Текст книги "Raziel"

Автор книги: Kristina Douglas

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“And he used his teeth, did he not? Pierced your vein?”

“Yes.”

“And you let him continue, almost to the point of death, before Raziel found you and stopped him?”

I glanced at Raziel. I’d never seen him looking so angry. “I suppose so,” I said reluctantly. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I never thought Tamlel would actually bite me—after all, Gadrael hadn’t. And then I assumed he’d stop when he had enough.” I glanced at Tamlel, who was looking stoic. Was he in the same kind of trouble I was?

“So we have two possibilities here,” Azazel said in his cold, emotionless voice after a long moment. “The most likely is that Gadrael was less grievously wounded than you thought. Don’t interrupt,” he added as he saw me start to protest. “With him, the taste of blood, even the wrong blood, was enough to bring him back. You are here only as a partner for Raziel, you have no bonding to him, and while it is unusual, it seems likely that you are Tamlel’s mate and neither of you realized it.”

“No,” said Raziel in a low, savage voice.

Ignoring Raziel, I glanced at Tamlel. He seemed sweet, charming, but I didn’t want to be his mate. I didn’t want to kiss him, fuck him, fight with him. . . . I glanced back at Raziel, who looked ready to explode. Raziel was a different matter. I couldn’t begin to know what I wanted, needed, from him, not now, when I was too weary to think clearly. I only knew that I needed him.

Damn it. And he’d probably read that revealing thought, smashing what few defenses I had left.

“Then there’s the other option, which seems unlikely.”

The silence in the room was so thick it was practically choking, and Azazel seemed in no mood to elaborate. I was beginning to get annoyed. I knew what was coming.

“Are you going to go on, or are we all going to sit here in uncomfortable silence?” I snapped.

“We’ve already discussed the possibility,” Azazel said forbiddingly. “We’re just considering it.”

Why in the world had lovely, sweet Sarah married such a hard-ass? I leaned forward. “But you forgot to include me in this discussion, which seems to concern me the most. I know your patriarchal bullshit style makes you forget that women have brains and opinions, but since this is about me, then you can just spit it out.”

“The only other alternative is that for some reason, by some cosmic joke or bizarre twist of fate, you are the new Source. Which doesn’t make sense.

The Source must be the bonded mate of one of the Fallen, and you haven’t had the bonding ceremony. Don’t think you’ve fooled me with your charade—I know perfectly well it was all an act. Besides, there has always been a long period of mourning before a new Source became apparent. Therefore it’s impossible for you to be the Source.”

“Impossible,” I agreed, my stomach churning. I’d known this was coming. I’d just hoped I was wrong. “But if I were? That doesn’t mean I have to be yourbonded mate, does it?”

If anything, Azazel looked more revolted by the thought than I was. “Hardly. The Source can belong to anyone.”

“ ‘Belong’?” My voice was dangerous. Once again I was being discussed as if I were a commodity, and I was getting past the point of being the Good Girl.

“If you are the Source, then it’s always possible your connection to Raziel is deeper than either of you want or realize.”

All the humor had left Raziel’s face. It was nothing compared to how I felt. He might be the most gorgeous male who had ever put his hands on me, but he was arrogant, brooding, manipulative, and lying, and worst of all, while he might have wanted me, he certainly didn’t love me. And damn it, I wanted love. True love, gushing, romantic, oh-my-darling love. Something Raziel was never going to give again, and certainly not to me.

The only defense I had was to push him away first. “So how do we find out?” I said in a practical voice. They looked startled. Clearly they’d been so caught up in horror over the possibility that I might somehow have a role in their little boys’ club that they hadn’t even thought about that. “What would happen if someone drank from me and I wasn’t the Source? Would he die?”

“Possibly,” Azazel said slowly. “At the very least he would become sick, run a fever, possibly throw up. We can’t tell with Tamlel or Gadrael because their bodies were already compromised by the wounds they had received.”

“Then we need a volunteer,” I said brightly. “It’s the only way we can be certain.”

Raziel rose, pushing back his chair, but Azazel fixed him with a look. “You know it can’t be you. If she’s your bonded mate, you’d be able to drink from her and you know it. I assume you haven’t done so as yet.”

“None of your damned business,” Raziel snapped.

“It’s all of our business,” the leader replied. “Sammael, you may try.”

Sammael was sitting near me, and I immediately held out my arm, more curious about Raziel’s reaction than anything else. I could feel the tension and rage washing over him, a mindless, animal response. He hadn’t resumed his seat; he was just standing there, vibrating with something I wasn’t sure I wanted to interpret.

Sammael didn’t look any too happy about the idea, but he took hold of my arm as if it were an ear of corn, and his incisors elongated. I watched with fascination, wondering what set off that reaction. Was it blood flow, like an erection? Did old vampires have trouble getting it up, or down, or whatever?

Sammael set his mouth against my wrist, and I felt the twin pinpricks, just a quick, sharp pain. And then nothing at all as he fed at my wrist.

“Enough!” Raziel snapped, and Sammael pulled his mouth away quickly. “She has already lost too much blood from Tamlel’s carelessness.”

Azazel was focusing on Sammael. “Well? Are you feeling ill?”

Slowly Sammael shook his head. “She is the Source,” he said quietly.

“Shit.” Raziel’s muttered expletive expressed it for all of them, me included.

Dead silence. I considered whining, “But I don’t want to be the Source,” then thought better of it. I kept quiet, letting it sink in.

After a moment Azazel spoke, and his low, angry voice was defeated. “Very well. As blood-eaters we know that blood doesn’t lie. You’ll have to discover who your mate truly is—”

“She’s mine,” Raziel said fiercely, throwing himself back down into his chair. “No one else’s.”

“Well, we’ll leave you time to discover whether that, indeed, is true. In the meantime, the woman will have to be instructed in the duties of the Source, the proper diet and training, and she—”

“Hell, no,” I said. I’d had enough of this patriarchal crap.

Once more the silence was deafening. “What did you say?” Azazel demanded dangerously.

“I said hell, no. If you think I’m going to be Raziel’s sex slave and your personal blood bank, you have another thing coming. This is your problem—figure it out yourself.”

My magnificent exit was marred slightly when the flowing sleeve of my tunic caught on the door handle, but I yanked it free as dramatically as I could and strode from the room.

Once out of sight, I wanted to pump my fist in triumph. Assholes, all of them. I wasn’t about to let anyone push me around, particularly not Azazel and Raziel. They could find someone else to be their goddamn Source, preferably someone more like Sarah, with her serene smile and calm nature.

At the thought of her I wanted to cry, but I dashed the tears away. I needed fresh air and the smell of the ocean to clear my head of all that testosterone. If any of them made the mistake of trying to follow me, I would simply head over to the fire and grab a burning branch or something. I could even build a ring of fire around me if I felt the need. It would serve them right and probably make them crazy with frustration. I found I could manage a sour grin.

As I moved out into the sunlight I felt someone behind me, someone tall, and I knew who it was. I turned, ready to lash out at him.

Raziel looked as furious as I felt, which only made things escalate. “What’s your problem?” I demanded hotly. “It’s not like they’re expecting youto be a cross between a whore and a bloodmobile. If you think I’m going to sit quietly by while men suck at my wrist, you’re dead wrong. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“I don’t think that.” His low voice was surprising.

“You don’t?”

“No one is touching you but me,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SHE WAS LOOKING SHELL-SHOCKED, and I couldn’t blame her. She’d witnessed the kind of carnage unthinkable for someone of her world, she’d watched people she cared about die, she’d lost too much blood because of Tamlel’s carelessness, and to complete the disaster, the worst possible scenario had come to pass. She wasn’t just bound to me—she was bound to all of us.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had plenty of warning. I had simply refused to recognize it. She was reading me, more and more. I had a will of iron, yet I hadn’t been able to keep away from her. I had known, deep in my heart, and I could deny it no longer. She was my bonded mate. I would watch her grow old and die, and just to twist the knife further, I would have to watch the others feed from her narrow, blue-veined wrist, and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it, even as my atavistic blood roared in response.

And I had hurt her. When I’d returned from sealing the wall, I’d found her down by the edge of the water, sitting back on her knees, Tamlel’s head in her lap while he drank from her. She was pale and dizzy from blood loss, and rage had swept over me, a killing rage that had only just abated. I’d ripped her away from Tamlel, too blind with jealous fury to realize what I was doing.

I’m not sure what I would have done to Tamlel if I hadn’t heard her quiet moan. I spun around in the blood-soaked sand to see her lying against a rock, and guilt and panic swept away the rage. The healers were too busy with the dying to help her—all I could do was bring her back to my rooms and tend to her as best I could, washing the blood and gore from her, letting my hands soothe and heal her. We all had healing power, some more than others, and it was always stronger with our mates. I should have known, when I’d held her hands and healed them, that she was mine.

I hadknown. I had just refused to face it.

I still didn’t want to. Uriel must have known she was my mate. Her sins were too slight to deserve either an escort or a sentence to the flames. Uriel had assumed I would follow orders and throw her over the precipice, denying the Fallen their next Source. So that when his traitor let the Nephilim in, there’d be no one for the survivors.

I didn’t know how much she was reading from me. We were too new—her sense of me would deepen, and then the natural boundaries would develop.

Whatever she could hear from me, she didn’t like it.

She backed away when I tried to touch her, shaking her head. “You hate me,” she said flatly.

I controlled my flare of irritation. Of course she thought so—my anger was so powerful it would swamp any other feeling. “No I don’t,” I said, trying to sound reasonable and failing.

“I’m not doing this.” She was close to tears, which surprised me. Throughout the last few days, no matter what she’d had to deal with, I’d never seen her cry, something I was profoundly grateful for. I hated it when women cried.

“Yes,” I said. “You are.” And before she could avoid me, I scooped her up under her arms from behind and soared upward, deliberately keeping her mind open, not shutting it down as I had the last time I flew with her.

I heard her gasp over the sound of the wind as it rushed past us. I crossed my arms over her chest, holding her against me, and I could feel her heart racing. She was warm against me, despite the cool air, and after a moment I felt her stiffness relax so that she flowed against me, sweetly, like a reed in the water, and her skirts covered my legs as we climbed higher.

I’d only meant to take her as far as our apartment on the top floor, but the moment I felt her joy I changed my mind. I soared over the huge old house, turning right to avoid the oily smoke of the funeral pyre, heading deeper into the virgin forests with their dark trees, past sparkling water. I rose above the mist, where the sun was bright overhead, warming me, and I let that warmth flow to her, sending tendrils of heat throughout her before she could be chilled by the atmosphere. We went up, way up, over the peak of the mountain, and out of instinct I called for Lucifer’s faint voice. Uriel’s plans had worked well—

the fierceness of the Nephilim attack had kept us all too busy to search for the one man who could save us. I called, but there was no faint whisper. For once all I could hear was Allie’s longing, singing to me, her body dancing with mine even as her mind still fought it.

We banked, passing a startled flock of Canada geese, and I felt her laugh against me, felt the sheer joy that suffused her, just as it suffused me when I flew, and my arms tightened imperceptibly, holding her even closer, somehow wanting to absorb her into my bones.

My wings spread out around us as I headed back toward the house. Allie was relaxed now, warm and soft and yielding against me, and I knew the unexpected flight had been a wise idea. Not that she wouldn’t be ready to fight me all over again, the moment we set down. But at least for now she had accepted my strength, accepted my touch. She would again.

I landed on the narrow ledge lightly enough, planning to hold on to her until my wings had folded in, but standing still on the terrace felt too good, and instead I put my face against her neck, breathing in the sweet smell of her, until she panicked and jumped away, turning to stare up at me with an expression of shock.

Which wasn’t surprising. My wings were particularly impressive—an iridescent cobalt blue veined with black, they were emblematic of one rule of the Fallen. The longer we’d lived, the more ornate were our wings. The newly fallen had pure-white wings. Lucifer, the First, had wings of pure black. I was somewhere in between.

I let them fold back into place, hoping this would be enough to calm her, but she still stared at me. Her unexpected tears had dried, thank God, and she was ready for battle. I could still feel the lingering trace of her pleasure at our flight, and I stifled a grin. No one had ever enjoyed flying in my arms before, and it was almost as heady an experience for me.

“All right,” she said. “What are we going to do about this mess?” She’d decided to be reasonable. I could sense it, sense her struggling for her usual pragmatism. No problem was ever so big that it couldn’t be solved, she was thinking. There had to be a way around this.

“There isn’t,” I said. “We’re talking about forces beyond your comprehension. Things that can’t be reasoned with.”

She didn’t snap at me for reading her. “In other words, we’re trapped.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t like it?”

I could feel the too-familiar rage simmer inside me. I had never had to share my mate, ever, throughout the endless years of eternity. Only Azazel had wed the Source, and I could remember only too well the difficulties during times of transition. Difficulties I’d attributed to grief and the usual problems in a new relationship. Now I wondered.

“You don’t need to answer,” she said glumly. “I can feel it.” She was misreading me again, mistaking my anger at sharing her for a rebellion against her as my wife. I looked at her, and a stray memory surfaced.

“Where did you grow up?” I demanded, more intent on answers than on soothing her wounded pride. I could take care of that quite effectively when I got her into bed.

“I’m not going to bed with you.”

I laughed, which startled her. She expected that her ability to read me would be annoying, but by now it was just the opposite. It was proof that whether I liked it or not, she was mine, just as I was hers. “You grew up in Rhode Island, didn’t you?” I said, ignoring her protest.

“You already know everything about me, including the number of men I’ve slept with and whether I enjoyed it or not,” she said bitterly.

“I never paid attention to your childhood,” I said. I remembered her. She’d been seven years old, sitting alone outside a small house near Providence.

Her long brown hair had been in braids, her mouth set in a thin line, and I could see the tracks of her tears as they’d run down her dirty face. She was using a stick to dig in the dirt, ignoring an angry voice that came from the house. I’d stopped to look at her, and she’d seen me, and for a moment her eyes widened in wonder and her pout disappeared.

I knew why. Children saw us differently. They knew we were no threat to them, and when they looked they knew who we were, instinctively.

Allie Watson had looked at me and smiled, her misery momentarily vanishing.

I should have known then.

I saw her again when she was thirteen, and too old to see who I really was. I hadn’t expected to see her, and when I did I moved back into the shadows so she wouldn’t notice me. She was angry, rebellious, storming out of a store in front of a woman who was praying loudly and calling upon Jesus to spare her such a worthless, ungrateful daughter.

I’d wanted to grab the woman, slam her against the wall, and inform her that Jesus was far more likely to spare the daughter such a harridan of a mother; but I didn’t move, watching as they got into a car, the mother tearing off into traffic, her bitter mouth still working as Allie looked out the window, trying to shut her out.

That’s when she saw me again. Even in the shadows, her young eyes had picked me out, and for a moment her face softened as if in recognition, and she lifted a hand.

And then the car sped around a corner, and she was gone.

I should have known then. Instead, like a coward I’d blotted it out of my mind. I’d been shown her early on so that I could look out for her, keep her safe, but I’d been too determined not to fall into that trap again, and I’d turned my back on her.

I should have come for her when she was ready. My instincts would have told me—it might have been when she was eighteen or when she was twenty.

Instead I’d wasted all those years, when she could have been here, and safe.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she said. “Or thinking about—whatever. Why would I want to be here? I want to go back to my old life. I want to write books, and go out to lunch, and have lovers, and wear my own clothes. I—don’t—want—to—be—here,” she enunciated. “Is that clear enough for you?”

I moved past her, climbing back into the apartment, knowing she’d follow. I didn’t bother checking to see if the door was locked—no one, not even Azazel, would climb the stairs and interrupt us.

She came after me, of course. She watched, silent, as I found a bottle of wine and opened it, pouring us each a glass. I handed her one, and she took it, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to throw it in my face in the kind of dramatic gesture she was fond of.

“No,” she said, reading me, and went to sit on one of the sofas. “But I won’t say I’m not tempted.”

It had been so long since anyone had been able to read me that it was going to take some getting used to. She was already far too adept at it, considering how little sexual congress we’d actually indulged in. And I hadn’t fed from her.

I wouldn’t feed from her. Once I did, there’d be no going back, and there was just enough resistance left inside me to hold out that hope. At least for a little bit longer. Besides, she was still weak from Tamlel’s clumsiness, though I could sense her strength returning. That was one more sign that she was the Source. Her ability to bounce back from blood loss.

“You can’t go back to your old life, Allie,” I said wearily. “How many times do I have to explain this to you? You died. It happens to people all the time.

You don’t get a happy-ever-after with a prince, riding into the sunset. You don’t get a house with a white picket fence and two-point-three children. You won’t have any children, ever. You died too young for all those things.”

I heard her quick intake of breath, a sound of pain that she tried to hide from me. I would have thought she wouldn’t care about being a mother. I was wrong. About this, about so many things.

“So instead I get to be the meal plan for a bunch of vampires? Whoopee. Do I get weekly transfusions?”

I felt the now-familiar flare of anger at the thought, but I tamped it down. “You won’t need them. The Source provides blood for those who are unbonded, but the amount is minimal, the occasion is surrounded by ritual, and you won’t be called upon to serve more than once a month.” The moment I said it, I knew it was a bad choice of words.

“Serve?” she said. “Like a waitress with a hearty meal?”

She was doing her best to anger me, and she was succeeding. “No. Like someone with a higher calling.”

“Feeding blood to vampires is a higher calling?”

“Giving life to the Fallen is a higher calling. And the term is blood-eaters.”

“I don’t care what the term is, you’re vampires.”

I ground my teeth. She really did have an extraordinary ability to get under my skin, when I’d managed to be impervious to everything and everyone for so long. She was bringing me back to life, and reanimating the dead was always painful.

“Fine,” I said. “We’re vampires. Get over it.”

“What did you do in the past when the Source died? Did one of you have to quick find a willing sacrifice?”

Beneath her hostility I could sense a real concern, and I decided to answer her. “Azazel has been the only one married to the Source. The Source has never died suddenly—it was always natural causes and there was plenty of warning. The healers . . .” I wasn’t sure how I was going to phrase this, but Allie filched the image out of my mind.

“They take blood from her at regular intervals and store it,” she supplied. “How charming. So how long does Azazel get to mourn? How long before Sarah is replaced by some nubile young thing?”

“He has always had enough time to grieve. With Sarah it will be a problem. I don’t know how long it will take him to recover from her loss.”

“He’s had enough practice,” she said, her voice brutal. “So why me? And don’t give me that crap about being bonded mates—you and I both know that’s impossible. We don’t even like each other.”

I resisted the impulse to smile. She was putting so much effort into keeping me at a distance. She didn’t want me anywhere near her. She didn’t want me pushing her down among the pure white sheets, moving down her sweet, gorgeous body, tasting her, my hands on her thighs, my mouth—

“Don’t do that!” she said, shaken. She was searching for some way to stop me, some kind of insult. “After two nights ago, I thought you didn’t believe in foreplay.”

“Was I too fast for you?” I said, unruffled. “It seemed to me you were right there along with me. Are you telling me you didn’t like it?”

“Of course not!” she snapped. “I’m just saying that women like to be wooed, slowly and respectfully.”

I laughed. “So those orgasms were faked? You’re able to control your body that well? I must admit I’m impressed. And clearly my information was incorrect—it said you only climaxed by yourself. Which, by the way, is considered a sin by some scholars, but which we embrace enthusiastically.”

She was blushing, and I couldn’t resist her. “Come to bed with me,” I said, rising and holding out my hand.

She just looked at me, mutinous. “So you can feed on my wrist? You may as well do it here.”

“No.” Again I felt that little growl that seemed to come from nowhere. The growl I knew she sensed, and which frightened her. I struggled to control it. “I won’t take your blood. If I did, it would be from an artery, not a vein.”

“Ew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “What if you screw up your anatomy lessons?”

“I can hear the difference,” I said. “But it’s not going to happen.”

“Why won’t you take my blood? If I’m your supposed mate, what’s stopping you? Everyone else will be having a go at me.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

She looked at me, long and hard, and the conclusions she was jumping to were a mishmash in her brain. “Fine,” she said, rising. “You can sleep on the couch.” And she started for the bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IWASN’T GOING TO SLAM THE DOOR, I was going to close it quietly and forcefully, indicating dignified displeasure, but he was already there, his hand yanking it open. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

“All right,” I said. “I will.” I started past him, but he caught me, spinning me around and pulling me against him, his strong arms imprisoning me.

I didn’t like being controlled. At least, not really. There was a tiny little shiver of erotic reaction as my body was clamped against his, and for a brief moment I took that pleasure, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I looked up at him, so close, so damnably, deliciously close.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and bent his head and kissed me.

So, okay, I liked kissing him. I know I should have stayed still, and I tried, I really did. But he cupped my chin, his long fingers gently stroking my face, and his mouth was soft, damp, and really, how could I resist? Because the brutal truth was, I felt more for him than I’d felt for anyone in my entire life. He was mine, even if I was afraid he still wanted to wiggle out of it. He was mine.

I softened against him, and he released my wrists, knowing I wasn’t going to hit him. I slid my arms around his waist, pulling him closer, and rose on my toes so that I could reach him better, so that I could press my breasts against his hard chest, so I could sink into the heat of him.

He picked me up effortlessly. Yes, I knew he was supernaturally strong, but I still loved it, loved feeling delicate and weightless when I’d always felt clumsy. He thought I was luscious. I knew that, even as my doubts tried to discount it. He thought my soft, rounded body was irresistibly erotic. And I felt my blood heat, flowing through me like a river of pleasure; I wanted his touch, wanted his mouth on me, wanted everything.

He carried me into the bedroom. The light was muted through the bank of windows, and the awful stench was gone. Instead it smelled like cinnamon and spice, like Raziel’s warm flesh and something underneath it, something hot and rich. He set me down on the bed, and this time I didn’t try to jump up again, didn’t try to argue or to fight, with his hands on me, unfastening the white tunic and pulling it over my head. He kissed my mouth, he kissed the swell of my breasts above the lacy bra, he let his tongue dance across my lace-covered nipple before fastening his mouth on it. I let out a quiet moan of delight.

I’d never known my breasts were so sensitive. When other men had touched them it seemed simply part of the process, but when Raziel put his mouth on me—

He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and glittery. “Stop thinking about other men,” he said, his voice close to a growl. I wondered if I was supposed to be afraid of him.

“No,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

I caught the strain of guilt and regret. He’d thrown me away from Tamlel, and I’d been knocked unconscious. I said nothing. His deep sorrow over what had been an accident was enough to assure me that I was safe. Whatever rage lived inside him, and I could feel it simmering, it would never be turned on me. He pushed me back on the bed and I went, letting my eyes drift closed as he pulled the loose white pants off. He took the underwear as well, a little sooner than I was comfortable with, and flicked off the bra with a practiced hand. Well, of course he was practiced—he’d had thousands of years—

“They’ve only had bras for the last hundred years,” he murmured against my skin, and his voice was thick with longing.

“Stop reading my mind,” I protested, though my languorous voice was far from harsh.

“It’s half the fun,” he said, and I felt his mouth on my stomach, moving downward. I knew where he was going, and I knew I shouldn’t mind. He thought he’d be doing something nice for me, when in actuality it had always left me unmoved. I sort of hated having him go to all that effort when I didn’t particularly like it, but I didn’t want to discourage him—

“You’ll like it,” he said, his long hands on my thighs, parting them, and he put his mouth on me, his tongue, and while I was telling myself to humor him the first shiver of reaction hit me by surprise.

I squeaked, and I could sense his amusement, but he didn’t stop what he was doing, thank God, and I reached down and threaded my fingers through his hair, caressing him as he let his tongue flick across my clitoris. I let out a low, mewling noise, arching my hips, and his hands were there as well, long fingers sliding inside me, a gently thrusting promise of things to come, as his tongue worked its wicked magic. And then he used his teeth, gently, and I exploded.

Oh, he was a very bad man. He wouldn’t let me savor the first rush of climax; instead he had to draw it out, to keep touching me, licking me, biting me, so that wave after wave swept over me and my body went rigid, every nerve ending spiking, and I think I must have cried out, begging him to let me alone, begging him not to stop, begging him . . .

I collapsed against the bed, breathless, trying to control the sobs that were in my throat. He wiped his mouth on the sheet and moved up beside me, still fully dressed, and I wanted to put my hands on him, strip the clothing away, but for the moment I couldn’t move.

He laughed, a soft, enticing sound. “That’s all right. I know how to undress myself.” He stripped off the black T-shirt, then reached for his jeans.

He was so fucking beautiful. But then, angels were supposed to be, weren’t they? Long, graceful limbs, beautiful pale skin stretched over taut muscles.

He was already erect, and I wanted to touch him, wanted my mouth on him where I’d never put my mouth on anyone.

The last stray shudders were finally ebbing away, but I still felt weak, exhausted, strangely on the edge of tears when I never cried. “Take your time,” he said, stretching out beside me, letting his hand trace the plumpness of my breast. “We’re not in any hurry.”