Kristina Douglas - The Fallen 1 - Raziel (28 page)

He pushed me back on the bed and I went, letting my eyes drift closed as he pul ed the loose white pants off. He took the underwear as wel , a little sooner than I was comfortable with, and flicked off the bra with a practiced hand. Wel , 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 al that effort when I didn’t particularly like it, but I didn’t want to discourage him—

“You’l 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 tel ing 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 wel , 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 col apsed 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, stil ful y 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 al 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 final y ebbing away, but I stil 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.”

“Maybe you’re not,” I managed to mutter. “You’re eternal. I’m not.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The playful expression on his face vanished, and darkness closed down. He started to pul away, but I shook off the last of my malaise and grabbed his arm, drawing him back. “Look, it’s just me. There’s no need to go al broody about it.

It’s not like I’m the great love of your life.”

I could feel his anger again, but this time it didn’t frighten me. He caught me, rol ing me underneath him. “You idiot,” he said. “Don’t you understand anything about this?”

“That you go through women every century or so? Sure, I get it.

And you said Azazel and Sarah were an anomaly, so I assume once I hit my forties or fifties you’l be turning your attentions elsewhere, and—”

“You don’t know anything,” he said brutal y. “We’re bound together, you and I. It’s not casual, it’s not until you grow old. It’s not

‘just you.’ It is
you
. Why do you think I’ve fought it so hard? From now on, you’re the most important thing in my life, whether I want it that way or not.”

It stil sounded to me like he didn’t real y want me, that some cosmic jester was playing a game with him, tying him to me when he would rather have been with someone else.

“No,” he said, reading me again. “You’re missing the point. I didn’t want to care about anyone this way, ever again. The loss is too hard.

If I think about losing you, it makes me crazy with grief and pain. I can’t lose you.”

“Just because someone put a whammy on you—” I began, prepared to argue my point.

“No one put a ‘whammy’ on me, whatever the hel that is. We were destined, and I was a fool to try to fight it. If I hadn’t been so determined to stay alone, I would have saved us both a lot of trouble.

Look into my eyes, Al ie. Look deeply. You know me.”

He was making me nervous, and I skittered away from the memories I was afraid to face.

“You
know
me,” he said again, and I looked deep into his black, striated eyes, and remembered.

Sitting alone in the yard, listening to my mother scream at me from the living room, hugging myself, and he was there, and I didn’t feel alone. And later, when my mother dragged me from the drugstore where I’d been looking at makeup, I saw him again. And remembered him, even when he wasn’t there, and somehow I managed to withstand the rage and the lectures, knowing he was there. And my throat burned.

“I should have come for you sooner, Al ie,” he said gently. “If I hadn’t been fighting it so hard, I would have been there. As it was, I didn’t even recognize you.”

I wasn’t going to cry. “But you stil want to escape,” I said. “You stil want to break this . . . connection.”

He hesitated, and that hesitation was enough to tel me I was right.

“It’s not that simple,” he said final y. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t think you’re ready.”

“Don’t tel me what I’m ready for,” I said. “I know what I feel. And al I want to feel is you.” And I moved up and put my hand on his chest, pushing him back on the bed.

He was warm, almost hot, and his skin was smooth and taut. I leaned over and kissed him, just the briefest brush of my lips against his mouth, and when he would have deepened it I moved away, letting my mouth trail down the side of his neck, kissing him where he’d tasted me, where he would have bitten me if he’d real y wanted me forever.

But he wasn’t going to sense that. I kept my mind fil ed with images of him and me, images and words and al the reactions of the senses, taste, touch, smel as wel as sight and sound. I could hear his heart pounding, the blood pouring through his body, and there was something unbearably erotic about it. I moved my mouth down, down, not quite sure how to go about it. I’d seen porn at Jason’s insistence, so I knew the mechanics, but I didn’t want to fol ow that energetic example. Instead I wanted to explore him, careful y, using my tongue, tracing the blue veins, the thick, hard weight of him, closing my mouth around the head and sucking it gently, until I heard his moan of such blind surrender that waves of sexual delight danced through me, and I wanted more of him, wanted to pul and suck on him, wanted al of him in my mouth, and his groan sent shivers of pleasure through me.

He pul ed me away, breathless, hauling me up to look at him. “Not that way,” he said. “Not this time.” And he pul ed me under him, his mouth closing over mine.

I was shaking again by the time he moved his mouth. Could I come just from kissing him? Could I come from simply putting my mouth on him? Climaxes were there, just out of reach, almost ready, and my hands were trembling. It was too much. Panic was suddenly beating around me, and I tried to scramble away from him.

“I can’t,” I said in sudden fear. “I real y can’t.” And I tried to get off the bed.

He caught me at the edge, pul ing me back underneath him so that I was facedown on the bed, my mouth against the linen sheets that smel ed of lavender and spice and something even more elemental. “Yes you can,” he said with simple truth, and he slid his arm under my stomach, pul ing me up to my hands and knees.

I knew what he was going to do, and I was past the point of having expectations. I wanted whatever he wanted, and if he was going to take me this way I would revel in it. I could feel him against my sex, hot and solid and stil wet from my mouth, and even at that angle he slid in smoothly, fil ing me, and I let out a strangled cry at the thick invasion that twisted at my heart. The different angle made it feel new, strange, incredibly powerful, and almost more than I could bear.

He took one of my hands and pul ed it behind me, placing it on his cock, and I realized to my dismay that even though I felt completely fil ed, there was a goodly amount stil waiting. I let my fingers wrap around him, and I wanted more. I wanted al of it. Al of him.

Everything.

“Al ie,” he breathed, a sound of regret and longing. “I don’t think I can stop if you need me to.”

“I don’t need you to,” I said, trying to push back at him, trying to get more of him. “I won’t break, you know. I just need you.”

He groaned, and pushed in, deeper, harder, and he felt huge, almost more than I could handle. Almost.

“More,” I whispered, and he thrust.

I let out a little cry, a mixture of pain and surprise, as he somehow managed to sheath himself al the way inside me, and I could feel him against my womb, and I wanted his child in there, wanted it so desperately.

But I could never have it. No children, no family, no cottage with a white picket fence.

But I could have him, al of him, and I let out a soft grunt of satisfaction as I took him. He was mine, I reminded myself. Even if he was looking for an escape clause, I had taken him, everything, inside me. He was mine.

He pounded into me, a heavy dark rhythm that was like drumbeats from the heart of Africa. The drums of the gods. And I couldn’t stop the shudders rushing through me, mini-climaxes that were building, and his hand went between my legs, his fingers touching me, and I screamed, putting my head down, my face into the sheets as I gave in to the wildness and power, the animal need washing through me. I gave myself to him with complete trust, no longer thinking, no longer doubting. He would keep me safe, he would stop when I had more than I could handle, he would know.

Again. And again. And again, he thrust into me, and each hard push made me shatter, over and over, until I couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, I was nothing but a seething mass of sensation.

He pul ed out and I raised my head and cried out from the loss of him, but he simply turned me underneath him, pushing inside me again, deep, so deep. “I want to look at you when I come,” he said, his voice a low growl, holding very stil inside me.

My voice had vanished. I couldn’t think, couldn’t doubt; al I could do was feel. I was his completely, but he was holding back. “Take me,” I whispered.
“Take me.”
And reaching up, I took his head and pushed it toward my neck, so that his mouth was there, hot and wet, and I felt the scrape of his teeth, and I wanted more. “Take me,” I whispered again. “Take everything.”

He tensed, froze in my arms, and for a moment I was terrified that he’d pul away from me. He lifted his head and looked at me, and there was such sorrow in his eyes, a sorrow I didn’t understand.

“Al ie,” he said softly.

But I was inexorable. My body was aching with need, a need I neither recognized nor understood; but I somehow knew I had to have his mouth on me, drinking from me, for me to final y feel complete. “Please,” I begged him, when I’d sworn I would never beg.

“Feed.”

He kissed my lips, so gently I wanted to cry. He leaned down and kissed the side of my neck, with the same feathering sweetness.

And then I felt the sharp, sweet, piercing pain as his teeth sank into my skin, felt the draw of him sucking at my neck, drinking from me, drinking life from me, and I felt tears running down my face, as I was final y made complete. Fil ing him as he was fil ing me.

His cock inside me seemed to swel , and I cradled his head against me, running my fingers through his thick, curling hair, whispering to him, soft words, love words.

And then he pul ed away, rising up, and I could see my blood on his mouth, see the glitter in his eyes. He stared down at me, not moving, and I felt his climax deep inside me, giving me back what he had taken from me, and I joined him, flinging myself into the darkness with only him to guide me.

I MIGHT HAVE SLEPT MINUTES, hours, days. It didn’t matter. I was wrapped in Raziel’s arms, and neither of us was moving. I felt his hand brush my cheek, so gently. “You’re crying,” he whispered. “I hurt you. I knew I shouldn’t have.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” I said, rubbing my face against his hand like a hungry kitten. “I’m happy.”

He moved a fraction so he could look at me, and his expression was bemused. “Do you always cry when you’re happy?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever been happy before,” I said simply.

He was about to argue, then stopped as he remembered my life, the life he knew almost as wel as I did. “Maybe you haven’t,” he said final y, and kissed me.

I wondered if his mouth would taste of blood, but it didn’t. It just tasted like Raziel, and I kissed him back, then let him tuck me against his warm, naked body. I didn’t real y want to move.

I ran my hand up his arm, my fingers delighting in the feel of him.

“What does my blood taste like?”

His hand was at the back of my neck, his long fingers kneading the lingering tightness there, but at my words they stil ed for a moment. “To me? Like honey wine, sweet and rich and intoxicating.

Not like blood would taste to you.”