by Mel Teshco
She absently wondered how she must look, nude now except for her upper torso, encased in its corset. “Did you know I come with my own set of permanent wings?”
She held his unwavering stare and unhooked the corset. Pascal uttered not a word, registering no surprise as he stayed motionless, apparently spellbound, while he watched the corset slip to the floor.
Her breasts, lush for her petite size, swelled and hardened in the sexually heated air, her nipples tightening into buds. And when she unfurled her wings to their incredible eight-foot span, his eyes widened—not in horror—but in stark admiration.
It’s the artist in him, an inner voice cautioned. He had an unhealthy obsession with gargoyles, no more, no less. Still, when she stretched her wings out and fanned them lightly, his awed reaction had her heart stuttering erratically with joy, her womb twisting with need.
“I can’t imagine a woman more beautiful,” he rasped thickly. His eyes dropped to her heavy, aching breasts, then lower, to her pussy with its thin strip of flaxen hair.
“Then show me…please,” she whispered, her mind holding onto doubts even as her body thrummed with the touch of his hot stare.
In one stride he closed in. His mouth covered hers like warm, silken wax, his lips molding to hers, his tongue sliding inside her mouth, tasting her, turning her to flame until only when they needed to breathe did they pull apart, their gazes locked together.
His eyes blazed with molten need. “I want you.”
She smiled. “I want you too.” It was only her heart that gave a little pang of self-doubt, refusing to surrender completely.
Did he want her as a woman or as a gargoyle?
And then, in a silence emphasized by the air thickening into a molasses of need between them, she heard a stampede of approaching footsteps coming up the stairs and toward the storage building.
Pascal’s eyes flashed. “What the hell…?”
She backed away, gasping alarm when a dozen or more men burst through the atrium door with Lewie and an older man—Pascal’s dad?—in the lead. Stealth clearly not a priority, they came to a stunned standstill just twenty meters away.
The older man smiled a lascivious, twisted smirk before he drawled, “Good work, Son.”
Pascal let loose a snarled expletive and then turned to her and uttered, “It’s not what you think.”
Isn’t it?
Celeste swallowed hard, her gut churning and leaving behind a sickening, bitter residue. Tears sprung to her eyes. What a stupid fool she was for placing her trust—a piece of her heart—in this man’s hands. She’d fallen right into Pascal’s trap. Set up: game, set and match.
With the burn of Pascal’s stare staying on her, she used her hateful wings to encircle her torso, concealing her nudity from him and from the men now openly staring her, their expressions caught between lust and revulsion.
She sucked in an agonized, disbelieving breath, refusing to look at Pascal as she numbly scooped up her dress and corset. She couldn’t speak. What could she say when it felt as though her soul was being torn in two?
When she backed away another couple of steps, Pascal jerked his head to where a door beckoned at the end of the atrium. “It’s unlocked.” But as she paused, indecisive, he demanded hoarsely, “Go!”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Tucking her wings close to her spine for maximum agility and speed, she spun around and sprinted to the door. Thrusting it open, she raced toward the edge of the casino building. She choked back a sob, not once looking behind to see if Pascal followed. It was over between them. She would never be so stupid again. Ever.
“Stop, or we’ll shoot!”
She recognized Lewie’s voice. Stop? Hell, no. No bullets were fired when her stride lengthened. But she knew none would be. Keeping her alive made her much more valuable. Scientists could study her DNA, take countless x-rays, test the strength and mobility of her wings whilst jabbing needles into her to dope her up or draw out her blood.
Without slowing, she kicked off from the ledge into a dive. Hugging her clothing to her torso, she snapped open her wings. Air immediately pushed her upward, halting her freefall. Dipping a wing, she soared into air currents that took her between the concealment of two office buildings, where a thinning updraft saw her rapidly descend.
Her heart thudded. Anxiety clawed at her insides, competing with an aching sadness she couldn’t think upon right then.
She landed in a small but shadowy, tree-filled park just four blocks from her apartment. Though the dewy grass was cold underfoot, sweat prickled her skin. She hurriedly rewrapped her torso, dragging the dress over her head as she raced across the park lawn sprinkled with crackling leaves and litter, the sharp scent of eucalyptus filling her lungs.
Thankful for the lack of people and traffic at this predawn hour of the morning, she pounded barefoot across the narrow asphalt road lit by flickering streetlamps and then high-tailed it past closed cafes, convenience stores and dimly lit apartment buildings.
Gasping for breath, she finally stumbled into her own building—a converted, high-ceilinged double storey warehouse with the security of three apartments at ground level and her spacious, loft apartment above, which she’d had converted into two levels. With shaky hands, she keyed in the code for her private elevator, and as it whisked her up to the second floor, she used those precious seconds to regain her breath.
She had a contingency plan of sorts, had long ago strategized what she needed to do should her secret be discovered. It was simple and yet complex. She had to disappear. Permanently.
She flicked on a light. It seemed too bright suddenly, like a flare attracting the enemy. But she couldn’t sweat on the small stuff now. She didn’t have her father’s uncanny gargoyle eyesight, nor his superior hearing and sense of smell. She had to rely solely on her human senses.
On unsteady legs she moved through the huge, slate-tiled sitting room that dominated the lower floor, and past her expansive stainless steel kitchen. This once she didn’t take in the sweeping views of the city lights through double-glazed windows, didn’t appreciate the handpicked décor that was an eclectic mix of custom-made and flea market buys.
She paused only when she’d gained the foot of the staircase leading to her bedroom and study, her heart wrenching at Pascal’s—Yve’s—gargoyle figurine, which guarded the only access to upstairs. She reached out, then quickly pulled back her hand. Out of all her worldly possessions, she’d miss this exquisite piece of art the most.
Fool! She wasn’t about to become sentimental now. Not when her artist lover had set her up for a fall. She took the stairs two at a time, shaking from a betrayal that burned deep inside her soul, feeding anger and grief.
She sucked in a steadying breath. She couldn’t dwell on Pascal’s deceit. Not now. She didn’t have the time to indulge in anything close to self-pity.
Her pulses jerked into double-speed as an alarm screamed into life downstairs.
Here, already?
If the would-be kidnappers couldn’t quickly decode her elevator, it’d take them no time to break down the triple locked entryway to the stairs—no doubt, with Pascal leading the way.
Pascal.
She shook her head, trying hard not to think about him, about his treachery as she hurried along the wide corridor before darting into her bedroom at the far end. But as she closed the door behind her, all she could imagine—albeit briefly—was her room through Pascal’s eyes.
Gossamer wafts of material, like a rainbow of silken harem scarves, hung from her four-poster bed with its black velvet spread. Though unlit, scented candles placed in recessed alcoves along her wall and on top of her dresser, filled the room with vanilla, peach and blossom smells, an enticing bouquet.
Tears blurred her eyes. This was her sanctuary, her haven. But no more. Pascal had seen to that.
She snatched the gold-framed photo off her bedside table, featuring the smiling faces of her mum and dad holding her as a baby. There was no way she’d all
ow the mobster bastards to see this portrait. Bad enough even one of them might see this private snapshot from her past; worse that those same goons who had seen her dad in his gargoyle form, could as easily put two and two together…
“Damn you, Pascal,” she muttered savagely.
Striding past the bed and the erotic images that filled her head despite its scalding aftertaste, she slid open the walk-in robe’s double doors. Grabbing a small, bulging backpack from beneath her hanging clothes, she carefully pushed the frame inside.
She froze as wood splintered from one well-aimed kick to the downstairs door. When the next kick sent the door crashing onto the floor, she forced herself to move, cursing under her breath as she slung the backpack over her shoulders before climbing up three shelves attached to the wall of the walk-in robe.
Crouching on a large, overhead ledge, she pushed aside the manhole cover in the ceiling before she carefully hoisted herself through. The approaching tread of some half dozen men up the stairs had her hurriedly pushing the manhole cover back into place.
It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the blackness and make out the crisscross of the beams inside the roof. Then she shuffled slowly, quietly, along the rafters toward a trapdoor she’d had installed when she’d redesigned the warehouse into apartments.
She stilled, closing her eyes for a moment to push back a sudden surge of fear when something crashed just below her. One of the men was searching her walk-in robe.
Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath. She had nothing to fear. Not really. She’d chosen to live here because her apartment was high and perched directly on the edge of an embankment, which steadily receded to a valley of homes below.
Her hated wings were her ticket to freedom.
Minutes later she eased open the trapdoor. She squinted, the first rays of bright, early morning sunlight hitting her eyes, temporarily blinding her.
Shit. She’d left it too late.
Her stomach sank as she edged out onto the eaves. There was no way in hell she’d glide through the air in broad daylight. She’d be hunted like an animal…a beast, if ever word got out that people had sighted a winged human.
The tin roof creaked. Dropping to lunge into a spin, a hand clapped over her mouth from behind, instantly stilling the motion.
“Shh.”
Pascal.
She’d recognize that throaty, too seductive voice anywhere. Not to mention his spicy, all-male scent. His mouth so close to her ear sent her now traitorous heart all aflutter, but she jammed the brakes on her all too easily influenced emotions. With something close to self-disgust, she nodded stiffly.
His hand dropped away and she resisted trying to stab him with the pointy end of her elbow before she turned to him and hissed, “Don’t touch me, you bastard! Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Celeste, I’m not the enemy here.”
A window shattered just below them, and as he scanned the rooftop she said, “You expect me to trust you now?”
After everything that’s happened.
“Yes. I do.”
Her obviously scrambled senses wanted to believe him, even as they urged her to run…to glide. She looked at him hard. “How did you get up on the roof?”
Something thudded behind them—the manhole cover, she realized with a sickening lurch in her belly—when a sharp curse, followed by low snatches of conversation, floated toward them.
He frowned, and then took her hand in his. “I’ll explain later. Let’s get you to safety first.”
She wasn’t about to argue now. She followed him to the other side of the flat roof, peering over the eaves to the street below. Pedestrians walked by, cars motored along beside a couple of buses and a taxi. “What, no mattress to land on?” she joked numbly.
He shrugged, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Only in Hollywood.”
When the trapdoor crashed opened behind them, Pascal crouched beside a retractable ladder and released the pin from its holding mechanism. The ladder slid free with an audible round of clangs, which echoed across the rooftop.
“Wow, you’ve really done your research,” she said, but her quavering voice gave away her rising tension.
He looked up, his stare shrewd. “I’ve seen detailed floor plans.” His eyes swung over to the wary approach of his father’s men. His gaze narrowed. “And one can never be too prepared.” He stood, and in one fluid motion pulled her behind him, bringing her arms over his shoulders. “If you value your freedom—hang on.”
She’d be a fool not to obey. She tightened her arms around his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. When he took hold of the rungs, wedged his feet hard on the outer legs of the ladder before sliding down as though he was rappelling, she let out a horrified squeak and squeezed her eyes shut.
It was one thing to glide through the air, another to be perched on the back of a man who was almost freefalling, with no inhuman ability whatsoever.
Her lids flipped apart at the sudden jarring impact as he landed on the ground. At the stares of passersby and the loud braking of a car, she muttered feebly, “Perhaps it would’ve been less obvious to just show them my wings?”
“Hm. Though I doubt my ladder skills would make the front page newspapers.” He chuckled darkly. “Your bare ass might though.”
She swallowed mortification. She didn’t have time to worry about self-pride right now. She slid from his back. When she regained her feet, she swayed, suddenly unbalanced.
“Are you okay?” he asked brusquely.
She nodded, only hazily aware he was hailing a taxi. When one pulled up beside them soon after, he bundled her in before clambering in beside her and giving the driver an address.
Her whole body started to shake, her head running hot then cold.
“You’re in shock,” he murmured close to her ear. And the next thing she knew he was pulling her close, his arm around her, his warmth seeping into her pores, his self-assurance almost immediately leaching away her distress.
Some five or ten minutes later the taxi had pulled to the side of the road. Pascal paid the driver and then lifted her wordlessly into his arms. He strode at a brisk pace along a narrow suburban street. She hardly noticed the too-large houses on their too-small, manicured lawns. She was too busy breathing in Pascal’s unique spicy scent, too busy pressing her cheek against his silken shirt, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart.
And yet her head warred with her heart. She couldn’t possibly trust this man. Could she?
He stopped beside a red Ducati motorcycle and set her gently to her feet. “We don’t have much of head start,” he said. Unhooking a helmet dangling from the handlebar, he slipped it over her head before clipping the chinstrap together. With a ghost of a smile he added, “Not yet.”
Double-checking her helmet, he asked, “Will you be all right?”
She nodded, her voice muffled when she said, “I’m not so shaky now.”
He nodded approval. “All you have to do is hang on and enjoy the ride.”
Bare-headed, he swung a leg over the bike. Once he had it roar into life she readjusted her backpack and then climbed up behind him, sinking into his body as she wrapped her arms around him and clung to him like she’d never let go.
She came to understand how deliciously erotic it was to ride pillion wearing no underwear, with the vibration from the motorcycle’s powerful engine between her thighs. Add the exhilaration of racing through the Sydney suburbs, the ground a blur beneath them, the warmth of the morning sun whipped away by the still chilly air, the man in front a solid wall of masculinity—and a girl could easily forget about trust and integrity—could easily leave a wet patch on the motorbike seat.
She leaned forward, pressing her face against his flapping silk shirt, allowing that same wind to rip free all her doubts. Pascal was a lot of things. But she felt certain he wasn’t cast from the same mold as his father.
Pascal handled the bike with ease, weaving in and out of the traffic
as though the goons really were right on their tail. She whooped loudly, turned on, invigorated and scared all at the same time. But she trusted Pascal’s ability with the bike. She trusted him, period.
He laughed, the throaty rasp torn away in the wind that now smelled faintly of the sea. She barely noticed. All her thoughts were consumed right then by the fact she trusted Pascal. No explanations. No justifications.
Minutes later Pascal turned the bike into a narrow sealed road and then braked to a stop beside the slatted wall of an old beach house. She pushed away from the intimacy of his body and clambered from the seat, Pascal alighting seconds later with the grace of a well-practiced rider.
She unclipped her helmet and handed it to him. Placing it on the seat he turned back to her, his expression so very somber after the exhilarating ride. “I owe you an explanation.”
Waves crashed onto the shore some forty meters away. A seagull shrieked overhead as it soared through the air, and suddenly she ached to share the skies with the bird, glide through the heavens in full sunlight without ever having to worry about someone seeing her.
She blew out a little breath. “Actually, I’d rather not hear an explanation,” she said softly. “Not at the moment. I believe in you. And that’s enough for now.”
He brushed a hand down the side of her face, setting her skin into tingles. “You’re amazing, do you know that?” he murmured.
“Even with my wings?” she had to ask.
“Especially with your wings.”
Her chest very nearly hurt, an exquisite pain that was a whole different ache from a minute ago. And the cool mask she’d worn for so long slipped even further with his affirmation. “I want you,” she whispered. “I want you inside me.”
His eyes widened, all possessive and hot. Then he was gathering her close, pulling her against his hard thighs, his even harder cock. His mouth crashed to hers, their lips mashing with urgent demand. He tore his head back, their breaths coming out fast and ragged. Then he was scooping her up, his stare glittering, his face all hard angles and planes.
He strode past the bike and around to the front door, which faced the sea. When he pulled out an old-fashioned key from his pocket and unlocked the door, swinging it open with a bang, she spent little time admiring the quaint, rustic furniture within before his mouth settled onto hers once again, his tongue plunging past her parted lips.
