was in the room.
He dragged his mouth away. “Stop thinking,” he said a little breathlessly, and if it were anyone else, any other circumstances, I’d have thought he was turned on.
In fact, I could feel his cock against my belly, a hard ridge of flesh. Must be some angel trick, I thought dizzily, to be able to perform on command, even if he was doing it for obscure reasons that had nothing to do with desire—
“Stop thinking,” he said again, his voice hot. “I want you. All right? I don’t want to—you’re nothing but trouble. I wish I could just walk away from you. But I can’t.”
“I’m not getting into that bed with you,” I said, one last attempt to preserve my self-control. “If you say so.”
There was no escape. Particularly because I didn’t want to escape. I turned my back to him, but he simply pulled me against him, his arm around my waist, and carried me into the bedroom.
After the dimness in the living room the lights were blindingly bright, and I shut my eyes. I was pressed against him, his strength and heat spreading through me, and I wanted to sink back into him, letting my body flow into his, and I knew I was past protesting. Who was I fooling? I wanted this so badly my heart was pounding, my hands shaking, and I knew I was already wet. Ready for him.
He must have felt it. “Yes,” he said, a low murmur of approval as he set me on my feet, my back still turned to him. His hands were on me, pushing the silk trousers and my underwear down with one movement so that they pooled around my ankles. He lifted me out of them and turned me so that I faced him, naked, totally vulnerable.
He looked at me, and the heat in his strange eyes was palpable, burning away the last of my doubts. And the last of his. I could feel his reserve melt away in the heat between us, and his breath was coming sharp and fast. “Were you sent here to torment me?” he whispered, sliding his arm around my waist, pulling me against him. “Did he know exactly what I needed, what I couldn’t fight?”
He? Who? But before I could ask the question, he kissed me again, and I was lost, needing to get closer to him, needing his skin beneath my fingers.
His tongue was in my mouth, and I welcomed it, reaching between us and pulling his shirt apart so I could touch his skin, his hot, smooth skin. His heart was racing, and I wanted to put my mouth against it, wanted to taste his flat nipples, wanted my mouth all over him.
Before I realized what he was going to do he slid his arm under me, lifting me. I twined my fingers through his thick hair, kissing him back, using my tongue, hearing my own quiet moan of surrender as surely as he unbuttoned his jeans. And then I could feel him against my sex, hard and heavy, and I knew it was going to hurt. He was too big, and he hadn’t even touched me there, and I was the kind of woman who required a lot of foreplay, and if he was going to try this he was going to have trouble and it was going to—
He slid into me, smoothly, no pulling, no resistance, and reaction spiked through my body. I was sleek and wet and welcoming, and I shivered in primal delight. The more I had of him the more I needed, and the heat of his skin against my breasts was unbearably arousing. I was burning with need, shaking with it. He started to pull out, and I clutched at him, suddenly terrified he would leave me.
But he was already pushing back into me, deeper than the first thrust, slick and sure, deeper, thicker, harder, and when he pulled back I let out a cry, desperate.
This time he slammed into me, all the way in, pushing me hard up against the wall, and my body suddenly shattered. I let out a muffled scream, burying it against his shoulder, against the smell of clean cotton and warm skin, and another wave hit me, and then another, until I was sure I couldn’t take any more.
If anything he seemed to grow bigger still inside me, and he pulled away from the wall, supporting me in his arms, and he was so strong it seemed effortless. He was moving faster now, filling me so deeply I thought I could taste him, and I convulsed in helpless pleasure at the thought. He gave in, pushing deep inside me, and I felt the hot pulse as he climaxed, my body milking him with answering contractions, and as the final wave washed over me I lost myself, as everything dissolved around us.
It was darkness, shimmering, shattering darkness, iridescent blue folding down around us, tightly, as soft as feathers wrapping around my back, sealing me into a cocoon of such infinite delight that I felt a stray climax sweep over me before everything vanished and there was nothing but pure, healing warmth.
I had no idea how long that blessed, velvet darkness lasted. I must have fallen asleep, because I opened my eyes to find that I was lying in the middle of his bed, naked, a sheet wrapped around me, and Raziel was nowhere to be seen. Of course. What man stayed around long after the fact?
I tried to turn over, then groaned in sudden discomfort. It had definitely been too long since I’d had sex, I thought dimly.
It must be the middle of the night. I managed to sit up, wincing slightly at the discomfort between my legs. I still felt the faint lingering of postcoital bliss, that heavenly warm feeling that washed over me, when I knew I shouldn’t be quite so happy. Something was wrong, something was off, yet I couldn’t remember what. I still felt as if I were floating, so pleasured that I probably could have climaxed again just thinking about it.
I’d told him not the bed, and he’d taken me at my word. Up against the wall. I hadn’t ever done that before—my erstwhile lovers weren’t what you’d call adventurous. That was good as well—the up-against-the-wall part. Everything was good, except for that nagging worry.
I needed to put it in perspective. It was sex, for God’s sake, no big whoop.
Though in truth it certainly
I was wet, dripping between my legs, and I realized with a shock that he hadn’t used a condom. Well, why should he? There were no pregnancies in Sheol, and presumably no sex-borne illnesses. God, this was the first time I’d ever had sex without a condom.
That was it. That explained the whole multiple-orgasm, best-I-ever-had, oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-die reaction. Sex must be impressively better without a condom. It was the lack of a thin rubber sheath getting in the way. Nothing at all to do with Raziel, thank God.
I heard the shower stop, and for a moment I panicked, looking around me for escape. I hadn’t even realized the water was running—otherwise I would have been up and out of there. It was too late, and in truth, there was nowhere I could go. If I were a good virginal Victorian heroine, I could fling myself from the ramparts, though I would have to do so stark naked, somewhat ruining the effect.
But I was neither virginal nor a heroine. It had been fast and erotic and inexplicably wonderful. And for some reason I expected it was something he wasn’t going to want to repeat.
He walked out of the bathroom, and he was naked. Totally and comfortably naked. He had something in his hand, not that I was looking at his hand, and he tossed it to me.
I reached out and caught it automatically. It was a warm, wet washcloth, presumably to clean myself off. I didn’t move, holding it in my hand, slightly dazed.
He was exquisitely beautiful, even more so without clothes. I’d always found naked men to be sort of silly, with their drooping parts bouncing as they walked. Raziel wasn’t silly. He was magnificent, with white-gold skin stretched over a lithe, strong frame, and his sex didn’t bounce. I jerked my face away, refusing to think about it.
I felt the bed sink beneath his weight, and I turned and looked at him, startled. He was looking at me with a troubled expression, one I couldn’t read. He took the washcloth out of my hand and pressed me back against the bed, his hand gentle. I clutched the sheet that covered me, but he pulled it away effortlessly, and I let it go rather than get into an undignified tug of war I was bound to lose.
“Open your legs,” he said, putting one hand on my thigh.
I considered ignoring him. I didn’t want to face him, didn’t want to talk to him after that hot, urgent coupling that undoubtedly meant far more to me than it had to him. I closed my eyes, letting him pull my legs apart, and the wet warmth of the washcloth made me shudder in unexpected reaction. Those were his hands, washing me with an unlikely tenderness, and for some reason I wanted to cry.
I lay perfectly still beneath as he took care of me, my eyes closed, just wishing he’d go away and leave me. He was going to, sooner or later, and he might as well get it over with.
“I’m not going away,” he said.
“Stop reading my mind!” I cried, my voice catching on a sob. I didn’t tend to become emotional after sex, but this was an anomaly on every front.
He cursed under his breath. And then he simply moved over me, between my legs, and before I realized what he was doing he’d pushed inside me again, fully hard, and I let out a little yelp of shock as I shifted to accommodate him.
He held very still, and I opened my eyes to look at him, to see the expression on his face. He was staring down at me, his long fingers cupping my face, his gaze intent.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. He made a small gesture, and the lights dimmed, covering us with shadows. His head dropped, his mouth against my neck, his breath on my skin. “Am I hurting you?”
I tried to find my voice. It felt as if I were sinking into a dark place of pleasure and forgetfulness. The feel of him inside me was like nothing I’d ever known before, and now that the first, fevered rush was over I could let my body experience it fully. It felt like a blessing, a benediction, a powerful act of claiming that still somehow eluded me. I shook my head, unable to speak, and I knew he smiled against my skin.
“Good,” he said softly. He kissed my shoulder, and I could feel his tongue, his teeth,
