Archangel's Kiss

24

He spread his wings above her, his entire frame burning white-hot. It dazzled, overwhelming her senses. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, close her eyes, fascinated by the unearthly beauty of him. Dangerous, he was so very dangerous. But he was hers. Raising her hands, she pressed them against his chest.

An unadulterated adrenaline rush.

His eyes met hers, the whites eclipsed by blue. She should have been afraid, but she was in too much need to feel anything close to fear. “Raphael.” It was a plea and a demand in one, her body moving in sinuous welcome.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers at last, kissing her with a slow, almost primal intensity that had her stroking her hands up to his shoulders, trying to pull him down. But he continued to hold himself above her, closing his teeth over her lip when she insisted.

The contained power behind that steely frame was magnificent, a storm she could taste in the intensity of his kiss. Need twisted inside her, a clawing, voracious hunger. Gripping his shoulders, she threw her leg over his . . . and moved one hand in a slow glide over the arch of his wing.

The power of him blazed so bright, she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. His lips met hers again a moment later and this time, there was nothing contained about him. The archangel had well and truly let go of the reins. His body came over hers, his erection pressing demandingly into her abdomen.

She twisted, trying to get him between her thighs. But Raphael had other ideas. Tearing his lips from hers, he pinned her down and began to kiss his way down her body. Her heart stilled, then restarted at frenetic speed.

I promised to lick you there.

“No!” She kicked out in an attempt to get away from a pleasure she knew would smash through her, a thousand glittering shards.

Yes. You’re strong enough now.

Reaching out, she tried to hold him to her, but his hair slid out of her hands like black water, silky and cool across her flesh. She gripped the sheets, dug her heels into the bed. But nothing could have prepared her for the way he tasted her through the by-now transparent fabric of her panties, his hands keeping her spread for his delectation. It was agony and ecstasy, liquid lightning contained within a body that seemed suddenly too small, too fragile, for what it was being asked to bear.

As if he knew he’d pushed her too far, Raphael rose to press a kiss to her navel. Hunter mine.

Heart catching at the affection laced with the sexual heat, she reached down to run her fingers across his lips. There was no smile—the force of the emotions between them was too strong, too much to allow for laughter—but he didn’t halt her exploration. When his hand moved against her hip, she shivered.

A single tug and the last barrier between his kiss and her most intimate flesh was gone. Then those lips were on her, firm, determined, unrelenting in their demands.

Mine, you are mine.

Raphael’s kiss was as earthy as his words, full of masculine possession and a wild, inexorable hunger. Pleasure filled her body, rose through her veins, suffused her pores as he caressed her on every level, as he pushed her to feel as she’d never before felt, as he took her over.

The peak was a slow climb, a shattering descent. Color exploded in a wild wave but she didn’t break, floating with the tide to come home in Raphael’s arms.

Raphael held his hunter as her heart slowed, her skin sheened with a fine layer of perspiration. The primal heart of him, the part that urged him to possess her to the core, purred in silent satisfaction.

She was his, would never be anyone else’s.

Stroking his hand down her body, he savored the jagged rise and fall of her chest, the low moans that caught in her throat as she reacted to his touch. When her hand rose to cup his cheek, he rubbed against her palm, his fingers tracing the passion-flushed curve of her mouth.

Heavy-lidded eyes looked up at him, silver with desire sated. “I think you’ve done me in, Archangel.”

“I’ve only begun, hunter.” Rising off her, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s time for our bath.”

Elena groaned. “You’re torturing me.” Her eyes went to the engorged push of his cock against the tough leather-like material of his pants as he stood, turned to face her. “And yourself.”

The sight of her lying so deliciously rumpled in their bed made his body harden impossibly further. “I’ve learned to savor my pleasures, as I intend to savor you . . . again and again.”

Her breasts flushed as a shiver rippled through her. “I love the way you talk in bed.” Throaty words as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, then shifted until she was on her knees near the edge of the bed. “Come here.” A sensual demand.

He’d lived well over a millennium, developed iron control over the primal side of his nature, but he could have no more resisted the lush invitation in his hunter’s eyes than he could’ve given up the ability to fly. “What would you do with me, Elena?”

Reaching out, she unsnapped the top button on his pants, her fingers strikingly feminine against the black fabric. “Wicked, wicked things.” A single slow stroke along the outline of his cock.

He hissed out a breath, thrust his hands into her hair. But he didn’t stop her, this woman who played with him—who trusted him. “Be gentle.”

She shot him a startled silver glance. Then a slow, delighted smile. “I won’t bite . . . unlike some people.” A fraction more pressure on his aroused flesh as she shaped him with her hand.

His abdomen went tight. “You’re giving me ideas.” He could still taste the wild musk of her on his tongue, sumptuous and earthy. “Next time, I might use my teeth on far more delicate flesh.”

Shuddering, she unsnapped the next two buttons . . . before leaning forward to press a wetly sensual kiss on the lowest part of his navel. His hips jerked, his hand fisting in her hair. “I,” he ground out, “do not have that much control.” Releasing her, he stepped back.

“That’s no—” Her words trailed away as he stripped off what remained of his clothing, wanting nothing between his flesh and her touch.

Elena’s breath whispered out of her. The impact of him was . . . indescribable.

Then he was walking back to her, his erection pure unadulterated temptation. She curved her fingers around him, aware of his hand going to her hair again, of him wrapping the strands around his fist. “Enough teasing.” A gentle nudge. “Fulfill your promise.”

Her skin went hot, tight at the rough sexual tone of that demand, but she shot him a teasing smile. “Giving orders even in bed?”

Elena.

Hearing the edge in that, suddenly violently aware of how long her archangel had waited for her—and it was still a kick to the heart, that she was loved by him—she dipped her head and ran her tongue over the vein that pulsed along the thick line of his arousal. He made an inarticulate sound of mingled pain and pleasure, his hand tugging slightly at her hair. Unable to resist now that she’d had a taste of him, her thighs clenching, she retraced her journey and took him into her mouth.

Elena!

She couldn’t take all of him. He was too big, too thick. But I’ll have eternity to refine my technique. The sensual thought blazed out on an inferno of need as she loved her archangel, licking and tasting and sucking.

Brilliant white fire against her skin and she knew he was glowing, this lethal being she dared tease in the most intimate of ways. His response when it came, was starkly sensual. Your mouth—his voice sandpaper in her mind—is a little piece of heaven and hell.

Moaning low in her throat, she stroked up, swirled her tongue around the head before sliding her mouth back down the enticement that was his body. She loved the taste of him, the contrast of steel and silk, the way he murmured hot little promises of retribution.

Under her hands, his muscles grew granite-hard, his skin sheened with heat. “Enough, Elena.” A command.

She let him feel her teeth.

A crash of waves inside her mind, a wild storm. I am, he said, no trace of the civilized male in him now, tying you to the bed next time.

Knowing he was so close to the edge that another caress would tip him over, Raphael stroked his hand down the sensitive arch of Elena’s left wing, sliding out of the sweet, hot prison of her mouth while she was distracted by the shock of sensation. But though her eyes glittered with the fever of their combined hunger, she didn’t give in. Lifting a single taunting finger, she sucked it between the kiss-swollen beauty of her lips.

That was all the encouragement the voracious hunger inside him needed. Spreading through his veins, it took him over, a rippling black fire. He returned to the bed in a dark wave of heat, flipping Elena onto her front, pulling her legs up and spreading them wide.

It was the rawest, most primitive way to possess a woman, but his hunter pushed up on her elbows, gave him a challenging look, and said, “I’m waiting.”

He slid into her in a single hard thrust. Her scream echoed off the walls, but it was a scream that held equal parts demand and need. Gripping her hips tight, he pulled out almost fully, then slammed back in. There was no mercy in him any longer, but Elena didn’t ask it from him.

Learn to fly fast, Elena, he said as he pushed them both to a final, blinding peak. Then we will dance in the sky.

They did have that bath—much later, Raphael stroking the washcloth over her wings with lazy movements as she leaned on the rim. “That feels so intimate.”

“It is.” A kiss pressed to the ultra-sensitive edge where her right wing grew out of her back. “Allowing someone to care for your wings is considered an act that takes a relationship well beyond the sexual.”

Limbs heavy with desire sated, she thought about that. “Can I wash your wings?” It would be the most delicious of indulgences, the most exquisite of pleasures.

“You’ve had that right since our first bath.”

The unadorned truth of his words made her heart ache.

“But,” he continued, placing the washcloth on the rim as he fit himself to her back, “right now, you’re in no shape to do anything but relax.”

She heard the thread of male pride in that, felt the ache translate into sensual affection. “You give good sex, Archangel.”

A squeeze of her breasts, his free hand reaching between them to stroke two fingers into her. Sucking in a breath, she found her voice. “Again?” Heat uncurled in her abdomen.

“Again.” Withdrawing his fingers, he dropped a kiss to the curve of her neck, his erection nudging at her.

“Be gentle.”

She felt him smile at her echo of his earlier words. For you, Elena, anything. He slid into her in a smooth thrust, her body stretching to accommodate him in sharp ecstasy. And when he moved this time, it was slow and deep, a claiming so tender, he would’ve stolen her heart if she hadn’t already given it to him high above a ruined Manhattan.

Elena was fairly certain her muscles were jelly the next day, but she crawled to the training session with Galen regardless. Raphael had given her the massage he’d promised her before they fell asleep, and nothing was actually torn or broken, so it was going to be all about working through the muscle pain.

Galen took one look at her and threw her what felt like a ten-ton metal brick. She stared at the claymore—and it sure looked like the heavy Scottish weapon—for a second, then set her feet and lifted. Her biceps quivered, but the damn blade ended up vertical, the tip pointed to the cloudy blue sky.

Galen scanned her shoulders, her arms. “You’re stronger than a normal mortal.”

“I’m no longer mortal,” she pointed out, only just keeping the claymore upright.

“No one has records on an angel Made, but if the same principles apply as with vampires, then your strength won’t increase to immortal levels for a significant period.”

Shrugging, she left it at that. The fact that the hunter-born were slightly stronger than ordinary humans wasn’t exactly a secret, but neither was it advertised. And while she might now be an immortal, she was still hunter-born, still a member of the Guild. Those were loyalties she’d never betray.

“Throw it to me.”

She narrowed her eyes and walked across the snow-sprinkled ground to hand him the blade. “What? Do you want to prove to me how weak I am? You can do that with one punch.”

“But then Raphael would kill me.” An imminently practical response as he took the claymore and turned to retrieve something from a small table in the corner of the training area. He was shirtless once again, but still wore that thin metal band around his left arm, the metal a solid gray with the slightest sheen. A small amulet of some kind hung from the center, but she couldn’t put a handle on its origins.

Norse? Maybe.

She had no trouble seeing him as part of a bloodthirsty warrior culture. Glancing away from the armband, she found herself the focus of at least twenty pairs of curious eyes. “We’ve got an audience again.”

To her surprise, Galen frowned. “We don’t need one—not in the condition you’re in.” Raising a hand, he made a sharp downward gesture.

A silver blue bullet dropped out of the sky, streaking toward the ground like lightning unleashed. Illium’s landing was wildly showy, a hard, fast drive that left him grinning on one knee, his wings spread in blatant display. “Vain,” she told him, figuring her heart would stop trying to leap out of her throat any minute now.

He rose to his feet. “It’s not vanity if it’s truth, Ellie.”

Shaking her head, she looked to Galen. “What’s Bluebell going to teach me?”

“Nothing. Illium is going to play butterfly.”

Elena had no idea what the other angel meant until he ushered her inside the huge building that overlooked the ring of beaten earth they’d been using for the past weeks. An indoor training salle, she realized as Galen closed the doors, locking out their audience. “Impressive.” The ceiling soared, reminding her of an amphitheatre stripped down to its very basics.

“Voles-tu, mon petit papillon.”

Illium laughed at Galen’s instruction to “fly, little butterfly” and gave the other angel a desultory finger, replying in a language Elena thought might have been Greek.

She was shocked to see a grin crack Galen’s face. That grin disappeared the instant he turned to her. “Good, you’re wearing arm sheaths.” He came closer, examined them with the quick, careful hands of a weapons expert. “Excellent quality.”

“Deacon’s the best.”

Those pale green eyes locked on her. “You know Deacon personally?”

She tilted her head to the side. “He’s married to my best friend.”

Illium gasped. “Now you’ve got Galen by the short and curlies. He has wet dreams about getting into Deacon’s . . . weapons shed.”

Another rapid-fire exchange of Greek and French, Galen’s French too fast for her to follow. She didn’t need to understand—it was obvious the two were ribbing each other. Friends, she thought suddenly. For some reason, Illium, with his laughter and his heart, was friends with this cold-eyed angel who seemed hewn out of stone.

“I thought,” she said when Galen turned back to her, “close-contact fighting was a no-no?”

“You won’t be close. Illium.”

Illium rose up into the air, not stopping until he was hovering at the very top of the salle, a bolt of blue against the dark grain of the wood.

“Hit him.”

She took a step back, shook her head. “These knives are real.”

“He’s immortal. A minor knife wound won’t hurt him. And if you can do it with a knife, you’ll be unbeatable with a gun.”

“He might be immortal, but he feels pain.” And Illium had already hurt for her.

“I can take it, Ellie.” A shout from the roof. “But you’re not going to hit me.”

“Oh yeah?” She played a knife in her hand.

“Yeah.”

Still, she hesitated. “You sure?”

“I dare you.”

Reassured by the playful goad, she tracked his lazy movements as he hovered . . . and threw. He was gone before the knife left her hand. And she understood why Galen had called him a butterfly. Illium could move incredibly fast in a contained space, seeming to need little to no room or time to turn, zip in another direction.

Sweat was pouring down her face by the time she ran out of knives—her own and the ones Galen had given her. Illium blew her a kiss from his perch on a rafter. “Poor Ellie. Want a nap?”

“Shut up.” Wiping her face, she shook her head at Galen. “How the hell can he move like that?”

“They call his mother the Hummingbird.” Galen caught a knife Illium threw down, one of several that had lodged in various parts of the salle. “You have some skill—it’ll make it easier to get you to a point where you can consistently hit the neck.”

She rubbed her own throat. “Most vulnerable spot?”

A nod. “But that’s going to take time. For now, if you can pin or shoot an angel coming at you, you’ll disorient him long enough to run.”

A pause, and she realized he was waiting for a response. “I’m not too proud to run. My legs have kept me alive more times than you know.”

Those ice green eyes seemed to gleam with subtle approval, but that was probably wishful thinking on her part. “If you’re trapped in a situation where you have no choice but to fight, a good aim will give you a slight advantage.”

“Emphasis on ‘slight.’ ”

Galen pulled a knife out of the wall, his biceps flexing. “You’re playing with archangels. Slight is an improvement on certain death.”