8: Bolt Saga, Book 8

by Angel Payne

  “You’re the one person on this planet I can’t bear to think of hurting,” he finally utters. “Yet that’s all I seem to keep doing to you. And putting you through. And every time, I swear it’s going to be the last damn time you’re ever in pain because of me, but then…”

  As he falters into silence, I curl a hand back into his hair. Stroke my fingertips through, gifting him with the silence, knowing it’s what he needs right now. Knowing he has to claim it as the apology he’s unable to form into words.

  Just knowing.

  As only I can know about him.

  The same way he knows so many of those crazy, secret nuances about me.

  Because that’s what people in love do. What they have. What they understand, above and beyond anyone else on this earth, about each other.

  And I realize, just now, that the silence is just as much for me as for him.

  A silence I want to go on forever…but realize that he needs me to end, with whispered words only I can give him.

  “I know.”

  Words of absolution.

  “I know. And I’m sorry too.”

  Words of reciprocation.

  “We’re both trying. And then we’re both going to mess shit up. And then we’ll both just try again.”

  Words of affirmation.

  As I slip my hand down, out of his hair and along the top of his back, I feel the sorrow dissipate from his shoulders. I welcome the weight of him against my thighs, the warmth of him against my body, the completion of him in my arms.

  But I’m still bewildered as hell as to why we’re doing this in the middle of the damn kitchen.

  Until he raises his face again, meeting my gaze once more.

  And not a shred of the desolation has drained from those dark-gray depths.

  He’s not done yet. There’s a further plan for his contrition. Some extra proof he needs to give, as if his agonized voice and humble crouch aren’t nearly enough. Doesn’t he know that they are? That I love him with everything I am and everything I will be, and that even the pain is part of that love, meaning I won’t trade any of it, no matter what has happened or how many mistakes are made or how we both have to keep fucking up…

  Because when we get it right, the pain is nothing but a blip.

  And getting it right is better than a thousand Paris sunrises.

  But I don’t tell him that right now. He won’t listen anyway. I’m already as sure of that as my own heartbeat and every breath that it gives me. Not that it matters. The same way he gives me everything I need, I need to be here to provide everything he needs. And right now, whatever the hell this is, he needs it.

  So all I do is nod. And watch him rise. And wait for him as he walks behind me, making his way to the area between the refrigerator and the sink. And order myself not to turn around to watch. Wholly trusting him, though trying to decipher the sounds I hear. The water running into some kind of a container. The clank of that container, probably against the sides of the sink.

  What the freaking…

  When he steps back around in front of me, he’s holding what looks like a roasting pan—filled two-thirds of the way with clear water. There’s a big fluffy towel over one of his shoulders, with a smaller washcloth layered atop that. I take it all in with a stare that must stretch as wide as the Pont Neuf by now, but for the first time since I woke up, Reece’s face is washed in complete serenity.

  No. Solemnity.

  And something even more.

  A minute ago, I compared him to an angel—but now I’m close to convinced that’s the spectrum to which he’s committed himself, lowering the pan in front of my feet with the reverence of someone wrapped in utter worship and selfless humility.

  “Oh.” I practically breathe it out as he lays both towels across my lap and strips the shirt away from his torso. When he kneels again, straddling the basin with the inside edges of his knees, I can’t help but flutter a hand across his back, wondering if I’m really checking for the nubs of wings beside his shoulder blades. “Oh, Reece.”

  Gently, he removes my hand from his back. Tenderly, he rolls his face around to press his lips into the center of my palm. Strangely, I grow all too aware of his energy field on the air, a phenomenon I’ve grown so used to that it rarely affects me much anymore. But here and now, the force of his feelings strings through the air around us…swirling around him and then me…binding us and completing us…

  Before striking me motionless.

  The rod for his lightning. The object of his adoration. The center of his worship.

  The woman who loves him beyond her own soul’s bounds.

  “Reece…”

  “Ssshhh.”

  He says nothing else while wrapping his long, strong fingers around the back of my ankles, pulling my feet forward. And then lifting them into the water.

  He still doesn’t say a thing as he settles them against the bottom of the pan, ensuring they’re submerged in the perfect warmth. And holy shit, do I mean perfect. After all our walking last night even in my flats, every square inch of my feet has proclaimed itself a new definition of pain, now guided to heaven via this soothing, softening bath, given with his silent, absolute adoration. The attention affects me like a drop of sun on the eddies of the Seine, spreading and growing through my entire body now slackening in the chair. The only thing keeping me from totally slipping off is my conscious effort to grip the edges of the seat, clinging all my fingers around with blissful anticipation. My lips part on a high sigh, a visceral interpretation of a desperate prayer for more.

  More…

  Heard and hearkened by the angel at my feet.

  He lowers the washcloth in, joining its soft swath with his magical fingers to wash me, caress me, revere me, adore me.

  And more.

  Yes.

  More.

  He’s always, always, my more.

  Especially now.

  Even more so now…as I crack my eyes open and take in the three-quarter profile of his face, still absorbed with attending to me. He’s so beautiful, tiny tears burn the backs of my eyes while soaking in his dark, rugged intensity…his crucial, remarkable beauty. He almost shatters the confines of this pristine white space with the potency of his presence—but at the same time, twisting his features as if he knows that and hates it. As if all his moves, so gentle and careful, are those of a fallen angel returned to paradise for the sole purpose of begging for readmission.

  I feel it too. I feel him too. Every cell in my being craves to scream to the universe in advocacy for him. Longs to reach out and wrap him in my arms exactly how he’s drenching me in his comfort.

  Listen to him.

  See him.

  Know him.

  He doesn’t know how to say all of this, but you need to see. To hear. To accept.

  And because the pleas of my soul evidently aren’t enough, soft strains of music echo across the inner courtyard of the building, sifting in through the kitchen windows facing that way. A male voice singing in French but carrying the tune of a song that was originally recorded in English by Elton John. A song of being struck by lightning but realizing it too late. Of sadness and absurdity and the hardest words to say…

  He’s sorry.

  Let him back in.

  Because if not, I’ll fall to be with him.

  Falling…

  Yes.

  Ohhhh, yes.

  The sensation takes over more and more of me as Reece works the washcloth up over my shins and calves, but as he arrives at my knees, he leans over to add another element to his special bath.

  His mouth.

  Oh, my dear hell. Or, as the case may be, heaven.

  As he nips and laves me with his lips and tongue, I have no choice but to watch…and to marvel. And to thank the Almighty, in all His grace and glory, for this perfect prism of a moment. The sight of this massive man bent over me like this, his umber waves tumbling as he licks every crevice and curve of my knees, fills me with a heady rush of e
motion…

  And, in a rush I can’t control, a surge of flawless arousal.

  Ohhhh, God.

  Not here. Not now.

  But why not? Ohhhh, why the hell not?

  There’s a tiny angel on one of my shoulders. But the devil on the other? She’s already hopped down to my right knee. Then my left. Then back over to my right, depending on which side Reece chooses to focus on with the passing moments.

  I guess I really am falling. All the way to hell.

  But what an awesome ride.

  As the plaintive music echoes through the building, almost as accusing as a choir singing Bach, I struggle to keep my head in the same pure space as Reece’s. But damn it, he had to go and add his mouth to the whole process.

  Oh, God. His mouth…

  Never mind that the thing is already the cause of many—many—a wicked tremble for me merely when I look at him. Now he has to intensify the torment by subjecting my skin to all that sensuality? And I’m the one contemplating a tumble to the depths of hell?

  But maybe I can still stop the slide into Hades. If he doesn’t go any higher than my knees…

  Just don’t go…

  Any…

  “Reece!”

  “Ssshhh.”

  And I’m unable to do anything but comply. To let him become my guiding demon, spreading me wider as he turns his licks into kisses, forming a trail along the most sensitive path between my knee and my core. Along the inside of the other thigh, he traces the same route with the tip of a finger, sending tremors up and down my flexing, convulsing leg—

  Which he hikes up and over his shoulder—just before he moves closer in. Sloshing one of his knees into the pan. Drenching my pussy with the fan of his breath.

  I’m hot. Helpless. Plunging into hell with him. For him. Giving over to him…

  “Ahhhhh!”

  He doesn’t silence me this time, thank God. The groan he returns instead is a perfect gift of permission, allowing me to move my grip from the chair to his scalp, twisting his thick, dark strands between my fingers as he brushes his masterpiece lips over the triangle of fabric guarding my quivering center. His hands skate up my thighs, pushing back the folds of my skirt, turning the drops he’s already splashed up on me into arcs of moisture that shiver from the new kiss of cool air.

  And still, all he does with his mouth is tease. And breathe. And slide. And promise…

  “Mmmmm!” It vibrates the seam of my lips as he digs his fingers in at both sides of my other set. The lips now trembling and tantalized…needing and pulsing…

  He exhales against me there but holds his breath on the inhale.

  For one second.

  Two. Three.

  And I’m suspended there with him. Afraid to breathe. To move.

  Four. Five. Six.

  “May I, Emmalina?” His breath is now a prayer, vibrating my pussy like confessions on candles. But his fingertips are demons, razing my skin as they seek a way inside my panties. With one of them, he finally burns through the lace atop my hip. He leaves the other side intact, poised and waiting, as if anticipating I truly might say no. His fingertip traces the thin threads, but he doesn’t go any further even while repeating in a thicker rasp, “May…I?”

  I claw my fingers at his scalp. Dig my raised heel into his back. “Yes. Dear fuck. Yes!”

  My words have hardly hit the air when he turns his fingertip into a hot knife, releasing my panties—and baring my mound. As the French Elton John continues to croon around us, the afternoon wind soughs through the apartment with more insistence. It smells like daffodils and lavender and bread and wine, braided atop a breeze of distant traffic and laughing tourists. The textures of vibrancy and life, so perfect for backing the soft hum of his magical fingers against my skin…

  As he rolls and works my labia…

  As he caresses and opens my entrance…

  As he flicks aside the hood over my hottest button…

  “Reece!”

  As he replaces his fingers with his breath.

  “May I, Emmalina?”

  “Yes.” I barely remember blurting it. Begging it? “Please. Please. Yes!”

  And then he’s there. At first just with the tip of his tongue but soon flattening his wet, full flow of worship until I’m on the brink of complete carnal fulfillment…

  And then…

  Directly licking my illicit button…

  Sending me to ecstasy.

  My throat becomes a scream. My body lifts and bursts and transforms, becoming a soaring, sensual seraph bursting into a heaven of nothing but light and freedom and wonder. And I’m flown there by the dark angel himself, who’s scooped me away from the choirs and the harps and the clouds, showing me the true magnificence of paradise. The sun itself.

  But the splendor doesn’t stop there. When my pleasure wanes enough for me to reopen my eyes, I smile with the comprehension that the angel is still here—and is even more beautiful than before. Sometime in the midst of my explosion, Reece freed up a hand to shove his pants down to his thighs. His most glorious part juts proudly in front of him, a stalk of taut purple crowned by a throbbing red crown. But the most stunning sight comes from the cobalt pulses of his veins, glowing and swelling and gorgeous. There is literally no other penis like his on earth, and I make it a point to silently thank the Divine Power who gave him to me.

  Only to me.

  I know that now simply by lifting my head and taking in the silver force of his gaze. By welcoming every drop of love he silently offers…but most of all, giving him my love and adoration in return. And yes, my forgiveness—but only because I know that right now, he needs to see it. To accept it back for himself. To see, across every inch of my face, that he never really needed to ask.

  But I yearn to show that too.

  And I do.

  By reaching for him. By taking his length in my hand and then stroking down to the throbbing balls inside his bulging sack. By bringing my fingers back, savoring the pattern of his veins against his stiff skin. By pressing my thumb into the slit at the top and rejoicing in the milky drop that soaks me in return.

  Then I coax him closer, continuing to marvel at the flawless stalk in my hand that reacts to every one of my touches and squeezes. Still mesmerized by the determined clench of his body, obviously holding back for me…waiting for me to tell him the dark angel can fly free again.

  Even as I pull him closer. Tighter. Raising my leg, still curled atop his shoulder, nearly to my ear. Throwing my other leg over the side of the chair. Aligning my hips to ensure the trajectory of his cock is poised to penetrate the core of my sex. Just one inch farther, and he’ll be stretching every illicit inch of me.

  “Emma.” He’s quivering so hard, it’s nearly one husky syllable. His chest knocks at my sweater because of his labored heaves. With one hand, he grips the back of the chair to keep us both from falling over.

  “Yeah?” I’m panting too, every breath filled with heat and lust and need.

  “May I?”

  A part of me—a huge part—wants to give him hell by just rolling my eyes and guiding him into me, but there’s a huge glitch to that plan. Our eyes are still locked with each other. In that bond is a rare gift from the man. A tunnel down into his thoughts, without the barriers of lightning or lust. Somehow, in some bizarre way, he’s kept all that out of his eyes—allowing me to see the one thing he still needs here.

  The last act of penance he needs to perform for me.

  And damn it, just the comprehension of it makes me three times wetter.

  Holy shit, this is going to be good.

  I take a longer breath, steeling myself. I prepare him by delving my hands back into his hair and tearing at the sweaty strands until he hisses from the pain. Despite that, the need in his gaze goes on.

  Yeah. He’s ready too.

  So I jab my chin up at him and order in a low snarl, “Say it again.”

  He gulps hard. His jaw turns to a brutal slash of flesh against bon
e. From gritted teeth, he answers, “May…I?”

  I give him a sultry smirk. “May you do what?”

  “May I…fuck you?”

  “And how will you do that?”

  His lips part on harsh huffs. A new bead of precome teeters at the end of his crown. “With…with this.”

  “With what? The words, Reece.” I yank at his hair again. Smile a little wider. Turning the sexual tables on him is a better rush than I anticipated. “Give me the words. All together.”

  “May I…fuck your cunt…with my cock, Emmalina?”

  He’s shaking like an addict in detox now. And as weird as it sounds, I’m savoring the hell out of every moment. I’d hate myself for the twisted sadism, except that I know with every fiber of my being that he’s basking in the switch as thoroughly as I am. Maybe even more.

  With that recognition in my arsenal, I brace my hands at the sides of his fierce, sculpted face. Burrow my nails into the perspiration at his hairline. Use that leverage to haul his mouth down to mine, where I punish it with a brutal, biting, ravenous kiss. I don’t stop until he moans from the pain and a bead of bright red blooms on his bottom lip.

  As the drop of pure white falls from his cock.

  And now, heaven and hell can merge.

  “Give it to me,” I order him in an urgent rasp. “Fuck me with it. Hard. Until we both— Ahhhhh!”

  As he thrusts his lightning cock into me, he pushes his mouth back onto mine. Taking over both my holes at once with the brutal beauty only he can bring to me. In my pussy, I’m stretched and pounded and claimed. In my mouth, I’m ravaged until I taste the tang of his blood and feel the start of his orgasmic moan. I breathe hard and deep, my lungs filled with lavender and spring, attempting to borrow their essence to soften my body and welcome him deeper. It’s no use. He’s going to take the space, whether I give it or not. He fills me, invades me, dominates me, drenches me. The symbolism is right there on the floor, as the water from the pan splashes out farther with every one of his bestial drives.

  His face, still framed by my hands, turns savage and stark. His stare flares as he licks and sucks along both my lips, until his passion clearly takes over and he slams a hard, ferocious kiss on me…into me.

  “Give it to me, Emma. All of it.” He rears up over me, impaling me with the blistering blue force of his mesmerizing, miraculous gaze. “Tell me you will. All the fucking words.”