by Cara Bristol
Only one man mattered.
Her skin tingled with awareness as they strode to the house, her hand clasped in Wingman’s.
“Charlie is in the backyard,” she said as they entered the house. There would be no mishaps this time!
“As long as I can see where he is…”
“I’m amazed your ankle healed so fast.” He’d shown up at her house this morning, walking normally.
“Technology.” He stepped closer and smoothed her hair away from her face. Her eyelids closed as his lips met hers, and he pulled her into his arms. He was rock hard. She was already wet.
She broke away and took his hand, tugging him into the bedroom, prepped with fresh sheets. Laundry had been folded and stashed, and she’d tilted the blinds to dim the light and block the view from the outside.
Her stomach fluttered with desire—and nerves. Making love with him seemed like a momentous step. Hopefully, sex is like riding a bicycle. Except the last time she’d hopped on a bike, she’d wobbled like a drunk. She hadn’t slept with anyone but her late husband. At first, after losing him, she’d had a baby to take care of, and she’d been grief-stricken. Years passed, and she’d recovered, but nobody had managed to turn her head, let alone measured up to Josh.
Until now. Wingman. An alien with a solid, dependable, supportive, and so sexy demeanor.
“You’re not having regrets?” he asked.
“No regrets. A few nerves.”
He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Does it bother you I’m not human?”
“No! You’re amazing.”
“You’re pretty amazing yourself.”
She leaned into him and slid her palms up his contoured chest. He bent his head and kissed her, his soft, coaxing touch quelling her nervousness. Trepidation fell away like autumn leaves—and then ignited into burning desire.
He tangled one hand in her hair and held her tight with the other. The rock-solid length of him pressed against her abdomen. She closed her eyes, the better to feel the softness as he cocooned her with his wings. She imagined herself naked on the bed, Wingman caressing her with his feathers.
She grew wet. Wetter. Her panties were already damp.
He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his muscular physique—serious pecs with washboard abs to match. As he flung the shirt aside, she noticed it had been slit up the back to accommodate his wings.
He kissed her throat, and she arched her neck as tingles shivered down her spine. Warm breath caressed her ear before he trailed his lips to her shoulders. He undid the spaghetti straps of her sundress with his teeth and then kissed his way across her collarbone and untied the other side in a similar fashion.
“You’re very versatile.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” He flashed a devilish grin.
She shimmied, and her dress puddled at her feet, leaving her in a satin strapless bra and lacy thong. She’d been thrilled to find the set among her practical, comfortable bikini briefs and sports bras.
He unzipped his jeans, and his cock sprang out so much like a jack-in-the-box, she almost laughed in surprise. “Did you forgo underwear for the occasion, or do you not wear underwear?”
“Underwear?” He looked at her blankly.
“Okay. Question asked and answered!”
Pants dispensed with, he stood there naked and unabashed. He resembled a winged pagan god, muscular and raw, but oh, so beautiful. She’d considered herself passably attractive, respecting her stretch marks and imperfections as part of the whole that made her who she was, but compared to him, she was ordinary. Wingman? Extraordinary.
As was the expression in his eyes. Lustful, heated, desirous of her. This boosted her courage to sidle up to him and lift her face for a kiss. Awkwardness gave way to passion. Her bra slipped off under his busy hands. Panties followed and then he laid her on the bed, canopied by a full spread of silver-and-snow-white wings.
He touched her then, exploring every inch with gentle, almost-reverent hands, following up each stroke with a kiss, heightening her desire. She clutched his shoulders, dragging her finger pads over dense muscle.
His erection was as magnificent as he was, a marvel to be clasped and stroked. Her touch elicited groans, and he shuddered while maintaining a slow seduction of her body and senses. With lips, hands, and wings, he caressed breasts, her belly, thighs. Nerves vibrated with torturous sensation.
Damn, him, he knew the effect he had on her. A grin played on his lips as he teased her to the brink of ecstasy.
He made love the way he’d flown with her—taking them higher and higher into the sky then gliding on the breath of desire, before climbing higher and higher again. By the time he nudged her legs apart, and they joined, she’d become mindless with need, her body already moving, thrusting.
Ecstasy consumed gentleness then, and she delighted in his forceful thrusts. The headboard slammed against the wall, but she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the thunderstorm snapping and crackling through her body. When she came, she heard a choir of angels sing, and then she realized the sounds came from her, a soprano she didn’t know she was capable of.
His growls harmonized with her cries, his body shuddering, cock convulsing—his orgasm buffeting her on waves of pleasure.
After they floated down to Earth, he rolled her on top of him and blanketed them with his wings. Murmuring in a singsong language, he stroked her back and pressed gentle kisses to her damp hair.
Boneless, exhausted in the best possible way, she snuggled against him and sighed. He was the complete package, the kind of man who led a girl to thoughts of the future, to spending forever days and endless nights like this. It wasn’t the euphoria of an intense orgasm—although it had been amazing—but the way he’d revealed his emotions, his caring.
You were so worth waiting for, she wanted to say, but this longing, this feeling was so new, she settled for, “Wow. That was worth waiting for.” Go slow, be sensible, protect your heart, it’s just good sex.
He stroked her back. “You were worth waiting for.” Her own thoughts returned to her as his words and shields crumbled.
Her mouth went dry, and she lifted her head. “That’s what I meant.”
His eyes, those dark, dancing, devilish eyes, went still. Serious as a heart attack. “I know.”
I know means I love you. She held his gaze for the longest time, emotion welling up inside. Like the orgasm, it rocked her to the core. He cupped her head and settled her against his shoulder, the fast beat of his heart revealing he wasn’t as calm as he appeared.
Where she had been sleepy moments before, now she was wide awake, but under the soothing stroke of his hand, the flutter of feathers against her back, her eyelids grew heavy again, and she drifted away.
* * * *
Wingman could tell the moment Delia fell asleep. Already relaxed, her entire body went slack. Her silky hair tickled his chin, and her deep, slow breaths caressed his throat. If there was anything better than holding his mate like this, he couldn’t imagine what it would be. Besides the telltale reduction in swelling of his mating glands, the sense of rightness could not be denied. Contentment settled in his marrow, flowed in his blood, and infused his cells. Destinies had joined.
This was where he was supposed to be, with whom he was supposed to be. He’d never held such certainty—not even before the bombardment when he’d had every expectation of a long, happy future. Out of tragedy one good thing had emerged, and hopefully it boded well for the rest of the castaways. If he and Chameleon had found their genmates, maybe the others would, too.
He tightened his wings around Delia and rubbed his chin against her hair, inhaling her sweet floral scent and the musk of their union. Amusement teased his lips into a smile. She slept like Izzy did—wholly committed to the endeavor. That was how she performed everything she attempted. No mother could be more devoted to her child than she. She was fierce in her protection. Biding time at the Whitetail, he�
��d observed how hard she worked, how attentively she served her customers. Despite her many responsibilities, she’d never made him feel like he came last in her affections. Her eyes would light up with pleasure when she spotted him, and the trust she gave to him humbled him.
Her hesitancy to speak of her feelings aloud didn’t concern him at all. She didn’t know about genmates, didn’t realize the union of their lives was inevitable. How could she? Humans weren’t supposed to have genmates. He was inclined to agree with Chameleon’s hypothesis that the Xeno Consortium hadn’t just stolen a little DNA from Earth but had tinkered with the humans while they’d been here.
When she was ready, he’d reveal they were genmates. No rush. In the scheme of forever, they had plenty of time. On that thought, he fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
Wingman awakened gasping for breath, heart and pulse racing. He sprang to a seated position, propelled by an unreasonable urge to flee. His head pivoted, his gaze jerking over the room in panic. For a moment he couldn’t place where he was, but then his father’s garden came into view through the open shutters.
Home. I’m home. He panted. Just another anxiety attack.
The bouts of panic had become more frequent of late.
He wanted to be clear headed when he met Lissa. He and the teacher at the Avian school had been spending a lot of time together, and he’d come to admire her dedication and gentle spirit. He considered himself fortunate she appreciated him as well. She was beautiful, her features classically Avian, with a beak-like nose, piercing eyes, and a full head of feathers. He had hair, which he kept trimmed short to mimic pinfeathers. His nose was too broad and flat, his eyes too large, his physique too muscular for him to be considered handsome by Avian standards.
In the genetic game of Xeno manipulation, he’d come out resembling his father more than his mother, but fortunately, Lissa loved him, just like his mother adored his father.
If only the mating hormones would kick in! He fingered the glands below his jaw. No swelling yet. But when it happened, they would make love, and their destinies would entwine.
As he slid out of bed, the oddest premonition swept over him again, an urgent imperative to flee. Feathers sharpened for battle. With effort, he forced them to relax and retract. His anxiety had never been this strong. He padded to the window and leaned out, drawing deep breaths of fresh air. Beyond the garden lay the town, a quiet hamlet where Avians were still abed. He studied the clear, morning sky hinting at a perfect day. Why did he suffer these bouts of dread?
Out. Get out! Quickly!
He grabbed his pants, his shirt, and boots, threw them on in record speed, and tore from the room.
In the kitchen, his early-bird father prepared the morning meal while his researcher mother pored over her computer screen at the big table. An ordinary scene repeated many mornings over. Yet, today it felt different. He viewed the domestic scene through a misty lens, separated from the moment. The only solid reality was a lump of anxiety in his belly.
“Breakfast?” his father asked.
He shook his head, trying to calm his breathing. “I’m going…going out for a while.”
Both his parents peered at him with concern. “Anxiety again?” his mother asked.
“A bit.” He downplayed the panic.
“It’s been happening more often, getting stronger, hasn’t it?” His mother wasn’t fooled.
“I’ll be all right.”
His father set down the cooking pan. “Maybe you should speak to someone…a Verital.”
“No.” He would never allow a Verital to invade his mind, steal his thoughts, alter who he was. “I’ll be okay after I fly.”
He kissed his mother and his father. “I’m meeting Lissa this afternoon, so if you don’t see me for a while, that’s where I am.” Before they could respond, he rushed out. They had questions for which he had no answers.
In the garden, he pushed off and leaped into the sky. Air sweetened with blossoms teased his nose, but he focused on expending energy, employing a vigorous push and lift of wing to work off the dread. Seeing other Avians in flight, he veered away and headed to where the mountain climbed up to the sky.
He wished Lissa wasn’t working today, wished she could accompany him. She flew like she did everything—gracefully. He would never desire to be anything but Avian, but if he envied any characteristic of other ’Topians, it would be the Verital’s telepathic connection with their genmates. If he could, he’d send Lissa a message. Come fly with me.
He veered toward the school, the compulsion to see her, overruling the knowledge he shouldn’t disturb her while she was working. I won’t stay long.
He recognized a flock of children outside the classroom as Lissa’s students. He landed and peeked into her schoolroom. Seated at her desk, she looked up. “This is a surprise. Is everything all right?”
“I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop in and say hi.”
“I’m glad you did.” She smiled.
A flash outside the window caught his attention, and, for a moment, the sky turned to blood. He ran to the window, but then it returned to normal, and there was nothing but calm, serene pink sky. He rubbed his eyes.
“What’s wrong? The children?” She flew to the window.
“They’re fine. It was nothing.” Sweat beaded along his brow, but he shivered with a chill. What was wrong with him? “I’m keeping you from your job. I’ll see you this afternoon?” He moved toward the exit.
“I’ll hold you to it.” She sidled up to him and brushed her beak-like mouth against his fuller lips. Her wings wrapped around him and, for a moment, they were cocooned. He bent his head for a more thorough kiss. Their lips clung, and, when they stepped apart, his panic had subsided, his mood had lightened, and his smile felt real. “I’ll see you later.”
He’d left then and flew harder, higher, farther, working off the residual anxiety so when he returned, he would be himself. Energy spent, he stopped to rest on the mountain. Leaning against a tree, he sat and surveyed the hamlet in the verdant valley. He could pick out Lissa’s school, the cottage where he lived with his mother and father, the tiny spaceport with all the ships lined up in neat rows.
And then a shadow spilled over the village. He jerked his gaze to the sky. A swarm of hundreds, maybe thousands of battleships marked with Xeno insignia blocked the sun. He leaped up. As he ran to the cliff’s edge, a burst of light blinded him, and a shock wave knocked him to the ground. He staggered to his feet. Fire engulfed the village, the natural valley becoming a cauldron of flame. “NO! Lissa! Lissa! Mother! Father!”
I have to save her, have to save them. He dove off the mountain. Headwinds whipped up by the flames beat him back as fire scorched his wings. His eyes stung; he could hardly see through the roiling black smoke. Circling the school, he found it reduced to embers.
Feathers singed, he flew toward the cottages. They, too, had been destroyed. Everywhere he looked. Flames, Flames. And the black clouds, the Xeno ships, kept firing and firing—
Survival instinct propelled him toward the mountaintop. A firebomb sizzled past him, the sparks igniting his wing—
“No! Fire! Fire!” Beating at the flames, he tumbled from the sky. Panic sharpened his feathers to stilettos, slicing ribbons into his flesh as he flailed. He was bleeding. Blood. So much blood. “No!” Falling, falling. His feathers shriveled to char, and he couldn’t halt the fall. Desperately, he flapped his one good wing.
“Wingman! Wingman!” Lissa shouted.
Herian, she was still alive! “Lissa! Lissa, get out! Fly! Fly!”
“Wingman! Wingman! Wake up! It’s me, Delia, It’s okay! Wake up!”
Delia?
“There’s no fire. No fire. Wake up!”
He jolted awake. His heart hammered. His eyes focused on Delia’s concerned face inches from his. “You were having a nightmare. Trying to fly in your sleep.” She knelt on the mattress, her hands on his biceps.
Tinges of red smea
red her shoulders, her arms. He bolted upright. She had cuts on her torso, her arms, her back. Several stilettos still protruded from his wing tips. In his dream, the fight-or-flight response had activated the transformation. “I hurt you!” Horrified, he leaped out of bed.
“I’m okay.” She brushed her hair back with a bloodied hand.
“Stay here.” He dashed to the bathroom, wet a couple of washcloths, grabbed some bandages, and ran back to the bedroom. He dabbed at her skin. How could he have done this? There were four cuts, two on her back, one on a shoulder, and one on her right upper arm. They were shallow, but he could have seriously injured her.
“I’ll never forgive myself.”
“It’s all right. You were having a nightmare. You didn’t know what you were doing. I would have been fine, except, when you were thrashing, I tried to shake you awake, and you caught me with your wings.”
He dressed her wounds with the stick-on bandages. He could have hurt her much worse. Blood smeared the sheets.
“Let me have that.” She grabbed an unused washcloth and wiped his arm. “You cut yourself, worse. You kept trying to beat at the wing on this side.”
“I’m okay.” He tried to pull away.
“Let me look!” she ordered.
The cut on his arm was deeper and longer than any of her wounds. After wiping away the blood, she grabbed a handful of tissues from a box and applied pressure.
“You don’t need to do this.”
“Be still.” She pressed the tissues against his arm. “Tell me about the dream,” she said in a soft voice.
He didn’t want to talk about it, but, after attacking her in his sleep, he owed her an explanation. “It was about what happened on ’Topia—the bombardment.” He exhaled on a shudder, unable to downplay the nightmare because the bombardment had happened. The dream had changed a few details but not the reality. Everyone had died.
She lifted the tissues and examined the wound. “The bleeding has slowed. I don’t think you’ll need stitches.” She stuck three bandages to his arm.
