Page 63 of Price of Angels

Her arms gave out and she fell back on the bed once more, breath catching. The old popcorn ceiling filled her vision, a muted cream in the lamplight. She pulled in lungfuls of the smoke, cologne, and skin smell of the room.

Michael pushed her legs up, so her knees were bent and her heels were braced on the edge of the mattress. He circled her thighs with his arms, pulled her in tight against him, and his mouth worked against her, again and again. He devoured her. And then there was no question as to whether she wanted it. It became the only thing she’d ever wanted, and she never wanted it to stop.

And then his lips found a tiny little place, and concentrated there, and her body was not her own. She felt her spine bowing, her hips pressing upward toward his mouth. The pleasure started at his kiss, and then swept outward, filling her with heat and sparks and the most delicious firing of all her muscles at once. A molten explosion in her belly. Hot whiskey fizzing through her veins. There was the sweetest weakening of her neck, a heaviness in her head, like when she’d had just enough to drink to sleep soundly.

In those moments, she felt the world change, and when the pleasure began to recede in lapping waves, she was still in the bedroom, still the same girl who’d followed Michael home tonight.

But everything was different.

And then Michael was on his feet and rising over her, climbing onto the bed so that the mattress dipped all around her, his weight settling above hers. His face had never looked more alive to her, eloquent of tension and hunger and predatory intent.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then swooped down to kiss her, plunging his tongue into her mouth, forcing her jaw wide with his lips. It was rough. The new taste on his lips was her, she realized. He tasted like her.

Her legs opened wide as his hips settled between, and when he reached for his belt, her fingers were there to help him, tugging down the zipper, reaching inside for the weapon he’d use on her.

She froze, gasping a little, when she realized how large he was, and the old fear came creeping in again, challenging the pleasure.

Michael broke away from the kiss and he reached for her hand, covering it with his. “Relax,” he told her, and took her lips again, this time slowly and gently, as they both guided him to her entrance.

It wasn’t the same as all the other times. She was slippery and wet, and still throbbing with the aftershocks of before, all her flesh primed for the invasion, devastatingly aware of the shape and texture of him. It had always been a dry forcing, an awful hardness jammed into her against her will. But this was her body stretching and inviting him in. Not a taking, but a filling. Until he was deeply-rooted inside her, and he was panting against her throat, and her body wanted even more of him, though it wasn’t possible.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a tortured whisper. “Please say you’re alright.”

She was astounded. “I’m fine.”

“Put your arms around me.”

She did, reaching with her hands for the taut muscles of his back, the soft cotton covering the hard lines of bone.

He braced his forearms on the mattress, and he started to move.

It was the same primal movement she’d always known, but Michael was so strong, his thrusts so sure and complete, the way they bore her down into the mattress on each stroke. And they were strokes – he stroked the wet inside of her, igniting a deep, rippling pleasure that grew and grew as his hips churned.

She clung to him, hands going to the small of his back, fingers curling tight in his shirt. She imagined she was pushing him down, urging him harder, and harder against her, as her hips rose to meet his.

It was only the two of them. There was only the sound of the bed creaking, and their sharp breathing, and the gentle sounds of struggling against one another as they chased the good feelings. It was exactly what it was supposed to be.

And this time, when her orgasm started, she recognized it for what it was. All those times she’d seen men go stiff as boards, latching onto her and crying out. This is what that felt like. Only this had to be so, so much better than anything they’d ever felt with her, because this was too sublime to be believed.

She clutched at Michael as she felt that final hard kick of his hips. She came with an explosion of inner fireworks, gasping and lifting into him. She felt his teeth against her neck. Felt the spasms and shudders move through his steely body.

And then he relaxed and settled more fully over her, still inside her as the pulses tugged at both of them, letting her hold some of his weight and feel the limp exhaustion she’d brought to him.

He was heavy and he smelled nice, like him plus clean sweat. He was so warm and his heart was thumping so hard against her naked breasts.

She was limp and delirious, and she couldn’t comprehend the pleasure his body had brought to hers.

When the tears came, she didn’t have the strength to stop them. “Michael,” she whispered, as she started to shiver, the tears streaming down her face. “Thank you.” Her voice was a tremulous, broken thing. “Thank you, thank you,” she chanted. “I never…I had no idea…oh, Michael…” The sobs consumed her, and she was ashamed, but she couldn’t reel them in.

Michael shifted to his side and pulled her into his chest, so she could press her wet face into his shirt. His hand rubbed up and down her back in slow, soothing strokes.

“Sleep here with me tonight,” he said, quietly.

All she could do was nod.

She dozed, and when she stirred, she had a moment’s fleeting fear. But the warm, lamplit room was still there, and Michael still lay stretched in front of her on his side, watching her with a blank, but soft expression, propped up on one arm.

She needed him to understand what this had meant to her. She touched his chest, caressing him lightly through his shirt. “Are you hungry? I could make you something to eat.”

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