Page 88 of Price of Angels

His words stoked the hot coals in her belly, but still she was unsure.

She sat straddling him, and he was still joined with her. With her above him like this, his cock felt larger and more invasive; the angle was different, the pressure of his entry pushing at her belly; there was a vague cramping deep in her stomach, a protest against such an impalement.

He lay beneath her, skin gleaming in the firelight, and she was intimidated. How could she possibly do what he did? How could she bring them both the pleasure they needed?

“Hol.” His hands came up and closed over her breasts, the warm rough palms cupping her and squeezing gently. “Do you like that?”

She glanced down at the lean shapes of his fingers as he shaped her softness, felt her nipples straining against his palms. She nodded. Yes, she liked it, she loved it.

“Lean into it,” he instructed. “Put your hands on me and…yeah, attagirl.”

God, his voice. It was different; it was hungry and it was doing things to her. She put her palms on his strong chest and leaned into the caressing pressure of his hands.

There was a shifting of the friction where their hips kissed together. Inside her, he…Oh. Oh, that felt…

Michael lifted his hips, driving up inside her, too far, too deep. Exquisite.

“Move,” he told her breathlessly. “Move until it feels good to you.”

She flexed her hips experimentally. He squeezed her breasts and thrust up into her again. That wonderful friction again.

And then she understood.

She shifted, up and back, grinding down against him – that was the best part – mimicking in her own small way the powerful movement of his hips when he was on top of her and driving against her.

His jaw clenched. “Yeah. Shit. Yeah. Good girl.”

His hands dropped down to her waist: firm grip of his fingers, urging, guiding, holding her down against him for long moments when she would have shifted.

Beneath her, Michael was a straining, reaching creature, his tendons standing tall and taut beneath his skin, throwing shadows. His abs rippled and his biceps knotted.

Holly was struck with a sudden knowledge, one that burned like steam along her skin: He was the masculine picture of her in this moment. He was fierce and frightening, yes – always – but beneath the lifting and dropping of her hips, he struggled as she always struggled, wanting more, and more.

That was what evaporated all awareness. She braced her hands on his chest and she bore down on him. He arched beneath her, flexible steel, rooting into her deeply.

When she came, there was only the heat. And then it was Michael cursing softly, his hands clutching at her. And then it was stillness, and the relentless throbbing of her body, that might have been his heartbeat pounding through her, for all she knew.

Carefully, she pulled her leg over him, and lay down on the carpet beside him, her skin quivering and ultrasensitive.

Michael turned toward her, and his lips were against her forehead, and it was fine that there were no words between them, because she didn’t need any.

Fifteen

“I’ll be right back.” Ava slid from between the covers and tugged on brown wool socks she’d found in a drawer of her old dresser.

Behind her, she heard Mercy push up on an elbow, the sheets rustling. “Where’re you going?”

“To get a snack.” She was whispering, in the muted lamplight of her old room. Around them, the house was alive with a crush of sleeping relatives, and now that it was over – the whole thing finally over – she didn’t want to wake any of them. But her stomach was clenching in a painful way, and reminding her that skipping meals wasn’t an option with a baby on board.

Mercy made an exasperated sound through his nose. “Why didn’t you eat dinner?”

“I felt sick.” Which might have been hormones, or the stress of sitting across from her grandmother, who knew. “I won’t be long.” She turned to kiss him, hands braced on the mattress.

He pretended not to cooperate, frowning dramatically. Ava still couldn’t get over the sight of him half-naked in her old bed, with parental permission like this, and she giggled as she pressed her lips to his.

“You’re not cute when you sulk,” she told him, and slipped out of the room silently.

She could hear the snoring from the living room all the way down the hall. Tiptoeing seemed unnecessary, given the chainsaw effect of three grown men sleeping, but she did so anyway. Aidan was asleep on the sofa; as usual, he’d commandeered the best spot straight off. Tango, ever the pleaser, was on the loveseat, his legs hooked over the arm. Carter had a sleeping bag on the floor. The white lights of the Christmas tree caught the smoothest, youngest angles of their faces as they slept, giving them the look of little boys, and not hardened outlaws.

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