Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)

The rest of him won.

His curiosity was far too great, but more than that, his need to pleasure this particular woman was too great. Her scent was the sweetest of aphrodisiacs. Her curves had been made for his hands, and his alone—as he would soon confirm. He coiled his fingers around her small, fragile hips, just as she flattened her palms on his shoulders. At the moment of contact, her heated gasp filled the space between them.

“Closer,” he rasped, tugging her until they were flush. Because he was seated, they were now eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. Have to taste…

But she didn’t give him what he wanted. “If you don’t like it, just tell me to stop, okay? Don’t go all caveman and push me away or call me names or blame me.”

“I will like it, and you will teach me what to do.”

“But if you don’t—”

“You’re stalling.” Zacharel slid a hand up the ridges of her spine and into her hair, fisting the strands and urging her to close the rest of the distance.

“You’re sure?”

He pressed his lips against hers. Lips so different from his own; softer, as soft as rose petals, fuller, holding him in thrall at that very first brush. He pulled back, marveling, and then he went in again…marveled anew at the decadence of her…then again, and this time, moaning, she opened for him.

Her tongue rolled against his, bringing with it the tastes of summer: berries dipped in cream, newly blooming roses and sultry midnights.

As focused on her as he was, he was able to follow her lead. When her tongue thrust, he knew to meet it. When her tongue retreated, he knew to chase it. He relished every new experience, growling his desire for more.

Her fingers slicked through his hair, decadent sensations dancing over his scalp, tickling skin that had never before been touched by another’s hands. “I don’t know about you but I like this,” she breathed, sounding surprised.

“Yes.” His blood had been icy for so long, with only the occasional flash of heat to prevent him from freezing. Heat he’d only felt with her. Now that blood was molten, scorching through his veins, warming him up. Sweat beaded on his brow, between his shoulder blades, and trickled down his stomach.

Even his breath burned him, singeing his lungs and scraping at his throat. There was only one cure for the fever, and he instinctively knew what it was. He had to be closer to her, had to touch all of her. Had to have all of her.

“Up.” A command.

When she failed to immediately obey, Zacharel cupped her bottom and lifted her, forcing her to straddle him, to settle her weight against him. And oh, sweet heavens, yes, that was exactly what he’d needed. Pleasure rocketed through him, a beautiful sort of torture.

She moaned into his mouth, her nails sinking into his scalp, as if to hold him in place. As if she worried he would try to get away. Never would he do such a thing. He was lost, tied only to the woman in his lap and glad for it. Except…

Except the new position was no longer the blessing he’d thought.

“Annabelle.” He hurt and needed some kind of relief.

“Zacharel.”

Hearing his name on her lips, uttered so breathlessly, filled him with a sense of possession. Mine. “Do…more,” he pleaded.

“Okay. All right. Yes.”

But she didn’t, and he had to flatten his hands on her hips to stop himself from trying to caress her everywhere all at once.

“What kind of more do you want?” she whispered.

“Whatever you will give.”

“I don’t…maybe…rock into me.”

Rock into…yes. As they kissed and kissed and kissed, he arched against her. Forward, back, seeking, retreating. Every point of contact wrung a groan from her and a growl from him. The pleasure blurred with pain, as unbearable as it was necessary.

How had he gone without this for so long? How had he resisted this? No wonder so many humans were willing to war with their brethren, just to have or even save the one they lusted after. This sense of connection…Zacharel had never before experienced its like. He wasn’t just Zacharel, he was Annabelle’s man and glad for it.

“Zacharel?”

Her breasts smashed against his chest, causing a brand-new ache. He had to feel her against him, skin to skin, no barriers. He released her long enough to rip his robe down the middle and jerk his arms free of the fabric, allowing what was left to mend itself and tighten around his waist. Next he ripped the cotton of Annabelle’s top, causing it to gape open and her to inhale sharply.

He had ripped her bra, too, and she was beautiful. Oh, was she beautiful. He was shaking as he cupped her breasts, marveling that they could be so heavy and yet so soft. Must…taste…

“Wait,” he thought he heard her say.

No. No waiting. He would have her now.

His mind fogged with more of the glorious pleasure as he dipped down and kissed one side of her, then the other. Annabelle arched her back, moving away from him, but he didn’t like that, so he freed one of his hands to shackle her in place.

“Zacharel!”

“Annabelle.” The fog in his mind thickened, and he failed to register the dainty hands now pushing at his shoulders, trying to dislodge him. Why had he denied himself this type of contact for so long? he wondered again. And how had he once convinced himself a single taste of this woman would be enough? He would have this, have Annabelle, at least once a day, he decided, until he’d tired of the act.

He might never tire of this.

Something sharp scraped down his cheek, once, twice, drawing blood. He released Annabelle to swat that something away, whatever it was. Can’t let it hurt her. The moment he did, she bolted backward, tumbling from his lap. When she hopped to her feet, he jumped to his. His robe remained girded around his waist as he reached for her. But…just before contact, she punched him in the nose with so much force the cartilage snapped. Blood poured down his face.

He frowned, still reaching for her. Exquisite. “Annabelle. Kiss.”

“Kiss this, you mangy rat!” She kneed him between the legs with so much force he would probably need his testicles surgically removed from his abdomen.

Pain zoomed through him, breath left him and he hunched over. The fog in his mind cleared at last, and he looked up, confused by her violence. That’s when she double tapped his cheek, and his knees gave out. He fell to the floor, bright stars winking through his line of sight…but not enough to block her fear-glassed eyes or the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“Annabelle,” he said, holding out his arms to prove he meant her no harm.

“No!” Mistakenly thinking he’d been trying to grab her, she went low and—actually stabbed him in the side. She had changed her clothes, but had not given up the weapons strapped to her thighs. He should have known.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she spat.

He grunted, knowing she’d nicked his kidney.

She straightened, dropped the bloody knife as if it burned her. With one white-knuckled fist, she held the sides of her shirt together. With the other, she frantically rubbed the spot just above her heart. Trembling, she backed away from him. “Did you hear me? Never again!”

He had done this to her, he realized. He had reduced her to this.

Shame filled him as he stood. The cut in his side throbbed, but he paid it no heed. It would soon heal.

“Annabelle.”

Her footsteps quickened, and she didn’t stop her backward progress until reaching the far cavern wall. But even that wasn’t enough for her. She extended an arm to ward him off.

“D-don’t come any closer!” Panic coated her voice, the edges sharp enough to slice through bone. A moment later, she doubled over, a cry of pain springing from her.

Concerned, Zacharel raced toward her. She sensed him, straightened and scooted to the right, avoiding contact.

“Stop! I mean it.” She swept her gaze over him, probably searching for the most vulnerable spot to punch him, and gasped. “You really do have a black heart.”

He stopped as ordered, looked himself over. His chest was bare, the smudge of black just over his heart visible and larger, so much larger, now hemorrhaging into his collarbone and torso.

More of his spirit had died.

No wonder Annabelle wanted out of your embrace.

From the moment he’d realized what the smudge meant, that he finally lived with a ticking clock, that he was dying, bit by bit, he’d been okay with the end result, had even seen it as an insurance policy—but he wasn’t okay with it now. If the impossible happened and he passed on before Annabelle, she would have no one to oversee her protection.

Hurriedly he righted his robe, the material weaving itself back together to shield his self-inflicted flaw. He held up his hands, palms out, a stance he prayed reassured Annabelle that he currently lacked menace. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. That was not my intention.” Step by measured step, he approached her.

She shook her head viciously, hair he’d fisted only moments ago now hanging in tangles. All the while, she continued to rub at her chest. “I told you not to come any closer. Stay back!”

Just then, he would have done anything she asked—except that. If he retreated, she would never again trust him and on some deep level he did not understand, he needed her to trust him. She would build walls between them, walls he could never hope to breach, for they would be fortified by this terror and an ever-growing sense of fury. He discerned this on that same deep level, where instinct swirled with his primal need to protect her. He quickened his step, unwilling to prolong this a minute more.

The moment he reached her, she erupted, fighting him with every bit of her strength. At least she opted not to use her other blades.

Took him longer than he would have guessed, but he finally managed to capture her hands and spin her around, and though he despised the need for his next actions, he removed her torn shirt. He pinned her wrists above her with one hand and reached into an air pocket to claim the shirt he’d saved for her. The one he’d removed from its bag because it had been his favorite, a sparkling blue the same shade as her eyes.