Chapter Seven

"You were right, Gideon," she sighed as she slipped into the Ether. "9%. How does this affect the plan?"

"Badly," Gideon answered. "It really depends on his character now."

Damien couldn't shake the woman from the plane as he made the hour drive back home. The sun was rising as he drove out of Chicago to Pingree Grove. He followed I-90 until the town of Gilberts, and then headed southwest to make his way to the small village of Pingree Grove. A decade ago, Pingree Grove was a true village, but now it had boomed into a burgeoning town, swallowing up the surrounding farmland.

He chatted to his wife on the drive back. She was waiting for him at home, promising a surprise. Damien turned down his street and pulled into his driveway a moment later. He and his wife owned a three-story farmhouse, the only remains of the farm that had been transformed into a prosperous suburb. The house stood out on the cul-de-sac, painted white with the charm of an American farmhouse that the newer constructed houses lacked.

Those looked too well-built.

"Hi, Mr. D'Angelo," young Britney Lawson smiled as Damien climbed out of his car.

The eighteen-year-old was wearing a tight pair of jogging shorts and a loose tank top, the sides open to show her black sports bra holding in her impressive bosom. The perky, young woman jogged past, her blonde hair trailing behind her.

"Hey, Britney," Damien said. "How's your parents?"

"Fine," she smiled. "How was your business trip?"

"Successful. I'm eager to see Abby, though."

"Oh, when did she get back?" Britney asked, pausing to jog in place.

"Late last night. Her mother's doing a lot better."

"Wonderful," beamed the young lady. With a wave, she kept jogging down the street.

Damien pulled out his keys, unlocked the front door, and swept into the house. "Hey, Abby."

Music drifted from above. Their bedroom was all the way on the third floor. Between hunts, they had spent their time remodeling the house. The Catholic Church's stipend paid well enough, and neither of D'Angelos had expensive habits. The basement was their armory and training room, complete with padded mats for sparing.

Damien pulled off his leather duster and hung it on a coat rack then dropped his keys into a crystal bowel next to Abigail's. The music playing above was R&B, the base thudding through the house. His wife loved R&B. Damien listened and decided the music sounded like Boys to Men.

She is feeling randy.

The stairs creaked as Damien climbed. He pulled off his t-shirt as he passed the second floor, revealing his muscular body crisscrossed with scars. He took the steps two at a time, the music swelling louder as he reached the landing.

"Hey, Abby," he called out as he stepped into the bedroom. It was dark, lit only by flickering candles. Abigail had pulled the heavy curtains over the windows. The couple were often night owls and slept through the day.

"In here," Abigail called from the bathroom.

More candles flickered in the bathroom, their orange-red light beckoning him. Water rippled. During their remodel, they had installed a large, hot tub style bathtub. Damien kicked off his boots and unbuckled his belt as he crossed the room.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" Damien asked as he leaned against the open bathroom door.

"Maybe," purred his wife. She sat in the hot water. One leg was lifted out of the bath, glistening in the candle light. Her red hair fanned about about her head and the tops of her breasts just rose over the water.

Chanel perfumed the air. Damien didn't think of the woman on the plane.

Abigail leaned back, her breasts cresting the surface of the water. Her nipples were pink, hard, and inviting. Abigail's toe curled as she let out a sensuous moan. Damien's cock hardened in his pants as he admired his wife's beauty.

"How was your flight?" Abigail asked. "Mine was boring."

"Uneventful," Damien answered.

"Ooh, what happened?" his wife purred. She could always read him.

"Nothing."

Abigail arched an eyebrow.

"I had a ... dream."

"A sex dream?" Abigail asked. "About who?"