by ML Guida
“So, what now, Michelangelo?”
“Shut up.”
She couldn’t help it. Before she could be intimate, she had to determine his true essence. True, he rescued her from his brother and Hewitt and Mason, but he watched her sister die and did nothing to stop her. He just stood there as if it was an everyday occurrence. Well, for him, it was an ordinary day. God, how many times had she wished she’d been there to yank Rosemary away from the bus? He had the power and did nothing.
“What? You changed your mind?”
“No.” She got off the couch and motioned with her hand. “Follow me.”
“Fine.”
She headed for the side door at her office that led to her studio. Behind her, Scythe trailed closely. His hot breath blew on her neck, sending tingles over her. His manly scent of mountain air and pine sent desire pumping through her veins. She licked her lips. Concentrate, damn it.
She whipped open the door. Through a bay window, the moonlight cast shadows into the room. She shivered and flicked on the light, chasing away the darkness. She pointed at a stool a few feet from her easel. “Sit over there.”
A seductive angel, Scythe meandered to the stool. The man oozed with sexual prowess. How many women had fallen to his charms? Or even angels for that matter? There were female angels, weren’t there?
He smiled. “Yes, there are.”
She frowned. “There are what?”
“Female angels.”
“You’re so annoying.”
He laughed and she couldn’t help but smile. She liked his laugh. It was hearty, husky, and joyful.
She stopped smiling and could feel his watchful eyes on her. Goose bumps ran up her arms. Every nerve and muscle tensed. Refusing to look at him, she lifted her smock off the wooden coat hanger and slipped it on. She picked up her mop brush, ran her thumb over its thick bristles, then rinsed it and put it on the sink.
Scythe lifted his eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“My ritual.” She gazed at him. “It is part of the way I draw out people’s aura.”
“You mean if you don’t do this…”
She faced him. “Then I get it wrong. I won’t make that mistake again. Now, be quiet.”
Guilt rushed over her. The one time she rushed the process, she painted her client’s aura wrong. The painting had looked fine. Happiness flickered in his eyes and he had smiled. The man never smiled. He accused her of being a charlatan. His aura turned muddy, bloody red. He had left their session pissed and a few hours later, murdered an innocent woman. She never forgave herself for the woman’s death.
She braced her shoulders. She’d take her time with Scythe’s portrait. Like her mop brush, she ran her finger over the comb, the dagger, and the angular, flat, round and fan brushes. They were her babies, allowing her to forget any pressures of the outside world.
After rinsing each one, she put them on the tray by her easel, careful not to look at Scythe. Her heart pounded harder, sending her blood rushing through her. Tingles skimmed up one arm and down the other. The power within her slowly released, but this time, it was stronger. With her other clients, she had never experienced such electricity between them, but with him, it pulled her, mesmerized her.
She took a deep breath. Relax. Concentrate. She opened a little wooden cabinet and pulled out her acrylic paints, then squirted each one on a stained wooden palette. She set the palette on the tray next to a jar of water. She picked a brush, ready to paint her tempting model.
He had removed his leather jacket. His tee shirt molded to every muscle that had rippled with power and strength beneath her palm. She ached to run her hands over his naked skin. She licked her lips. After he’d kissed her, the black stubble outlining his firm jaw had left her lips and skin chaffed. What would it be like to have him kiss her all over?
She tried to block out the temptation. Pay attention. He had a diamond earring in his right ear, but it was those silver eyes that unnerved her. Challenged her.
She picked up a blank piece of canvas and put it on the easel. She chose the mop brush and dipped it into yellow then mixed it with white. Becoming one with the canvas and brush, a golden background emerged. Time drifted between them. The magic released and when she painted, she captured his aura—a dazzling white, gold, and red. Red hadn’t been there before. Most people’s passions were a subtle cherry tomato, but not his, it radiated off the canvas. Brilliant red meant raw passion, but for what? Death? Love? Anger?
He lifted an eyebrow. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Don’t move.”
“You look like you broke your favorite toy.”
She stopped painting. “Excuse me?”
“You know, when a kid breaks something and has a meltdown.”
“Will you zip it? I need quiet when I paint.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Michelangelo.”
“Quit calling me that.”
“You remind me of him. He had trouble concentrating around attractive men.”
He gave her a sardonic smile. She shook her head. Ignore his arrogance. Like that was possible.
She jammed the mop brush into the water, splashing droplets onto her arm.
“I can see you’re in complete control.”
“Shut up.” she mumbled as she stirred the brush. She opened her mouth, but shut it.
“Were you going to ask something?”
“No, I was yawning.” She stretched her arms high over her head and arched her back.
“Liar.”
“No, I’m not.” She dropped her arms. Why deny it? The bastard could read her mind.
As she brushed the canvas, tiny chills ran all over as Scythe’s remarkable eyes appeared on the canvas, but unlike the man before her, these weren’t hard. The more she painted, a soft shimmer glowed in those depths, drawing into them. She had never seen him look so carefree. Laughter and joy shined through them. What made him so happy? She lowered her hand.
Scythe watched her intently, but he stared with possessiveness, hunger and longing. She quickly looked back at the painting, but her power faded. Eeriness slid over her, making the hair stand straight on her arms. She lowered her shaking hand, still gripping the brush tight. In the painting, Scythe’s eyes blinked. Shit, they came alive—flashing over her body, undressing her. Her shirt clung to her breasts like a second skin, while moisture pooled inside her pants. She dropped the brush onto the floor. Lord, she wanted him.
Scythe slid off the stool and approached her. His every move showed him to be a predator determined to get his prey. He caressed her arms with his strong hands. “You.” His lips grazed over her ear. “I want you.”
“I’m not done painting you.” She lied.
He covered her hand with calloused one. “Yeah, you are.”
Shivers ran through her.
He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “I’ve never looked like that before.”
“I told you that I—”
“That you what?” He lifted her shirt over her head. He unsnapped her bra. It hung loose, brushing against her nipples. She quickly wiggled out of it. He squeezed her sensitive breast, his fingers toying with her nipple, pulling, tugging, pinching. “Capture a person’s inner feelings? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a man. I’m an angel. You’re my mate. Deal with it.”
She gasped and leaned against him, powerless to stop him, but she didn’t want to be a play mate only to be used then discarded. How could she get over him? Every man would fall short. “Stop.”
“You want to see what would make me look like that? Now, I’m going to claim you angel-mate. Ready or not.”
His restrained voice caught her attention.
“What are you talking about?”
He whirled her around, his lips captured hers. She was definitely, not ready, but as the kiss deepened, she gave herself over to him. Her heart and soul burned for his. She ran her fingers up his chest, feeling every rippling muscle. He sucked in his breath, bringing a
sense of satisfaction to her. She felt the damp eagerness in her feminine core, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time, but this was different—intense, fervent, wanton. Her mind blurred even more as his fingers touched her hot skin.
Some small sane part in her mind tried to remind her of Rosemary, but his mouth was unlike anything that she had ever experienced, mesmerizing, sultry. All thoughts of her sister forgotten, she yearned for more, wanting to taste him. How could an angel’s kiss be so sinful? An angel’s kiss should be sweet, gentle, but this was anything but. It was demanding like the man himself. He kissed her throat, his fingers twirled around her hair, securing her next to him while he feasted on her skin.
He lifted his dark head from her neck and released her hair, sliding his arm to her waist. Anchoring her, he stared at her, those eyes, heavy with hunger and arousal, igniting a flame of passion within her as his gazed fastened on her naked breasts. He lowered himself, his steamy breath sending tingles everywhere. He nestled his hot mouth onto one of her breasts, suckling and biting, driving her into a frenzy of need. She cried out, her last resolve weakening as he took her other breast in his mouth. Arching her back, she wanted to feel his greedy lips on her. She held his head close to her. Blazing fire of desire rippled through her body.
He carefully lowered her to the hardwood floor, then kissed the hollow between her breasts. He licked and kissed his way down to her stomach, twirling his wicked tongue around in her belly button. The stubble of his beard left her tender skin chafed, but she didn’t care. Her heart pounded, sweat drenched her, and she thought she’d die from the titillating sensations running through her body. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, weathering the passion building inside her.
“I want to see all of you,” he murmured.
He pushed her jeans and underwear down, removing her shoes with them—baring her lower half. She quivered and held her breath. Her body was alive with passion, her breath coming in gasps. It had been so long since she’d been with a man. The last time had been over three years ago and it was markedly regrettable. No man had ever brought her to such feeling, such need, such desire, but then again, Scythe wasn’t a man.
Looking at Scythe’s aura, clear red, bright pink, and dazzling white formed around him, meaning passion, sensual and angelic. It was invigorating to see him inhale a sharp breath, to see his eyes go molten and bright, to see the dark need in him etched into his face. He was so beautiful taking her breath away. He wanted her. Yeah, he wanted her. Lust mirrored in his face, stoked her own desire for him.
“Take your shirt off,” she countered. Two could play this game.
“As you command,” he said his voice husky and sensual.
He tore off his shirt. Heather sucked in her breath, and her mouth ran dry. He had a sleek, muscular chest. There was a tattoo of a dove, carrying an olive branch, above his right nipple.
He sank down on her, his hair lightly brushing over her skin, building a fire deep within her belly.
“What’s on your chest?”
“It’s the mark of an angel. Enough talk,” he whispered. He stretched on top of her and kissed her, silencing her into a pile of ecstasy. His hands roamed over every curve, bringing her nearly out of her skin.
He slid his hand down her ribs, passed over her hip and cupped her womanly folds. She gasped, but he only deepened their kiss.
She explored his back, his muscles fluctuating underneath her palms. God, the power beneath her fingertips overwhelmed her. He trembled and a sense of amusement flowed over her. Could she possible have power over an angel, an angel of death?
When he stroked the junction between her legs, she shivered and a tormented cry escaped her lips.
“Widen your legs,” he whispered.
Heather did as he commanded, squirming at the feel of the bulge of his jeans pressing against her. She never felt so hot, being fully naked with a half clothed man on top of her. His mouth left hers, and he made a trail of hot kisses down her neck until he reached her breast. She rocked half way off the ground when he inserted a finger inside her. Tremors ran through her as he thrust in and out. He fueled a passion within her, flaming it, bringing her close to a consuming orgasm.
“You’re so tight,” he whispered as his thumb rubbed her clit. She quivered and screamed as the world around her exploded. She had no idea an orgasm could feel like this—a rapture of passion filling her, releasing her into tiny fragments.
“I’m…I’m…not…a…virgin,” she panted.
“And?”
“Well, don’t you need an angel-mate to be a virgin?”
He laughed. “Where does it say that?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “No, sweetheart. Angel-mates do not have to be virgins. It’s about souls, not human flesh.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Souls?”
“Yes, and yours is fiery. Every bit as passionate as mine.”
“Who else has…”
“No woman has come close to matching my soul. You’re the first.” He caressed her face. “You amaze me. Beautiful. Healer. Virtuous. You’re the light to my darkness.”
She bunched her eyebrows. “Virtuous? Are you kidding?”
His eyes turned somber. “Yes, you are.”
Another wave of pleasure seized her and she trembled. “Oh, my God.”
He frowned. “You’ve got to stop calling God.”
She arched her back and trembled.
He laughed. “This is the beginning angel-mate. Soon you’ll be mine, forever.”
She panted at those words, eager to indulge while the other half trembled in fear. He pulled his finger out and as he sat back on his knees, his thick hair caressed her still trembling body. Before she knew what was happening, he widened her quivering thighs and lifted her off the floor.
Her legs draped over his shoulders as his lips kissed her soft mound. Her heart quickened faster and faster. The instant his tongue protruded deeply, she cried out again and balled her fists. Blood rushed between her thighs. Thousands of tingles fluttered over her skin. Her orgasm fragmented into a million pieces of passion.
He licked her, probed her, and scraped with his teeth, feasting like a man possessed. He held her moving thighs tightly, preventing any escape as he probed deeper with his tongue, sucking and drawing the hot cream from her center, leaving her a quivering mess.
Tears formed at the corner of her eyes at the roaring tidal wave of pleasure bursting through her, washing over her, until her muscles clamped down violently. Her stomach tightened and sensations of fire swept over her trembling body. She bucked hard against his mouth, unable to stop, as an intense mind-numbing euphoria overtook her, shattering her over and over again. She screamed in ecstasy.
Before she could catch her breath, he placed her bottom on the ground and yanked off his jeans, revealing his thick and hard cock. She tensed. She had been with other men before, not many. But their manhood paled compared to Scythe’s. Or should she say angelhood? How could she take him inside her? He climbed on top of her, his hair brushing against her already flaming skin. He pushed her thighs wider, then nestled his hips between her legs, his swollen flesh pushing into her sensitive folds, stretching her.
“You’re too big.” Her voice filled with dread. No way could she accommodate him, not unless she wanted to be ripped apart and scarred forever.
“Don’t tense, love.” He stroked her face. “Trust me.”
His slight touch sent a wave of warmth over her and her fear lessened. She inhaled a deep breath. Was he casting another spell or whatever angels use? But what about free will? Was this her will or his?
God, she was not a virgin anymore, but his size out did any man. Her breath caught in her throat and her body went rigid. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He lifted his hips and thrust forward, driving her to a frenzy of desire. The friction between them sent hot flames of tremors through her entire body. Her body pulsed, saturating him with her womanly fluids.
Wringing sharp cries from her lips, he
plunged harder and harder until he touched the edge of her womb. His forceful rhythm went on and on, erupting volcanic pleasure of lava to every part of her body. She clung to his shoulders, afraid of the rising storm and falling into an abyss of pure sensation. Without thinking, she wrapped her legs around his thrusting hips, wanting to keep him pinned inside her. Dazzling white streaks of pleasure seized her as he rode her, his hot breath caressed her neck. She cried out, not knowing where she began and he ended.
Scythe arched his back and cried out, “Mine.”
A blinding light illuminated from Scythe, overtaking her, caressing her. The fresh scent of olives filled the room. A hot poker sensation blazed above her right breast like someone branded something into her skin. She screamed and tightened her grip on his shoulders and tightened her legs around him. An intense, pleasure shook her. Scythe’s hot semen released deep inside her, shaking her to the core. He collapsed on top of her, and she could feel his rapid beating heart.
The light dimmed and her familiar studio surrounded her.
She stroked the back of Scythe’s hair as slight tremors still rippled through her body. He was still inside her, filling her. Nestling his head in the curve of her neck, his lips brushed the side of her neck. “You belong to me.”
Heather froze. What exactly did that mean? Was she a slave? Not something she’d ever want.
She looked at a painting of Rosemary and her sister’s portrait stared back. Regret filled her. A lump formed in her throat. Tears threatened to burst through her. She just betrayed her sister by having mind-blowing sex with an angel of death, the same one who stood by and watched her sister die. He had the power to save people and chose not to use it. She should hate him, condemn him—not have sex with him like some wanton slut.
12
Smiling, Scythe quivered from aftershocks. No woman, angel or human, had ever filled him with such joy—he who always looked at life with cynicism. When nothing through the ages of existence had been for him, the feel of Heather’s hand had almost sent him over the edge. He had branded her, sealing her fate, making her his forever.
