Page 61 of Price of Angels

Holding eye contact, he threw down his whiskey in one swallow, his voice just a little hoarse afterward. “It’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Her chest squeezed. She was too afraid to hope he was right, but she wanted him to be. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He plucked the glass from her hand – she didn’t want it anyway. Then he caught her by the face, his palms gentle against her cheeks, but his grip firm, and drew her into him, angling her chin so when he bowed his head, his mouth could slant sideways over hers.

She moaned against his lips at the first touch. She wanted to anchor herself, have some point to hold onto, and she clutched at his shirt, greedy handfuls of the soft cotton.

Michael pulled her even closer, until she was resting against the length of his body, one hand moving to cup the back of her head, the other finding her waist, holding her to him. There was fear, that instant flash of it that came with being touched by large, male hands. But his tongue was hot as it passed between her lips, and full of the sharp taste of whiskey.

He kissed her and kissed her, lavishing attention to her mouth that had never been paid to it. It was intimate and wet and left all her joints soft. She let herself sag against him, lost in the strange comfort of his mouth stroking hers. It eased her in a small way, but it made the throbbing more acute, concentrating it between her thighs and in her breasts, bringing a desperate heat to her skin.

She could feel his chest beneath her knuckles, through his shirt, the solid wall of lean muscle there. He was like steel. She opened her hands, pressed them to the flat pads of his pectorals, liking the unyielding firmness of them, flicking her tongue against his as he invaded her mouth.

He responded to the shy flexing, his hand moving from her waist to her back, sliding down, around the curve of her bottom, clutching at her through her thin sink shorts.

She gasped, their lips breaking apart. She didn’t want to be afraid. She wasn’t, she didn’t think; she was shocked. Amazed at the sensation of his hand on her ass, and the way she wanted more, wanted to shift against him, searching for friction.

How many cocks had she had inside her? She shouldn’t be this sensitive and excited.

But it was different. This time, she wanted this man, and that made all of this so important, and so achingly scary.

“You killed him,” she whispered, stretching up onto her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest, trying to read his expression through heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh my God, you killed him. Michael, you killed him, and he’s gone, and he’ll never…” She couldn’t even say it. It was too exquisite.

“I did.” He kissed her, the sound of their lips coming apart afterward bringing up a wet warmth between her legs. “He’s gone.”

She leaned forward, initiating the next kiss, inexpertly stroking his lips with hers.

He made a sound, a low growling deep in his throat, that she echoed with a soft, feminine growl of her own.

“Do you want it?” he whispered. “Really want it? I have to stop right now if you don’t. It hurts too bad.”

She reached for him, found the rigid shape of his cock behind his fly and pressed her hand to it. “I want it.”

He snatched her up, lifted her high against his chest and caught her under the knees with one arm, behind the shoulders with the other. The house was a blur, tumbling around her as he walked them down a hall, past dark doors, finally passing into the one at the end.

He paused. It was dark, and this room smelled of him: his skin, his soap, his cologne, his smoke and his clothes. His bedroom.

She shivered in his arms.

“Lights?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, softly. “I want to see it’s you.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, but his arm shifted behind her shoulders and there was a click before warm light filled the room.

It was a big bed in a small room, the light coming from a nightstand lamp. The comforter looked plush, a warm brown, like it was something he’d bought rather than inherited.

He carried her to the bed, set her down carefully, and then he stood looking at her a moment, his deep breaths lifting his chest, stretching the shirt across the distinct shapes of all his muscles.

And then he sank down to his knees in front of her, and gently pushed her legs apart, moving between them. Holly let him move her, enraptured and pliant, as he pulled her to the very edge of the bed, his hands at her waist, until the width of his chest filled up the space between her thighs, forcing her legs farther apart. His arms encircled her, a comforting contrast to the way her legs were so open.

His eyes fixed on hers, molten in the centers. “Everything I do,” he said in an earnest voice, “is because I want you. It’s got nothing to do with hurting you.” His brows lifted, urging her to understand.

The small gesture of kindness almost brought her to tears. She nodded. “I know.”

His eyes shifted to her breasts, and she saw in him the pain of restraint. Her eyes stung. No one had ever held back on her account.

He said, “Take off your shirt.”

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