He was inside me before I had even begun to come down, pushing, his cock deep inside me, and I panicked, bucking, fighting him, trying to throw him off me.
He caught my wrists easily, slamming them down on the bed, his hips pinioning me. My struggles were useless, yet I couldn’t stop, terrified.
He lay on top of me, holding me down. “Stop it,” he panted in my ear. “Stop fighting it. I’m sorry, but it has to be this way. There’s no other choice.”
His words were barely making sense. All I knew was that I had to stop him, had to reverse him, had to be on top, not beneath him; but he was too strong, and I couldn’t dislodge him. He wasn’t trying to continue, merely holding me there like someone trying to break a skittish mare, I thought with sudden, almost hysterical amusement.
“No,” I pleaded, my pride vanished. “Please, no.”
He put his face next to mine, rubbing gently, an almost animal gesture of reassurance. “We have to, Rachel,” he whispered. “Just this once, I have to take you this way, so that I can take your blood.”
I kicked, trying to throw him off, but he was too strong, his possession too deep, deep inside me, filling me. “You can reach my neck if I’m on top,” I managed to choke out.
“No.”
“Standing up.” I couldn’t believe I was suggesting such a thing, after the last, devastating time that had turned into such a betrayal.
“No,” he said between gritted teeth, and his body, his naked body, was slick with sweat, and for a moment I was distracted from my mindless terror, wondering when he’d taken his clothes off, wondering what he felt like, naked against me.
I tried to get my elbows between us, but his strength was unbelievable. It was like beating at a brick wall—nothing could break his hold, his possession—and slowly, slowly, I stopped struggling. I lay still, panting, my body covered with sweat, covered with Azazel. I raised my eyes to meet his, and I could see real regret in his eyes.
The shadows had leached all color from the room, the only exception being the deep blue of his eyes, and I was remembering the trap of the Dark City once more, the trap of his betrayal. He was sorry, I thought, miserable. He regretted this. He didn’t want this. He was being forced—
“Shut up,” he said, releasing my arms to cup my face. I had worn myself out fighting him, and I could do nothing but lie beneath him. He kissed my mouth, my eyelids, my nose. “I’m sorry that I must force you to lie beneath me. How many times do I have to tell you? My need for you is so powerful I’d agree to anything you want. But it has to be this way. Do you understand?”
To punctuate his words, he withdrew partway, the thick penetration releasing me, and then thrust back in again, hard, hard enough to push me back into the mattress, and I shivered, trying to still the panic that swamped me.
I could feel his skin against mine, warm, damp, his muscled arms around me, his mouth pressed against the side of my face. His long legs against mine, the shallow penetration, his cock inside me that wasn’t enough.
Slowly, slowly, I lifted my legs to wrap them around his narrow hips. Slowly, slowly, I put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer as I let go, let go of the ancient need born out of stubbornness and transformed into a vicious curse, let go of the memory of the thousand demons who had taken me this way, night after night, tearing me, hurting me, destroying me. Gone, it was all gone, and there was only Azazel, the smell of his skin, the cool ocean scent of him, the warm flesh, the taste of him in my mouth as I licked his shoulder, the steady thrust of him, touching someplace inside me that made me wild. And I was the one who kissed him, arching up to meet him, joining him in this mad dance of lust and love; and it wasn’t about him controlling me, conquering me, it wasn’t about who was on top and who was on the bottom, it was just the two of us, the joining, thick and hot and wonderful; and my climax, more powerful than ever, was coming closer, and even though I wanted to hold back to prolong it, the feelings were too shattering, and I let go of the need to control, let go and simply existed in a sea of pleasure.
I could feel his own need rise, his cock swelling inside me when I would have thought that was impossible, the slamming speed of his thrusts that shook me, shook the bed, and I cried out for more, for what I wanted, needed; and as I hovered on the crest, as I felt him begin to spurt inside me, his teeth clamped down on my neck, his teeth piercing my skin, and I shattered. The pull of his mouth at my neck, sucking, drinking, lost in my taste, the sweet hot rush as he filled me were too much. I was dying, and I didn’t care. We would die together, destroyed by a desire that was elementally wrong; they had warned us, and neither of us had cared. I was dying, and I was in his arms, and that was all that mattered.
There were feathers, feathers closing around me, soft and blessed, drawing in the darkness, and as I tumbled back to earth I let myself rest in their gentleness, at peace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I OPENED MY EYES SLOWLY, NOT AT all certain what I expected to see. The flames of hell? Beloch’s—no, Uriel’s triumphant face? The total darkness of nothing at all? What did one see in the afterlife? I was afraid to look.
He was lying beside me on the white sheet, his black hair obscuring his face, though I didn’t have any doubt as to who he was. He slept like the dead, lying on his stomach, but I could see the rise and fall of his breathing, and I knew he’d survived.
I touched my neck gingerly. There was nothing there, no mark or pain, yet a frisson of remembered reaction washed over me as I let my fingers trail against my flesh. I seemed to have developed a new and entirely unexpected erogenous zone at the base of my neck, and as I remembered the pull of his mouth, I let out a quiet moan of remembered pleasure.
I sat up, very carefully so as not to wake him. The room was filled with the odd half-light that I knew was dawn, and I stared out the French doors into the private garden with astonishment. It had been late afternoon when I entered this room. Late afternoon when Azazel and I had made love, if that’s what you could call it. I doubted that was the operative word on his part, but I wasn’t going to go searching for others. Yet now it was morning, and I remembered nothing after the blackness had closed around me. Except hadn’t there been feathers?
He was watching me. I should have known he’d sleep like a cat, instantly alert. He rolled over onto his back, before I remembered that I’d wanted to look for signs of the wings I knew he must have. His gaze was heavy-lidded, and I looked for signs of my blood on his mouth, wondering if it would disgust me. Would he taste like blood?
“We’re alive,” I said, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Did you have any doubts?”
“Of course I did.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “And you agreed anyway?”
“Yes.” I could be monosyllabic as well. I wasn’t going to explain myself. Explain that wanting him was a fever in my blood, driving through me, and I would have faced the Truth Breakers once more just for the chance of sharing a bed with him.
He pushed himself to a sitting position beside me, for all the world like a husband about to read the Sunday paper, and stretched, a slow, sinuous movement that made my mouth go dry. I had the top sheet pulled up to primly cover my breasts, though as far as I could remember we’d started on top of the silk coverlet that was now on the floor. The sheet was draped loosely around his hips as well, for all the world like a PG-rated romantic comedy. I wondered what would happen if I jumped him.
“We slept,” I said. Another scintillating bit of conversation.