Wicked Nights

Page 59

Throughout the centuries, he’d witnessed every sexual act imaginable, each performed for different reasons. Lust, domination, curiosity, humiliation, degradation, calculation, revenge, hope, the desire to have children, the desire to cause pain. Love he’d always sought to deny.
But that’s what he wanted with Annabelle. Love. He wanted a giving and taking, a shared experience.
“Zaaachaaarel,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“That’s a good start.” He could smell the sweetness of her arousal, a fragrance that stroked him from the inside, heating him up, making him burn hotter, so much hotter.
“What if I refuse to beg?”
“You won’t.”
For a long while, he taunted them both, stroking her everywhere but where she needed him most. Her fingers curled on the wall. Bang, bang. She pounded those little fists, desperate for relief. But did she beg? No.
Finally she began to talk, telling him all the things she wanted him to do to her…all the things she wanted to do to him….
…touch him…
…stroke him…
…liiick him…
By the time she quieted, his nerves were so sensitized, he could barely stand. Definitely couldn’t stand still. He rubbed against her, again and again, the friction ecstasy…misery. He imagined her hands on him, all over him. He imagined her mouth on him, all over him.
He craved.
“Those things you will do to me.” He barely registered the fire, ice and sheer grit in his voice. “Next time.”
She turned her head, giving him a peek at her profile. The most adorable of pouts tugged at the corners of her lips. “And now?”
“Now I continue my quest to make you beg.” He chuckled as her pout deepened. “You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”
He got serious, no longer content to tease her. He worked her until she was alternately gasping and moaning, playing with her breasts, stroking where she needed him most, until her hands were off the wall and in his hair, her nails scouring his scalp. Oh, how she clung to him in the most decadent of ways. She purred. She moaned. She writhed. And all the while he continued to rub against her, desperate to fill her.
“Please,” she finally begged. “I give. Please, please, please!”
“I will never say no to you.”
She threw a little grin over her shoulder, her eyes as bright with humor as they were hot with arousal. “Good, because now I want you to beg me.”
He did not hesitate. “Please, please, please, Annabelle.” At last he lifted his robe, positioned himself, and slid inside the glorious sheath she provided. “Please.”
“Zacharel,” she said on a moan. “Faster. Please.”
“Or…” He went slower—before stopping altogether. His legs were trembling, threatening to give out at any moment, but he would savor every second of this, would be so careful with his woman.
“Zacharel.”
He inched back into motion….
…a little faster…
“Please.”
Still a little faster… The pleasure was cut with agony, but he loved it, loved every sensation…faster…faster….
Her fists again banged into the wall as she shattered. He was right there with her, shouting her name, branding her with all that he was.
Long minutes later, when they had both calmed, he picked her up and carried her to the shower. She didn’t speak a word as he cleaned her, then himself. No remnants of the demon form remained, and he was glad. She was composed and sated.
And…he hadn’t once kissed her, he realized suddenly.
Zacharel looked her over. Soaking-wet hair was plastered to her head, cheeks and shoulders. Ice-blue eyes watched him, droplets clinging at the ends of her lashes. Her cheeks were flushed to a rosy pink, her lips swollen and teeth-marked. She must have chewed them. Her body was reddened where he’d kneaded her, and shaky, so beautifully shaky with satisfaction.
He cupped her jaw. Forever he simply stood there, continuing to peer at her, allowing her to study him and hiding nothing from her. He wondered if she saw the same loveliness he saw in her, if she saw the reverence and the hunger he felt for her. If she saw the hope for something more. For all. She must have, for she reflected everything back at him.
For so long, he’d had nothing—and she had somehow become his everything.
Without explaining himself, he fused their lips together. He wanted the kiss to talk for him, to prepare her for his next confession. Their tongues met, rolled together, dueled, a kiss not meant to arouse but to give.
When finally he lifted his head, he stared down at her and gave voice to action. “I love you, Annabelle.”
She was more than his other half; she was the best part of him.
“I know.”
That was it? That was all? “Tell me how you knew this.” When he himself hadn’t known until today, this moment. And then tell me you love me back!
Her expression was so soft, so radiant. “It’s the way you are with me. You’re not like that with anyone else. And let’s not forget my earlier appearance and the fact that you didn’t stab me.”
He waited, but she said no more. Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, winding the strands into ringlets. “What am I like with you?” Some men could give their love and expect nothing in return. Zacharel wasn’t one of them. He expected everything. Would demand it.
“Softer, sweeter. A protector.” She chuckled warmly. “Insatiable.”
He adored the way her voice dipped so huskily at the end. “How am I with others?”
“Harsh, matter-of-fact, demanding. A tyrant.”
“Good. I must be that way with my men. I am all that stands between them and banishment from the heavens.”
“How?”
“My fate is their fate, for the Deity tied me to them as punishment. Though I no longer see it as such,” he said.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Do not worry. I will whip them into shape. Perhaps literally. But in the end, they are mine to guard, just as you are mine. The loss of their wings, their immortality, would haunt me. They are good men.”
“You love them, too,” she said.
He was far from ready to entertain such a notion, but he admired and respected them greatly. “What about you? Do you love me?” Subtly hinting hadn’t worked; perhaps outright asking would.
Frowning, she said, “Do you want me to love you?”
“Yes.” She must. Otherwise he would…what?
“Will you know if I lie?”
“Yes. But you will not be lying!”
Slowly her frown changed into a smile. “Goodness, but you are so easy to tease.”
“Annabelle,” he growled.
“Oh, all right. I love you,” she said. “I love you with all my heart.” The first had been grudgingly offered, but the second…adoration had dripped from her voice.
Satisfaction was a sublime avalanche inside him, falling into every part of him, overwhelming him. “You will stay with me always.”
Her somber air returned, and this time, he would bet it was real. “Of course. I won’t break my pledge, but we’ll have to find a way to contain the high lord who wants me. Otherwise, demons will chase me for the rest of my life, and you’ll be in constant danger.”
“Some things are worth any amount of danger.”
“Zacharel,” a hard male voice said from beyond the shower stall. “Something’s happened.”
Annabelle yelped.
Instantly Zacharel’s satisfaction dried up, replaced by fury. With himself, not Koldo. How could he not have heard his soldier enter the bathroom? “Step into the other room. Now.”
No response. No opening and closing of the door, either. But the warrior was no longer there.
Zacharel jerked the towel from the rack at the back of the stall and wrapped the material around Annabelle, unconcerned by the fact that the water would soon soak it.
“Stay here,” he told her, then exited to deal with the latest disaster. And he knew it was a disaster. Nothing else would have brought his warrior here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ANNABELLE HEARD MUFFLED MALE voices as she searched the bathroom for something to wear. What she found was two washrags and another towel. Not exactly appropriate attire for a meeting with angels. But if she had to pretend dishrag was the latest style, she would. She wouldn’t remain in here like a shameful secret.
Zacharel must have sensed her growing frustration and determination, because he opened the door, peeked inside, winked and tossed in a robe before once again disappearing.
She sighed dreamily, still reeling from what she and Zacharel had done and admitted to each other. Oh, she’d already realized he’d fallen in love with her, but there was something so magnificent about hearing the words. Of knowing, beyond any doubt, that she, Annabelle Miller, had tamed such an exquisite animal. An ice-cold warrior that possessed a streak of carnality that, once unleashed, would never again be caged.
Shaking, she tugged the white material over her body and exited the bathroom.
“—have found Unforgiveness,” Koldo was saying.
Her gaze immediately sought Zacharel. He, too, wore a robe. Lamplight gilded his exposed skin, her angel now a golden statue of perfection and might.
Zacharel watched her rather than his soldier and motioned her over. But apparently standing at his side wasn’t close enough, because he wound his arm around her waist and tugged her so close they practically melded together.
When neither man seemed inclined to restart the conversation, she decided to do it herself. “So where is Unforgiveness and what’s the game plan?”
A beat of tense silence, then, “Hell,” Koldo announced. “He is in hell, and he claims he will release you from his bond if Zacharel agrees to fall.”
Ice thickened Annabelle’s blood, scraping against her veins, stinging. “No way. Just no way.” He would lose his immortality. He would lose his ability to see—and fight—demons. But they wouldn’t lose their ability to see and fight him. “He’s not falling.” To Zacharel, she added, “You’re not falling. Why would the demon want you to fall, anyway?”