Time to get to work.
His lips lingered along the top edge of the panties, tracing the way to one hip while his fingers trailed his mouth, touching lightly, caressing. When he got to the side, he took the cotton off her body, slipping it down her long legs.
He made love to her with his mouth.
It was the best sexual experience of his life. Everything was about her: how she felt, what she liked, how far he could push her before he had to let her climax…and it was amazing. He also had no intention of stopping anytime soon. Cupping her with his palms, he lifted up her hips and tilted them as he stretched out, ready to stay forever.
And it wasn’t like he couldn’t get inside her.
Straightening his tongue, he penetrated her core rhythmically, alternating the surges with great laps that tickled the top of her sex. Quicker. Deeper. Harder. He wanted her to fall apart on him over and over again, to keep coming against his lips, to burst free and twinkle back down to earth for the rest of their natural lives.
“Give me what I want,” he said. “Give me what I need….”
Putting his fingers in his mouth, he slicked them up and sank them in, and oh, man, it was good. Especially as she orgasmed, the pulsing clenches something that seemed to flood through him as if he were releasing along with her.
When it was over, he paused to catch his breath, and she lay there in glorious abandon, her breasts heaving, her body loose all over, her skin flushed.
It took her a while to recover. She even tried to speak a couple of times, but couldn’t follow through.
Kinda made a guy feel like a man.
“That was…unbelievable.”
Her words were more purr than voice, and wasn’t that just fucking great.
As Matthias smiled, he felt just a little evil—not in a bad way, but in the masculine way—like when you had the woman you wanted naked, on her back, on your bed, and you had every intention of showing her some more attention.
“Would you like me to keep going?” he said on a dark drawl.
Chapter Thirty
As Jim stood in that underground hallway, he was ready to rip his wingman a new one.
Of course, to do that, he’d have to peel that waitress off the bastard—and as much as he was a hands-on kind of guy, he wasn’t prepared to get that close to the Saran Wrap situation.
Fucker.
Literally.
And, yup, this happy little bump and grind put him in an even worse frame of mind: He’d come down to the Marriott ready to rip Adrian a new one over those photographs of that prostitute—and instead of finding the angel on the job, outside Matthias’s room? The SOB was nailing this chick in the same hallway where that operative had been killed by Devina the night before.
Like Jim didn’t already have a hair across his ass.
Those photographs, those goddamn photographs…
Adrian had said he’d been to a murder scene with Mels—and now the woman was showing up with pictures of a female victim whose hair had been dyed blond, and whose throat had been slit wide, talking about a pattern of runes that had been in the skin of the abdomen, but was now—gasp!—not there anymore?
That angel had to be the “why” behind the disappearance.
So it was time to have a come to Jesus with Mr. Eraser.
Meeting Adrian’s stare, he dared the guy to keep up with the fucking, and—shocker—the son of a bitch did.
The waitress was having a great time—at least, going from what Jim could see from the rear, her head thrashing, that hair flying, those arms contracting around Ad’s neck. For a moment, Jim thought back to some of his own sexual exploits—but then he settled on memories that weren’t relevant in the slightest:
Him with Devina. Used and abused by her and her minions in her Well of Souls.
He had no idea why he’d dwell on the shit. That hadn’t been about sex; it had been torture, plain and simple, and God knew he’d been trained for that.
Still, the images stayed with him, lingering in the background like a stink.
Made no sense. He’d had bones broken before—on purpose, by an enemy. He’d been cut in the past, too— strung up by his feet and beaten like a punching bag…oh, yeah, and that time in Budapest when he’d been packed into that car, driven out to the country, and left for dead after getting worked over with a claw hammer—
Abruptly, the waitress moaned the way women did when they weren’t faking it: this was not a contrived, pretty little sound engineered to make a guy think he was a sex god. This was the real kind, when the female was coming so hard she wasn’t even aware of the animal grunts she was throwing out.
As she thrashed, Adrian supported her up off the floor with barely any effort—then again, the chick was synched up hard, locked on him tighter than a coat of paint. And, shit, their movements were so universal, him pumping in an ever-increasing rhythm, her getting tossed around as those penetrations were received, absorbed, enjoyed. Watching it all, Jim probably should have been aroused. Should have wanted in.
At the very least, he should have stayed pissed off.
Instead, panic tingled on the fringes of his mind, memories of his arms pinned down and his own legs spread putting a fine sheen of sweat above his upper lip.
He turned away, not because he was so angry he was going to kill Adrian, and not because he was disgusted or too modest for the show.
His stomach churned.
The hands that took out his cigarettes shook ever so slightly, and the sounds as Adrian orgasmed made him shut his eyes for a second.
Naturally, the horny bastard went for a twofer with no recovery time.
And Jim couldn’t actually start smoking until the woman was gone.
Great.
When the pneumatics were finally over, Jim glanced across his shoulder. Adrian had slid the girl down to the ground and was letting her rest her head against his pecs. As he stroked her hair, he seemed utterly detached from her, to the point where he might as well have been in another zip code. Matter of fact, except for the instants when he’d shot his load, he appeared to have been on some kind of erotic autopilot the entire time.
Why the hell did he bother?
The waitress checked her watch, pulled herself together, and kissed Ad on the lips. Just before she left, she took a pen out and grabbed for Ad’s hand. With big strokes, she inked a number into his palm, and then curled his fingers up like she’d given him some sort of gift. Then on a twirl of her hair, she was off, all but skipping down the corridor in the direction that would take her to the restaurant’s kitchen.
Adrian did up the front of his pants with efficiency. “Before you get on your high horse, I put a protection spell all over the room. They’re fine.”
Jim lit up and exhaled hard, the smoke shooting out of his mouth. “What the fuck would Eddie think about this?”
Those already icy eyes narrowed into slits. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.”
Adrian jabbed a finger. “You do not play that card. Ever—”
“What would he think about you down here, fucking some chick on the job.” Jim turned his coffin nail around and looked at the bright, glowing tip. “And you didn’t even seem to enjoy it—so it’s not like you’re off post for a good reason.”
Waves of rage distorted the air between them, the other angel’s anger so palpable it was practically a light source.
