his pants that he had been unconsciously pawing at and rose off the bed, glad to be free of the itchiness of the blanket. He needed a shower. Anything to clear his head.
Standing, he crossed the room and opened a small door by his bookcase. The bathroom was painfully cramped. Hardly enough room to do anything, except for wash and relieve other bodily urges. But it served its purpose. A half-length mirror hung in front of the sink, covered with a thick film of grunge that seemed to stick to everything in this godforsaken town. He moodily rubbed at it and then examined his face, running a hand over the stubble on his cheeks. He needed a shave, but decided it could wait.
The shower was cramped as the rest of the room was and was covered completely in white pre-fabricated tile. Miserable little swirls of rust that looked more like blood than iron based compounds ran from the shower head to the drain. He reached in and turned the taps on not particularly caring if he scalded himself or froze. This was form and distraction. He was already clean and he tried very hard to remain so.
He hated getting hot and sweaty.
But perhaps, for her, I'd make an exception.
Vincent removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. His unruly mind was certainly playing havoc with him. He set the spectacles on what little counter space he had and shrugged off his brown vest, which he neatly folded and sat next to the glasses. Next came the shirt, which was partially unbuttoned already. He idly wondered if she had noticed. Flicking the buttons open he pushed the fabric off his shoulders and folded it neatly as he had the vest. Looking up he caught his reflection in the mirror. Well he wasn't thin and emaciated by any means. But he was certainly no bronzed Adonis.
And I don't have a middle-age paunch. Poor old Douglas. He didn't stand a chance with her.
He had slightly defined muscles and a few stray whisps of sandy chest hair. Narcissistically, he smiled. Not too bad.
I wonder what she'd think...
Would she have splayed her hands across his chest, moaning his name like a mantra as he lowered her to the bed?
Stop.
He was loosing the desperate battle with his unruly mind, which if left unchecked would be projecting images of he and Heather rutting like animals in heat, grunting and clawing...clawing...would she have raked her nails down his back and sucked her lower lip between those perfect pearl teeth of hers while he moved above her giving her her first orgasm?
Reaching into the shower he wrenched the taps until only cold water flowed in and he impatiently kicked off his shoes letting them strike the wall near the toilet with a satisfying thud. He then mechanically undid the fastener to his pants and let the material pool around his ankles.
Beholden to the world, Vincent stepped into the icy water and grimaced. Despite the assault of the frigid water his mind and its projected images of the wanton succubus Heather had left him painfully hard.
He had long, slightly muscled legs and...well...he hadn't been gifted with any extraordinary proportions in his more masculine anatomy but it certainly wasn't disappointing. At least he thought not. But what would she think? In his inner eye she was splayed on the bed in wondrous glory, her soft, white, and untouched skin covered in the shadows of the thin lamplight of the motel room. Her eyes traveled over his body, appraising his gifts and overlooking his shortcomings. Then in his mind he stretched out beside her on the bed, drawing her willing body into his where he could revel in the delight of her flesh sinking against ever inch of him.
Unconsciously his hand slid down his flat stomach and through the small patch of tangled hair.
She would close her eyes and succumb...succumb to his kisses and his hands, surging over her body with the long suffocated need.
His hand encircled his shaft and slid forward. Despite the torrent of water he felt his own arousal beaded on the silky head. Blind to the line where fantasy ended and truth began, he bucked his hips forward, groaning.
The little minx surprised him then. She turned and twined, serpent like with his own body until she was on top of him. Her hands now held his wrists, pinned above his head and a smirk that matched his own played down at him. His erection was pressed between his belly and her own drenched arousal, which ran warm on his flesh.
Vincent closed his hand and began tugging and stroking...stroking...his hand lubricated by the water which no longer seemed so icy on his burning skin and the delicate beads he had caught with his thumb in his ministrations and had slowly massaged over the length of his shaft.
He was at the vixen's mercy and she knew it. She rubbed teasingly against his shaft. He arched his back, his face a mask of concentration, praying that she would grant him entrance.
His hand made sloppy noises in the water and he vainly thrust forward with his hips, his eyes shut tight to preserve his fantasy. The outside world was lost to him.
Rising up, Heather let out a cry and impaled herself on him. Oh Great God.... Her hands still pinning his wrists, she moved, stroking him with her soft, welcoming body. Her lips murmured things she would only say in his hormone driven fantasy as she told him how she had longed to have him inside her and how desperately she needed him harder and deeper.
A dull ache was rising in his wrist but he didn't care...it was no longer his own touch. It was his lovely, supple, willing Heather....
She arched her back and wailed, her eyes clenched shut as she mercilessly rode him. Her hips ground into his and her hands had come free, running up across her pert breasts, which bounced with each desperate thrust. He was lost. Lost in her warm, slick, welcoming body that was desperately impaling itself again and again on his throbbing erection. He could feel himself threatening to lose control. She was already long gone, her head thrown back, crying out his name over and over again. So close.... he ground out through clenched teeth.
Vincent's eyes shot open and his back arched in a near perfect crescent, his mouth open in an incoherent cry as his reward for his fantasy shot onto his swiftly moving hand and onto the stains of rust below him.
The last waves of delirium passing over him he blinked, the cold water stinging his eyes. In releasing his body he had also released his fantasy....his Heather was nowhere to be found. Only the dull white walls of the shower remained, illuminated by the single dim light bulb that had been the only witness to his transgression.
Fiddling with the knobs of the shower he stepped out and wrapped himself in the drab and itchy towel. He staggered out of the bathroom on weak knees with shirt and spectacles in hand settling heavily on his bed. His wet hair created little rivulets of water that dripped down the contours of his face and back, dribbling almost painfully on his overly alert and sensitive skin. He pulled the shirt on, leaving it open and pushed the glasses up on his nose.
What was I thinking?
What indeed was he thinking? Heather was a convenient pawn in a much larger game. She was far more important than a nubile body ready to fulfill his desires. However, if things worked out right he could claim her as a spoil of war. Possibly.
Vincent chastised himself inwardly. Heather was not just a pawn, she was a vital centerpiece in stopping Claudia's foolish and deluded vision of a perfect world, and he would have to face her as just that without his boyish fantasies interrupting the processes.
Standing, he went to the bathroom to retrieve his vest, trousers and shoes which he quickly slipped back into.
He had a very important meeting to witness.