Page 75 of Price of Angels

His torso stretched and flexed as he lifted the shirt clear of his head, abs and pecs and biceps leaping and then settling. The tendons in his vein-laced forearms flickered under the skin as his hands went to his belt. Buckle, button, zipper, and he pushed down his boxer-briefs at the same time, shucked his socks as he pulled the jeans off his feet. And then he was naked and beautiful before her.

He was hardening for her already.

Holly wasn’t sure it would ever not frighten her, just a little: that male organ in its nest of dark hair. But she liked the little trail of hair that tracked up to his navel. And she liked the firm lengths of his thighs, the crisp shape of his calves and ankles and his long, narrow-toed feet.

She unfastened the cuffs on her wrists and set them on the table.

His hand came down for her and she took it, let him lift her to her feet.

The blood was pounding in her ears, her breasts, between her legs as he pulled her into the bare hard length of him and kissed her. He was in complete control of himself this time, the hot stroke of his mouth deliberate, consuming, slow. He opened up her lips and feasted from her with florid, luscious movements of his tongue.

As the fire kindled in her chest, Holly melted. She curled her hands around his biceps, leaning into him, his hard cock trapped against her belly. “I can’t,” she whispered between kisses, incoherent and desperate. “I can’t…”

He knew. His arms were tight around her, holding her on her feet, his hand cupping the back of her head.

“I’ll carry you,” he said, and he did, lifting her up into his arms without effort and taking her to the bed, laying her down on top of the covers and settling over her, hot, and graceful, and heavy.

He nudged her legs apart and settled between them, grinding against her, so she could feel every inch of him through the screen of her pants. Her hips lifted automatically, seeking more explicit contact, craving the friction.

“What did you like best?” he asked against her mouth, voice a low, dark, breathy sound. “What was your favorite part?”

Last night tumbled through her mind in a blur of sensation: his hands, his mouth, his cock.

She arched breathlessly against him, clutching at his shoulders. “I like when you’re inside me. I like when we’re together.”

He gave a growling, groaning sigh and kissed her again, his hands going after her clothes. He swept her pants down, tugged them off her feet. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he pushed her shirt up, hands closing on her breasts and kneading for long, tortuous moments.

Then he joined them, sinking slowly down, cock pressing, pressing, pressing in until he filled her.

Yes, this was her favorite part, when they were a part of one another. She loved his hot skin against her breasts and belly, the coarse hair of his legs and chest abrading her as he shifted languidly on top of her. A slow rhythm, hard flexing of his spine in patient, deep thrusts. Grinding against her. Crushing her down into the mattress.

She dug her nails into his back out of helpless reaction.

In a strained, tight voice, he said, “Just enjoy it, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” He breathed a laugh. “This is my favorite part too.”

And then she was gone, lost to the coiled power of his body as he worked against her. She closed her eyes and softened her mouth for his kiss, and she gave herself over to this wonderful invasion, the way he reached and reached inside her.

There was the most perfect moment, when she hovered, just before the peak. And then the orgasm shot through her veins like a narcotic. A wordless sound left her lips.

The heat spilling through her as he came too.

Michael heavy above her.

Exhaustion closing over her in the best way.

And then Michael was lifting her again, and then they were beneath her heaps of quilts, and she was lying against his chest, his heart thundering beneath her cheek.

Sleep was coming, but she struggled against it, trying to press this moment into her memory, leave a plaster cast for her permanent keeping. She would need to return to this night, in her mind, long after the job was done and she’d lost him, because she was fast realizing that ghosts or no ghosts, there was no bright future waiting for her if she didn’t have Michael.

Thirteen

“No, baby, you don’t understand.”

“No, baby,youdon’t understand,” Mercy countered. He stood in the threshold of the kitchen, arms folded, smiling like a goofus as he watched her, clearly not understanding the severity of the situation.

“You know I think you’re adorable,” Ava said, sighing, as she turned to him.

He shrugged. “Naturally.”

---