Page 26 of Sweet Vengeance

Joy trembled. “I know.”

His heart was about to race right out of his chest.

Joy moved, shifting closer. Malachi’s lungs suddenly felt too big for his chest, yet, at the same time, they still struggled to take in air.

Slowly, tentatively, she placed her left hand on his chest. “I’m—can I—?”

He didn’t know what she was asking, but he said, “Yes.”

She climbed onto his lap. Malachi sucked in a sharp breath. Joy curled against his chest, pressing her face right up against his throat, underneath his jaw, like she wanted to inhale his scent. His wings flared without his control, wrapping protectively around them—around her.

Her breath shuddered out of her at the feel of his feathers, and, like the cocoon of his embrace was the one thing she’d needed, she finally relaxed. His wings instinctively tightened, wanting to shelter her from anything and everything.

“Okay?” Her voice was lower than a whisper.

“Yes.” His voice sounded like it was coming through tar.

With her right hand still tangled with his left, her left hand moved, sliding up his chest, over his robes, to his shoulder. Then she was tracing the edge of his jaw, up to the shell of his ear. Her breath stuttered when she felt the slightly pointed tip, then her fingers were tangled in his curls, brushing against the base of his right horn.

Her hand stilled. “Are you—should I stop?”

“Don’t stop,” he rasped.

“Y-You’re shaking.”

The feeling of her in his lap, of her hand shyly yet boldly exploring, had Malachi feeling …

It had Malachifeeling.

Maybe it was the darkness, the intimate press of her body against his that had him admitting, his voice nothing more than a whisper, “I have not been touched in a long time.”

“Oh.” Her scent burst bright with something that made him want to bury his face in her throat; he wanted to gulp in that scent for the rest of time. “Do you—was it ...?”

“It was not by choice, no,” Malachi admitted, guessing at what she’d wanted to ask.

Joy scent burst with something again—Malachi thought it might be empathy, mixed with something else he couldn’t quite discern—and she untangled their fingers. Malachi’s hand instinctively shot forward, wanting the touch back, before he clenched his hand into a fist and let it drop to the sofa.

“When last were you touched?” As she asked, her voice still a low, intimate whisper, her right hand joined her left, exploring the left side of his face, gently and intimately stroking over his skin.

Malachi’s throat felt thick. “Years,” he said simply, his voice so rough he was surprised he could still form syllables.

“Years?” she asked in surprise, her touch stilling. “How long are we talking?”

Malachi hesitated. “Over half of my life,” he said, his voice barely more than air.

“Half of your—?” Joy began indignantly, like she couldn’t believe there was no one who’d wanted to touch him in all this time. The fondness in Malachi’s chest grew. “How old are you?”

“In human years, I should be thirty.”

“Oh. You’re young.”

Malachi raised an eyebrow, though she couldn’t see it. “You sound surprised.”

He scented more than saw her blush. “I don’t know. I assumed demons were immortal?”

“We are.”

“Oh. But … you’re …?”

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