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handed me mine, I grumbled my thanks. He seemed to have cooled down, and he leaned against the sink counter, watching me with his arms crossed.
    “Do we need to talk about this?”
    I shook my head. “No. At least not right now. Nothing happened. So let’s just be thankful,” I lied.
    “Thankful is the last thing I am. I want to taste every inch of you. I won’t be happy until I sink into you”—he paused and I whimpered, imagining the pleasure—“to the hilt every night, all night, and again when you wake each morning. That’s when I will be thankful and only then.”
    I hadn’t realized I had closed the distance between us until his arms wrapped around me possessively. My lips found his and my tongue touched his lips, begging for entrance. His lips parted and our tongues met.
    “Oh God, Eric,” I moaned into his mouth.
    He only kissed me for a little while longer, then he lifted his mouth from mine. I whined. He buried his face in my neck. He inhaled deeply. He made a soft mmm sound.
    “But, until you no longer feel thankful we were interrupted, it will go no further.” The desire in his voice awakened every inch of my skin.
    He stepped around me, grabbing plates and silverware to set the table. “I’m staying for dinner.” He walked out of the kitchen.
    “Uh, I am already no longer thankful.” I pouted. Damn it. Can girls get blue balls? I think Ectain Edeck was giving me a serious case. I stalked after him, very frustrated. What pissed me off even more was he was sitting there with my dog on his lap and Big Jim was all happy like Eric was his owner. I grabbed the glasses from the bar and set them down hard on the table. I didn’t slam them, but the description was not too far off. I’m guessing a symptom of female blue balls is anger.
    Eric smirked.
    I hate him.

Chapter 4
    We ate in silence. Honestly, I wasn’t pouting. I could not fall for Eric. I did not even like him. Even as I told myself this I knew I lied. Something about Eric rang too familiar to not be drawn to him.
    “This is good. Why do you eat so much junk food if you love to cook?”
    “I hate cooking for only myself. It reminds me of how alone I am.”
    He nodded. “It’s good.” He continued chewing.
    “I have to ask. Did that guy make it? I never even got his name, what was it?”
    “Do you really want me to say his name?” He raised a defined brow.
    I leaned forward. “Is that how it works?”
    He nodded. “Yes. I never say names in regular conversation. I only speak them—”
    “Your eyes change colors,” I blurted.
    Confused, he narrowed his gaze at me. “What do you mean?”
    “At the restaurant, your eyes did this thing before the guy had his attack. They went from honey to dark amber, as smooth as whiskey.”
    He laughed softly. “Honey? You mentioned that earlier.”
    My face burned with embarrassment. “Anyway, so you say a name and splat , the person dies?”
    “Not splat usually. But I get the idea, and yes.”
    “What if more than one person has the same name?”
    “You have no idea how often that’s happened. How many people have ‘near death’ experiences? I call a name and there are hundreds of souls when I look up. I have to send the wrong ones back and they have an ‘I’ve seen the light’ story. What light exactly, I have no idea. There is no damn light. I don’t get it.” He appeared truly perplexed.
    “How do you figure out who is the right one?”
    He shrugged. “Sometimes I can’t. Usually they are helpful and truly want to figure it out as well.”
    “And if they aren’t and you can’t figure it out? Do they get to live, all of them?”
    “Of course not.” He paused. “Those who don’t help and, therefore, try and cheat death out of a soul— they all die. I deliver all their souls to . . . wherever the original soul was going.”
    I gulped. “Hell.”
    “Sheol. But yes, usually the people who try to hide their identity from me and those who try to add to the confusion