Page 29 of Howl for the Gargoyle

He drew out of me, mouth trailing down to the scars on my hip, and then paused, lifting away. If I'd been less delirious, I would've avoided this position, avoided letting him really get a look at the wreckage on my back. One hand ran from my shoulder, swirling over my shoulder blade, tracing down my spine, arching back to my hip. The path of the violence. There was no mistaking the intent behind those marks, no assuming I'd been a volunteer.

Ray had seen them in the crime scene photographs. My doctors and nurses and the trauma team that had passed me from one pair of hands to the next that night. No one else.

I licked my lips, leaving any tears on the pillow, and lifted my head.

"Fuck me until you come," I said, hoping it would dissuade him from asking any questions.

Or maybe he wouldn't have asked. He wasn't my lover or my friend. He was the gargoyle I'd hired, who rolled me over to my back in the sheets we'd ruined and then tried to lift me up, as if I had any strength left.

"No, like this," I said, pulling on his absurdly firm and lovely biceps, managing just enough effort to slide beneath and spread my legs in offering.

If he'd had any opinion about my scars, there was no sign of it now. "I don't know if I'll crush you."

"So crush me," I said, because I thought that sounded nice in my fuck-drunk state.

Rafe laughed, but then he was stretching out above me, elbows braced on either side of my shoulders, hands cupping my face. His thumbs stroked my cheeks, and there was a pinch of pain where he had some of my hair caught beneath him, but he was already correcting the issue.

"You really don't have to let me do this," he whispered, grazing his mouth over mine.

"I want it," I said, which was the lazy version of There's something incredibly beautiful and satisfying about watching a man who doesn't get to take his own pleasure selfishly and quickly, finally find it because you offered him that.

I bit his upper lip as he found his way unerringly back inside of me, the path slick and open and just swollen enough for me to enjoy the beautiful designs on his cock.

"Carved for her pleasure," I murmured, and Rafe's laugh was tense, his body already in motion, his tongue searching hungrily for mine. He was close to the edge; he'd probably been holding himself there for the latter half of the night.

I wrapped my arms around his back, and his wings beat, a force of motion that made us and the bed rock.

"Wrap your legs around me," Rafe said, and I would've protested, but there was a hint of a whine in the words.

I strained into position, rewarded with the musical groan, the lift of his head and squeeze of his eyes shut. His lips were damp from kissing, parted with heavy breaths, and our chests glided against one another. Stone didn't sweat, but it did seem to become…polished, moving smoothly over me.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he muttered, barely forcing the words out, so I wondered if he really meant to say them at all.

This was…illicit. Well, of course it was—it was sweaty, desperate sex. But even more so, because there was a guilty eagerness to Rafe that made me think he wasn't really supposed to do this, to close his eyes and tell a woman to wrap herself around him because he liked how it felt. So I slid my hands up his back and grabbed onto the roots of his wings.

Rafe bellowed, eyes flying open, and his wings beat harder, the muscle pulsing in my grip.

"Hannah!" he moaned, eyes glancing down at me in thrilled panic.

"Stone," I said, a simple encouragement.

He let out another broken sound and then shuddered and transformed. He did crush me, but he braced his hands in the mattress to ease the weight just enough for it to be dangerously good, tempting me to tell him to let go and really steal my breath. And fuck, he felt so good inside of me, so achingly solid that it made me into something almost unreal. I was smoke compared to him, liquid for him to sink into. If he wanted to drive right through me, he could, and I would be a ghost in the wake.

"Hannah," he said again, weak and grateful, and I met him in the kiss, tightening myself around him and swallowing his cry as he bucked and bowed and came in a long frenzy of beating wings and messy kisses.

Any of his clients who didn't offer him this were idiots, I decided. I didn't need or want control in this moment, because I was everything this man needed to survive for just a few exceptional minutes.

My scars ached and burned as I shivered and snapped back into my human body a day later. There was a fresh scratch on my calf, my own impatient claws punishing me during the moon hours as I'd paced my cell at the shelter.

I was cold, having long since shredded and cast aside my blanket. I lay naked on the mattress. The scars that had created me screamed in my flesh, protesting the shift out of my werewolf form. I squinted through sore eyes at the milky gray sky outside my window and recalled the morning before this, the dreamy exhaustion from my night with Rafe. My fingers dug into the thin mattress beneath me, bumping against a broken spring, and I let out an animal whine at the contrast.

You could book me through the full moon.

He hadn't offered again, but I knew the opportunity was still on the table, horrifying and tempting all at once. What damage might I do to a glossy MSA apartment in my were form? What damage to Rafe?

My arms wobbled as I pushed myself up to sitting, and I hissed as I curled up, the scratches on my calf stinging as I brushed them.

What would it be like to wake up after a full moon the way I had yesterday? I wondered. Rafe had carried me out of bed and into a hot bath, leaving me to doze and soak as he'd made me an omelet, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a strong cup of coffee.

---