Wicked Nights aotd-1

by Gena Showalter

  “Your hands…on me,” she commanded. “But only if you want to. I mean, we can stop if you’d—”

  “No stopping,” he rushed out, then forced himself to say more slowly, “I want. I do. More than anything. But I’m not in a hurry.” On some level—probably. “I’ll go nice and easy.” He would force himself.

  “Okay, yes. Please. Slow.”

  He released only one hand from captivity to lift the hem of her shirt. Her skin was a mesmerizing bronze, and his a lighter gold; it was such a delicious contrast, inflaming the spark of his desire to yet another feverish degree.

  “You are so beautiful, Annabelle.”

  “Really?”

  Yes, oh, yes. “Your mind…”

  “Is on you, only you. Or were you trying to tell me how beautiful my mind is?” she asked with a little giggle.

  A pleasant blend of relief and satisfaction soared through him. He had made her laugh, in bed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “What are you wanting to do?” she breathed.

  Strip himself, strip her, touch, taste, consume, learn, know, nothing held back—things she wasn’t ready for. Steady.

  “I will put my hands on you, as you demanded.” He cupped her breast, paused, waiting for her reaction. She moaned at the pleasure, thrilling him. His hand began to burn, burn so deliciously, hotter than the rest of him as he kneaded her.

  Another moan left her.

  Yessss. More.

  “Your skin is like fire,” she said on a moan.

  “Bad?”

  “Wonderful.”

  He tightened his grip on her breast, allowed his fingers to trace over the little pink bead in the center again and again.

  Until she gasped out, “Zacherel, I can handle the next step. Promise.”

  Taking her at her word, he bent his head, lower, lower still, but when his lips hovered directly over her, he paused, again waiting. Though she panted and mewled, she never turned from him, or tried to shove him away.

  Steady. His tongue flicked out on an exploratory mission. Such sweet, sweet contact nearly undid him. Having the warmth of her skin on his tongue…the taste of her in his mouth…was there anything greater?

  “I’m here with you,” she promised.

  He allowed his tongue to play, tracing from one side of her to the other and then back again. Something he learned in the ensuing minutes: the more he played with her, the more broken entreaties he earned from her. Each one pleased him, driving his own need higher still. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

  Very carefully, he dragged his hands along the plane of her stomach and untied her pants. Her cries of approval did not cease, so he allowed his fingers to tunnel down…down… She wasn’t wearing any panties.

  “Wait,” she said brokenly, her legs squeezing together.

  He froze.

  Cheeks rosy, she asked, “Are you… Do you know…what to expect?”

  She wasn’t expressing concern for what was happening, but concern for his mindset. “I do.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Sweetheart, I am more than okay with that.”

  A pause. “You called me sweetheart,” she whispered. Gradually her legs parted. “I like that.”

  Then I will do it again. He continued his journey and oh, she was perfect. So utterly perfect. She had liked his kisses and caresses—and she liked what he was doing now, if the short puffs of her breath were any indication.

  For a long while he simply learned her, and her reactions taught him what she liked best. He loved when she strained against him, loved when she mumbled inarticulately. Loved knowing he was causing such a strong reaction in her.

  “You are the most decadent creature ever created, sweetheart,” he said. He withdrew his hands from her, hands that were still burning in a way he’d never experienced, and she cried out in distress. “I’m here,” he assured her, “and I’m not going anywhere. I just want to lift you, just want to be able to go deeper.”

  He placed a pillow under her hips and returned to what he’d been doing. Soon she was gasping, rolling her hips toward him, touching him as intimately as he was touching her…driving him wild…making him hunger for what he didn’t understand….

  …hunger so desperately…

  He was in pain, but he couldn’t stop this. Need more, have to have more.

  The same fog he’d experienced before was trying to roll in, to consume him, but he resisted. Yes, his blood had heated, becoming fire, singeing him all the way to the bone. Yes, his teeth were gnashed together and his muscles knotted more painfully than ever. But he was master of his body, not desire. He would make this special for Annabelle. He would not ruin it.

  At least, that’s what he told himself—before she lifted his robe and took his length in hand and he nearly jolted off the bed. She stroked him up and down. He loved it. He hated it. He needed more, more, more, but couldn’t withstand any more. Would die, surely.

  The faster she moved her hand on him, the faster he moved his fingers in her. It was…it was…

  Happening. Something was happening to him.

  As she cried out, arching her body against him, utter pleasure overshadowed every bit of his pain, starting in the middle of his spine and arrowing up and down, affecting every inch of him. His hips bowed toward her, and his own hoarse cry filled the room.

  All he could do was hold on to Annabelle, pray she never let go of him and die a thousand little deaths, each one making him rise up again, a different man, someone stronger and better, weaker and worse. Because in those moments of absolute, utter vulnerability, where nothing seemed to matter but the female who had given him such divine bliss, he realized he was already addicted to what she made him feel.

  Give her up?

  No. Never.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANNABELLE HAD NEVER BEFORE spent an entire night in a man’s arms, had never thought to, since Heath had always had to jump out the window of her bedroom so that her parents wouldn’t catch him. But last night, she had remained snuggled into Zacharel’s side. Warm and strong, he held her, soothing her back to sleep when bad dreams dared to intrude.

  She woke well rested, drug free and ready for whatever came. Or so she thought. By the time she’d brushed her teeth and showered, she had to face Zacharel and nerves nearly got the better of her.

  The things he’d done to her… He was a man who had given her more pleasure than anyone else ever had, burning away the terrors of the past, leaving new, amazing memories to sigh over for years to come. She wanted that again. But…did he?

  Probably not, she thought when she emerged from the bathroom once again wearing the maid’s uniform, because he did not look happy to see her. Although, if she were honest, his unhappy look pretty much matched all his other looks. Except for his smile, when those gorgeous dimples made an appearance.

  I really want to see those dimples again.

  He stood in front of the bed, his white robe pristine, unwrinkled, and his muscled arms crossed over his chest. He smelled of morning sky and sunshine, his hair brushed to a glossy shine.

  “What’s got you in such an irritated mood? No demons attacked us last night,” she said, going for bravado rather than timid insecurity. “And notice I used the word irritated and not irritating, even though that’s what I was thinking.”

  “I am not in a mood,” he replied. “Perhaps I am just overcome by my first sexual experience.”

  Oh…well. Okay, then. Blood rushed into her cheeks, heating her skin. “You sure didn’t seem like a beginner,” she admitted.

  “Thank you. Also,” he continued blithely, “I am content. I was right. You are harder to find when other humans surround you, which means I now know how to protect you.”

  “Subject change accepted,” she muttered.

  “That was not my intention.” He frowned, his emerald gaze moving just over her shoulder, as if someone had intruded.

  She twisted, looking, but found nothing ou
t of the ordinary. When she turned back, he was frowning at her.

  “Your glow is more pronounced,” he said, “and the cause is not the lamp. I left my mark on your skin. My essentia.”

  Heart drumming in her chest, she held an arm up to the light, turned it left, then right. “I don’t see anything.”

  “You have glowed since the first day I met you, but the fact that the glow is now more pronounced tells me it was and is not natural.”

  “I wasn’t touched by another angel, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not. No two essentias are the same, and you definitely carry mine. I wonder…could you have been born with mine, meant for me and only me? I have never heard of such a thing happening, of a mark appearing before a claiming, but…anything is possible, I suppose.” As he spoke, he shook out his wings. “I will check…”

  She lost track of his words, her mind ensnared by the beauty of those wings…so strong, so majestic, so wonderfully gold.

  “I have already given you permission to touch my wings, Annabelle.”

  Now he sounded irritated. “I know.”

  “Then why are your hands fisted at your sides, rather than on me?”

  “Because you look so enthused by the idea.”

  He opened his mouth, snapped it closed. “Sarcasm?”

  “Good call.”

  His put-upon sigh echoed between them.

  Her fingers uncurled and stroked over the arch of those golden wings. They were as hard as iron and ridged—until you encountered the feathers. Oh, baby, those feathers were softer than goose down. She caressed the tips, marveling when one of the longer ones loosened and fell into her palm.

  Zacharel latched on to her wrist, but didn’t toss her hand away or claim the golden feather as his property. All hint of amusement gone, he said, “Look at me, Annabelle.”

  A wave of trepidation swept over her as she obeyed. Had she done something wrong?

  “You may never do this with another angel. Do you understand?”

  Her brow furrowed with her confusion. “Is it against the rules?” But…sex wasn’t. Obviously. So touching shouldn’t have been, either.

  “Those who have not experienced sexual desire do not like to be handled in any way, especially by humans. Those who have experienced desire will view your attention as a request for a bedding.”

  And thereby ruin whatever good mood she’d managed to attain. “I won’t touch anyone but you, I promise.”

  There was a heavy beat of silence. “That man, Dr. Fitzherbert, touched you without permission. In the ways I touched you last night?”

  Just like that, a dark, sticky cloud tried to envelop her. Her shoulders curled in as every emotion she’d experienced inside the institution barraged her. Fear, shame, hatred, guilt, helplessness, sorrow, grief. But as quickly as they hit, they vanished. She absolutely refused to dwell on them, and shot each one with a mental bullet, killing it dead. Those things acted like a dinner bell for demons, and she refused to supply a buffet.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Perhaps it is time he reaps what he has sown,” Zacharel said.

  “Meaning…what?”

  “I will force something terrible on him.”

  Rather than thrill her, the vow worried her. She wanted Fitzpervert out of a position of authority and unable to hurt anyone else, but she wanted Zacharel safe far more. She’d brought enough trouble to his door already.

  “Is that your job?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “No.” A grumble.

  “Then you’ll get into big-time trouble for doing it. And don’t try to deny it. I distinctly remember you telling me that you weren’t allowed to harm humans.”

  “Some actions are worth the trouble they bring.”

  Doubtful! “I get doing all the damage you can to demons. They’re pure evil, they’ll never feel remorse for the terrible things they do and they’ll never change, will always try to hurt people. But harming a human isn’t necessary. That would make you no better than, well, Fitzpervert. He hurt me just because he could.” Fire flashed in his eyes, but still she persisted. “One day I’ll do what’s needed to let the world know what a monster Fitzpervert is, I promise. But I’ll do it the right way. So, I want you to tell me you’ll let this go, Zacharel…whatever your last name is. Do you even have a last name?”

  “Come,” he said, ignoring her boast, her demand and her question. He released her wrist, only to snake his arm around her waist and draw her closer.

  “Zacharel Come. That’s a terrible last name. I feel sorry for your wife, if you ever decide to marry.”

  His lips twitched, and she thought, I performed that little miracle. I made him kinda sorta smile.

  “We have much to do today, Annabelle.”

  “So what? I told you. I’m not leaving until you’ve done a take back.”

  He slid his hand up her back to toy with the ends of her hair. Then, “Give me time to think, at least,” he said. “I will not lie to you, which means you must allow me time to consider all my options.”

  Sound logic. Also irritating and irrefutable. “Very well.” But she would prevail, and that was that, she thought, tying the end of the feather to the top of her corset. The gold gleamed prettily against the blue of the scrubs.

  Zacharel’s eyes flared with a different kind of heat than before.

  Anger? “What things do we have to do?” she asked. If he was mad, he was mad. He could deal.

  “First, we shop.” His voice practically dripped with ice crystals.

  O-kay, he was clearly more than out of sorts with her. What kept causing these split-second changes in him? Annabelle stepped away from him and crossed her arms over her middle. “I have another condition to my departure,” she said, tying the blade sheaths at her ankles. “You have to tell me what’s bothering you.” Commanding a warrior angel, Miller? I’d like to see you follow this one through.

  “I don’t have to do your bidding, Annabelle.”

  Once before he’d pointed out the differences in their abilities. He ruled by might and the power of the sword. She was a spunky little scrapper who talked a big game. He could force her to leave with him, and there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

  But last night he’d given her the right to question—and defy—him. “You will,” she said with all the determination she felt.

  He flashed his teeth in a scowl and eased onto the edge of the bed. He rested his palms on his thighs. To stop himself from shaking her? “You will not like what I have to say.”

  Dread knotted her stomach. “Say it anyway. I’m a big girl. I can take it.” Maybe. No. No, she couldn’t. He looked far too serious.

  “You expect leniency from me now, but I cannot give it to you. We must track a demon high lord, and my attention cannot be divided. Yet even now, as I hold myself back from you, all I can think about is how soft you will feel if I embrace you, how much I enjoyed your cries in my ears and how easy it would be to strip and take you here and now.”

  Oh…my. “Zacharel, I love hearing that.” Was weak-kneed because of it.

  “Truly?” His gaze met hers, and she saw the fire banked there. “Because you will not be dealing with your lover this day, but your leader. When I issue an order, I will expect you to obey it without question.”

  “Hello. I will absolutely—” Wait. On the surface, what he asked seemed reasonable. Only when she dug deeper was she able to discern that how they interacted today would determine how they interacted from now on. There would always be another demon to hunt. And, with her…consort out there, she would always be in danger.

  Not that they’d always be together.

  Anyway. If she acted the obedient little soldier today, Zacharel would always expect her to be an obedient little soldier. Perhaps even in bed. They would never be equals.

  “Okay, listen up,” she said. “For four years I was told what to do, what to wear, what to eat, what medications to take, when to
leave my room and when to stay in my room. If ever I disobeyed, I was disciplined harshly and then I was forced to do what I’d first been told. I will not have that kind of relationship with you. I would rather have no relationship at all.”

  “You see. This is what I suspected would happen.” His knuckles leeched of color, and she suspected he was pressing into his thigh muscles with so much force he would have bruises for days, the swiftness of his healing no match for the extent of the damage. “If one of my men dared defy me, I would—”

  “What? Beat him?” she finished for him. “Well, I’m not one of your men.”

  “Beat him, yes. I have done that. I have done worse. And you want to be one of my men. You asked me to train you.”

  “And so far you haven’t taught me a single thing.”

  Silence, heavy and oppressive.

  “Very well. Let’s remedy that.” He was on his feet an instant later, his arms snaking around her and lifting her off her own feet. She experienced that strange sense of weightlessness as he whisked her through wall after wall and into the garden outside.

  Without any preamble, he dropped her on her butt. Air gusted from her lips, her brain rattling against her skull. People milled along pebbled paths, she noted, but they paid her and Zacharel no attention.

  “Having an audience doesn’t change how I’ll treat you,” she grumbled softly. “If anything, you’ve earned yourself a full-on feminine assault.”

  “They cannot see or hear us,” he said.

  They couldn’t? “Hey, you,” she shouted, looking around. No one so much as twitched. Wow, they really couldn’t.

  “By the way, if I wasn’t clear, I think you’re a turd,” she mumbled, jumping to her feet.

  “You wanted to train, and so we will train.” As he spoke, his robe was transformed into a pair of loose black pants. No shirt. “But first…”

  His sun-kissed skin darkened…darkened…taking on a crimson hue. Horns sprouted from his shoulders, his wings morphed into something hideous, a thin membrane wetted with blood, and a tail grew between his legs, a metal spike at its end.

  A scream ripped from Annabelle’s throat. She withdrew the blades from their sheaths, and acting on instinct, lunged toward the creature straight from the depths of her nightmares, slashing at him. Horror, betrayal and shock blasted through her, turning her blood into toxic sludge. This thing was a demon, and he’d tricked her. All this time he’d tricked her, even gotten her into bed.