“Wait,” he said breathlessly. “I have to—”
“Let me.” She snatched the open condom wrapper from his grip and sheathed him. His flesh surged in her hand. “Now, Cyril.”
“But—”
She strained toward him. “Talk later.” She might not have a later if she didn’t have him now.
Still he lingered, his fingers finding the needy bud of her clit and giving her a soft caress. Without her breath, the noise from her mouth was barely a whine—this was no time for games—but that only seemed to embolden him. He stroked her again, still maddeningly gentle when she needed his light as high and bright and fierce as an explosion.
She lowered her hand between their bodies and gripped his sac. His balls tightened; pleasure or fear she didn’t care. “Cyril, damn it—”
“Don’t remind me.”
For half a heartbeat, she wanted to reassure him. Exile from the sphericanum didn’t equal damnation. It took more than that. She ought to know. But if she told him as much, he would question her and where would that get them?
“Stop thinking, angel-boy.” She gave his balls a squeeze and then a flick of her finger along his crease. He bucked against her hips, she angled just so, and—ah!—finally, he was in her, his flesh sheathed in her, their breath and pulses ratcheting higher. She gasped at the possession, complete and carnal and oh-so human.
He wasn’t huge—angelic possession didn’t grant everlasting life or superpowers, in bed or anywhere else—but the hard, hot length of him stretched her tight passage with a pressure almost like pain, a reminder she was here, now, pinned to this bar by his cock and his whiskey-drenched mouth. She closed her eyes even as she opened her legs wider to the intimate invasion.
They couldn’t come for her, not when she was coming.
He hauled her hips toward him, so her ass hung precariously on the edge of the bar, and she propped her heels on the narrow well. He bent her back, one hand under her breast to plump her nipple over the demi-cup bra. His mouth fastened on the aching tight peak, and the lightning pleasure shot all the way to her clit. She rocked against his pounding flesh, finding a rhythm that would have put her club’s dance remixes to shame, and let his harsh breath in her ear drown out the whisper of winter she heard all around.
She curled over him, her hair tickling her breast and belly, her core tightening, tightening. “Cyril…”
He straightened with one more hard thrust of his cock deep inside and his tongue in her mouth. His big hand was hot over her crotch, and he stroked her clit with a deft thumb. Three… two… one… ignition.
She went off like a bottle rocket, from sizzling fuse to screaming launch. He laughed against her mouth and let her shriek while he pummeled her.
The throb of her orgasm matched his beat, unabated, and he groaned. “You feel so damned good. I can’t…”
Three-two-never-mind-one-go, and he shouted aloud—some wordless, profane invocation—and convulsed against her. With a last gasp, she came again around his climax. She wasn’t a sparkler, she was a whole multi-stage rocket with extra boosters. The black was all around her and she didn’t give a damn because the light and heat and boom of him held it all at bay.
She slumped back on the bar, her head hanging off the far end, blood rushing to her brain as he stroked a few more times, with a deep groan, then pushed again, far inside. The thick pulse of him heated her from within, and she wanted to hold him there forever.
But slowly he withdrew, his finger brushing softly against her twitching clit. She gasped but didn’t straighten.
She heard the wet squeal-snap of the condom coming off and the surprisingly loud plunk as it hit the garbage can. Man, how much had he come? Apparently she wasn’t the only one going Methuselian lengths of time between carnal encounters.
She flinched in surprise as soft cotton tucked between her legs. He’d found the stack of bar rags under the counter.
“Sorry,” he murmured. He kissed her navel, and she couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers through his hair again. The thick strands sculpted themselves into waves under her petting hand like demanding cats.
She opened her eyes, not that it mattered. “What color?”
“Pink. Pink and cherry red. Like a dessert.”
“You have pink hair?”
“What? No. I have brown hair, light brown. I thought you meant…” He kissed her again, much lower this time.
She jackknifed upright, stiff-arming him. “Whoa.”
“Now I’ve shocked you.” He sounded smug. “We’ll save it for next time.”
Next time? She reached for the edge of her wrap and pulled it around her to cinch the waist. If only her hair came together as easily. “That’s an angel for ya. Always going for the save.”
He swung her down off the counter, steadying her while her still-wobbly knees aligned with her boot heels. “Have you had dinner yet?”
First next time? Now dinner? “I was actually headed out for the night. I have some errands…”
“Oh.” The smug note was gone from his voice.
She bit her tongue against the urge to explain more. They’d swapped body fluids, some fluids anyway, but that didn’t mean they could share everything. In fact, now that her desperation had eased, she could see—despite being semi-sorta blind—how fucking an angel-man might just be her dumbest move in a lifetime of bad choices.
Still, biting her tongue made her taste the lingering flavor of whiskey, and her knees wobbled again. “I really should get going.”
“Yeah, I was heading home, like the sign on your door said.”
“Okay, that’s good.” And angel-men were good. Too good for the likes of her. “I’ll see you around then.” Except she wouldn’t, really, what with her cataracts and all. She didn’t even want to see him again.
“Yeah, right.” His tone said he’d thought exactly the same thing. Just as well the clouded haze over her eyes shaded her from the worst of his angelic glare.
He helped her on with her coat and waited at the front door while she locked up. She wished he would just get in his fancy car and go.
But he lingered. “I was wondering if my car would still be here.” He sounded a little disappointed, as if he wanted an excuse to stay. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”
“No, thanks. I get around fine.” She prickled a little. Let him think she took pride in her independence. Independent sounded better than lonely. “I don’t need a Porsche.”
“How do you know what I drive?”
“Some of the talyan were complaining to me about their vehicular crap. They were wondering how much blacker they’d stain their souls if they rolled you for the Porsche.”
“So you saved me.”
“Actually, I told them a dozen Hail Marys and a few dead djinn-men would absolve them. I try to stay on their good sides.”
He snorted. “I’ll have to watch my back then.”
A faint stir of guilt made her shift on her heels—or maybe that was just the last quiver of her orgasm—but she felt compelled to add, “You should find somebody to help you watch behind you, ex-Warden Fane. This is a bad time to be alone.”
“Yeah. See you, Bella.”
And when he said her name this time, it sounded like a threat and a promise in one.
Chapter 3
Bella waited for the rumble of the Porsche to fade before she ducked back down the alley to retrieve her car.
Nothing so nice as the Porsche, of course, but the club’s generic little hatchback was respectably efficient for her employees to do whatever needed to be done around the place. Enough people used it that nobody wondered why sometimes the gas tank ran a little low. Anyway, it was her damn car, she could drive it whenever she wanted.