Price of Angels (Dartmoor Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  He kissed her and kissed her, lavishing attention to her mouth that had never been paid to it. It was intimate and wet and left all her joints soft. She let herself sag against him, lost in the strange comfort of his mouth stroking hers. It eased her in a small way, but it made the throbbing more acute, concentrating it between her thighs and in her breasts, bringing a desperate heat to her skin.

  She could feel his chest beneath her knuckles, through his shirt, the solid wall of lean muscle there. He was like steel. She opened her hands, pressed them to the flat pads of his pectorals, liking the unyielding firmness of them, flicking her tongue against his as he invaded her mouth.

  He responded to the shy flexing, his hand moving from her waist to her back, sliding down, around the curve of her bottom, clutching at her through her thin sink shorts.

  She gasped, their lips breaking apart. She didn’t want to be afraid. She wasn’t, she didn’t think; she was shocked. Amazed at the sensation of his hand on her ass, and the way she wanted more, wanted to shift against him, searching for friction.

  How many cocks had she had inside her? She shouldn’t be this sensitive and excited.

  But it was different. This time, she wanted this man, and that made all of this so important, and so achingly scary.

  “You killed him,” she whispered, stretching up onto her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest, trying to read his expression through heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh my God, you killed him. Michael, you killed him, and he’s gone, and he’ll never…” She couldn’t even say it. It was too exquisite.

  “I did.” He kissed her, the sound of their lips coming apart afterward bringing up a wet warmth between her legs. “He’s gone.”

  She leaned forward, initiating the next kiss, inexpertly stroking his lips with hers.

  He made a sound, a low growling deep in his throat, that she echoed with a soft, feminine growl of her own.

  “Do you want it?” he whispered. “Really want it? I have to stop right now if you don’t. It hurts too bad.”

  She reached for him, found the rigid shape of his cock behind his fly and pressed her hand to it. “I want it.”

  He snatched her up, lifted her high against his chest and caught her under the knees with one arm, behind the shoulders with the other. The house was a blur, tumbling around her as he walked them down a hall, past dark doors, finally passing into the one at the end.

  He paused. It was dark, and this room smelled of him: his skin, his soap, his cologne, his smoke and his clothes. His bedroom.

  She shivered in his arms.

  “Lights?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, softly. “I want to see it’s you.”

  “Jesus,” he whispered, but his arm shifted behind her shoulders and there was a click before warm light filled the room.

  It was a big bed in a small room, the light coming from a nightstand lamp. The comforter looked plush, a warm brown, like it was something he’d bought rather than inherited.

  He carried her to the bed, set her down carefully, and then he stood looking at her a moment, his deep breaths lifting his chest, stretching the shirt across the distinct shapes of all his muscles.

  And then he sank down to his knees in front of her, and gently pushed her legs apart, moving between them. Holly let him move her, enraptured and pliant, as he pulled her to the very edge of the bed, his hands at her waist, until the width of his chest filled up the space between her thighs, forcing her legs farther apart. His arms encircled her, a comforting contrast to the way her legs were so open.

  His eyes fixed on hers, molten in the centers. “Everything I do,” he said in an earnest voice, “is because I want you. It’s got nothing to do with hurting you.” His brows lifted, urging her to understand.

  The small gesture of kindness almost brought her to tears. She nodded. “I know.”

  His eyes shifted to her breasts, and she saw in him the pain of restraint. Her eyes stung. No one had ever held back on her account.

  He said, “Take off your shirt.”

  She did, peeling it up and over her head, letting it fall to the bed beside her. She’d worn the red bra again, the one she’d used half a paycheck to order from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue along with the matching panties.

  Michael liked it: she saw it in the twitch of his eyelids, the fast glimpse of the pink tip of his tongue as he wet his lips. He let his eyes rove over the lace and satin creation a moment, the way it lifted and shaped her. She felt his heart, thundering against the soft inside of her thigh where his chest was pressed to her.

  Then he nodded: time for the bra to go, too.

  When she reached back to unclasp it, her chest was thrust forward, toward his face. She felt his breath against her skin. She unfastened the clasp, let the straps fall, pulled the cups away, and then laid the bra down on top of her shirt.

  The fear came again, a fast stab, because now she was exposed.

  But the harshness in his face was different from all that she’d known. The way he was lower than her, kneeling in front of her, that was different too. And when his hands lifted, she could only watch, fascinated, as they closed over her breasts.

  She waited for the pawing. The brutal squeezing. Holding her breath.

  But instead, he cupped the heavy weights in his palms, kneaded lightly at the undersides, a massage that stirred at the heat in her belly. He shaped her breasts, petted them, his hands looking dark against the round softness.

  His thumbs found her nipples, circled them, and they drew up into tight, aching buds. He pressed them, flicked at them.

  “Michael,” she gasped. “You don’t have to–”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  And his head came forward, and his breath feathered across her raised nipple before he took it into his mouth with a small, wet sucking sound.

  The jolt of sensation was incredible. “Oh.” Her arms locked and her neck tightened. She glimpsed his head at her breast and felt the warm suction of his mouth, and the fear burned away. She let her head fall back, the weight of her hair pulling at her, no match for the force of his tongue pulling at her nipple, hard, forceful suckling, like he was nursing from her.

  The tight spiral of tension in her unwound and slithered to a place deep in her belly, where it began to reform, coiling again in a way that made her breath rough and choppy.

  He was relentless, pulling away only so that he could nuzzle her other breast, drawing that nipple between his lips, too.

  She didn’t realize her legs had tightened until she felt his hands on her thighs, urging them wider. She lifted her head to protest; she needed something, anything, even if it was just squeezing her knees together to soothe the thumping pulse in her sex.

  But the words died on her tongue when she looked at him.

  He pulled back, her nipples wet and glittering from his mouth, and Holly realized that she’d been straining toward him with her hips, that the warmth right up against her came from his chest. His hands were on her thighs, intimately high, up under the edges of her shorts. His expression was ferocious, all angles and sharp shadows.

  “Lie back,” he told her, and his hand came up to press at her belly, urging her to comply.

  She did, marveling in the feel of rough skin and gentle touch as his hand shifted down her stomach, to the waistband of her shorts. Now would come the moment when he climbed on top of her, and came inside her, and she was ready. The comforter was plush beneath her back, and the warm air was stirring against all her aroused skin, and however it went, this had all been beyond her wildest dreams.

  A hard tug from both his hands, and her shorts and panties were gone, skimming down over her ankles, catching at her shoes. Those were wrenched off with fast, efficient gestures. And then the hands were back, smoothing across the tender insides of her thighs, that low, flat span of belly just above the hungry, wet part of her she didn’t understand right now.

  Then his fingers were against her, stroking her, skimming through the wetness. Then p
arting her, stroking deeper.

  Holly made an incoherent sound. Her face was hot and she was quivering all over. There was something bold and obscene about the careful way he was touching her, working slowly until one long finger was inside her. It was deliberate, and it felt so very good, and she hadn’t expected it.

  But why was he still down there on his knees? Why hadn’t he already pounced on her?

  “Michael–” She gasped.

  Something else was touching her now, something warm and soft, and there was this faint prickling, scratching…

  She pushed up on her elbows and glanced down her naked body, gasping again when she saw what he was doing.

  He head was bent over her. It was his mouth she felt against her sex.

  “Michael…” She didn’t want this. She didn’t think she did. She didn’t know… “What are you…?”

  “Down,” he told her, a rough growl, and then his mouth opened against her and she felt his tongue.

  Her arms gave out and she fell back on the bed once more, breath catching. The old popcorn ceiling filled her vision, a muted cream in the lamplight. She pulled in lungfuls of the smoke, cologne, and skin smell of the room.

  Michael pushed her legs up, so her knees were bent and her heels were braced on the edge of the mattress. He circled her thighs with his arms, pulled her in tight against him, and his mouth worked against her, again and again. He devoured her. And then there was no question as to whether she wanted it. It became the only thing she’d ever wanted, and she never wanted it to stop.

  And then his lips found a tiny little place, and concentrated there, and her body was not her own. She felt her spine bowing, her hips pressing upward toward his mouth. The pleasure started at his kiss, and then swept outward, filling her with heat and sparks and the most delicious firing of all her muscles at once. A molten explosion in her belly. Hot whiskey fizzing through her veins. There was the sweetest weakening of her neck, a heaviness in her head, like when she’d had just enough to drink to sleep soundly.

  In those moments, she felt the world change, and when the pleasure began to recede in lapping waves, she was still in the bedroom, still the same girl who’d followed Michael home tonight.

  But everything was different.

  And then Michael was on his feet and rising over her, climbing onto the bed so that the mattress dipped all around her, his weight settling above hers. His face had never looked more alive to her, eloquent of tension and hunger and predatory intent.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then swooped down to kiss her, plunging his tongue into her mouth, forcing her jaw wide with his lips. It was rough. The new taste on his lips was her, she realized. He tasted like her.

  Her legs opened wide as his hips settled between, and when he reached for his belt, her fingers were there to help him, tugging down the zipper, reaching inside for the weapon he’d use on her.

  She froze, gasping a little, when she realized how large he was, and the old fear came creeping in again, challenging the pleasure.

  Michael broke away from the kiss and he reached for her hand, covering it with his. “Relax,” he told her, and took her lips again, this time slowly and gently, as they both guided him to her entrance.

  It wasn’t the same as all the other times. She was slippery and wet, and still throbbing with the aftershocks of before, all her flesh primed for the invasion, devastatingly aware of the shape and texture of him. It had always been a dry forcing, an awful hardness jammed into her against her will. But this was her body stretching and inviting him in. Not a taking, but a filling. Until he was deeply-rooted inside her, and he was panting against her throat, and her body wanted even more of him, though it wasn’t possible.

  “Are you alright?” he asked in a tortured whisper. “Please say you’re alright.”

  She was astounded. “I’m fine.”

  “Put your arms around me.”

  She did, reaching with her hands for the taut muscles of his back, the soft cotton covering the hard lines of bone.

  He braced his forearms on the mattress, and he started to move.

  It was the same primal movement she’d always known, but Michael was so strong, his thrusts so sure and complete, the way they bore her down into the mattress on each stroke. And they were strokes – he stroked the wet inside of her, igniting a deep, rippling pleasure that grew and grew as his hips churned.

  She clung to him, hands going to the small of his back, fingers curling tight in his shirt. She imagined she was pushing him down, urging him harder, and harder against her, as her hips rose to meet his.

  It was only the two of them. There was only the sound of the bed creaking, and their sharp breathing, and the gentle sounds of struggling against one another as they chased the good feelings. It was exactly what it was supposed to be.

  And this time, when her orgasm started, she recognized it for what it was. All those times she’d seen men go stiff as boards, latching onto her and crying out. This is what that felt like. Only this had to be so, so much better than anything they’d ever felt with her, because this was too sublime to be believed.

  She clutched at Michael as she felt that final hard kick of his hips. She came with an explosion of inner fireworks, gasping and lifting into him. She felt his teeth against her neck. Felt the spasms and shudders move through his steely body.

  And then he relaxed and settled more fully over her, still inside her as the pulses tugged at both of them, letting her hold some of his weight and feel the limp exhaustion she’d brought to him.

  He was heavy and he smelled nice, like him plus clean sweat. He was so warm and his heart was thumping so hard against her naked breasts.

  She was limp and delirious, and she couldn’t comprehend the pleasure his body had brought to hers.

  When the tears came, she didn’t have the strength to stop them. “Michael,” she whispered, as she started to shiver, the tears streaming down her face. “Thank you.” Her voice was a tremulous, broken thing. “Thank you, thank you,” she chanted. “I never…I had no idea…oh, Michael…” The sobs consumed her, and she was ashamed, but she couldn’t reel them in.

  Michael shifted to his side and pulled her into his chest, so she could press her wet face into his shirt. His hand rubbed up and down her back in slow, soothing strokes.

  “Sleep here with me tonight,” he said, quietly.

  All she could do was nod.

  She dozed, and when she stirred, she had a moment’s fleeting fear. But the warm, lamplit room was still there, and Michael still lay stretched in front of her on his side, watching her with a blank, but soft expression, propped up on one arm.

  She needed him to understand what this had meant to her. She touched his chest, caressing him lightly through his shirt. “Are you hungry? I could make you something to eat.”

  He shook his head. “Not hungry.”

  “Coffee then? Another whiskey?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well…” She looked imploringly at him. “What can I do for you?”

  His brows lifted in slight surprise.

  “I want…I just want to do something for you. I think I need to.”

  Something dark and complicated shifted through his eyes. “All you need to do is get under the covers so you don’t catch cold.”

  “But–”

  He rolled away and got to his feet, reaching for the top corner of the comforter to draw it down. His hair was disheveled and his jeans hung open, and he looked cute to her, all out of sorts like this.

  She climbed off the other side, so he could turn the bed down, folding her arms across her middle. She was cold, if she admitted it, and the sheets looked inviting.

  She didn’t move right away, though, instead watching as he peeled his shirt up over his head, stepped out of his jeans.

  She’d been right in her guess about the boxer-briefs, but she hadn’t guessed just how spare and chiseled his physique would be. He didn’t look like the college-age barhoppers
who spent all day in the gym, bulking themselves up. She could see the framework of bone, and the tight, firm stretches of muscle between. He looked like he had a fast metabolism, like he burned off all the Salisbury steak dinners he ate. Almost too thin, maybe, but strong, distinct, steel-hard calves, and thighs, and abs. She liked his narrow hips. Liked the way his throat was well-defined, his collarbones distinct. He was beautiful.

  And that was before he slid into bed and reached out a hand for her, pulling her down to the sheets and bundling her in close to him as he pulled up the covers.

  Holly sighed and buried her face in his shoulder.

  He reached for the lamp, and then the dark closed over them.

  Hands on her, in the dark. Breath against her face, fingers on her breasts, and belly, sliding down her hips. Fear firing in her, her body going still and unresisting out of old habit. Don’t make noise, don’t breathe, don’t show displeasure, and it will be over soon.

  But then…

  “Holly.” Michael’s voice, through the total darkness, brushing across her lips. She was being turned gently onto her back, weight was settling over her, the hands easing her thighs apart. “Hol, wake up.”

  It was night, and she was still in his bed, and he wanted her again.

  She was liquid and melting again at once, reaching for him, finding the skin of his sides, his back.

  “I’m awake,” she murmured, and he entered her, sinking down, down, down, until their bodies were flush. Joined completely.

  “Christ, I need this,” he whispered, and kissed her, ravaged her mouth. “I’m sorry, honey,” he gasped when he pulled back, his hips withdrawing and plunging, the thrusting starting. “But I do, I need it.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” She stroked his back, the rippling muscles of it, moving lower, lower, and whimpering when his thrusts deepened in response. “I need it too,” she whispered back, fiercely. “Please…”

  He was reaching deep, his cock thrusting against places inside her she hadn’t known existed. She felt the thrusting move through her, going up her spine, pressing at her throat.