Page 44 of Azrael

The thud of his boots against the hardwood floor created a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.I matched my breathing to it instinctively, finding comfort in its regularity.Azrael was like that -- a force of nature you could set your watch by.I’d been watching him intently, wanting to know every little thing about him.And from what I’d observed, he was predictable in his routines, unpredictable in his actions.A contradiction wrapped in leather and danger.

The pictures on the walls were sparse -- a few black-and-white photos of motorcycles, one of the full club lined up on their bikes, and a single color photograph of a beautiful Middle Eastern woman with Azrael’s eyes.His mother, who’d died of cancer when he was young.The woman who’d been gang-raped at fifteen and had raised her son alone, never knowing which of her attackers had fathered him.

As we approached the bedroom, I felt the tension in the air shift from something heavy with words unsaid to something charged with promise.The dangerous mission loomed over us, but it had created an urgency that made every touch, every moment, more significant.

Azrael paused at the threshold, looking down at me with an expression I’d come to recognize -- the look he got when he was memorizing my face, as if preparing for a time when I wouldn’t be there.It was both flattering and terrifying.

“What?”I asked.

“Just making sure this is what you want,” he said, his voice husky.

I almost laughed at the absurdity.As if I hadn’t made it clear from the moment I’d kissed him.As if my body against his wasn’t answer enough.

“Take me to bed, Samir,” I said, meeting his gaze without flinching.“We’ve only got tonight and tomorrow.”

His lips quirked into what might have been a smile on any other man.On Azrael, it was barely a softening of his usual intensity.But I’d learned to read it, to treasure those small breaks in his carefully maintained control.

“Then we better not waste time,” he said, and carried me the final steps into his bedroom, where the shadows from the hallway gave way to deeper darkness broken only by the pale moonlight filtering through partially drawn blinds.

I felt a flutter in my stomach -- anticipation, fear for the mission ahead, and the undeniable pull I felt toward this dangerous man who held me like I was something precious in a world that had taught him nothing was.

The moment Azrael laid me down on his bed, I felt the worn mattress dip beneath my weight, the familiar scent of leather and bourbon rising from the sheets that had absorbed so much of him.His body followed mine down, his weight both comforting and demanding as he settled over me, his dark eyes never leaving mine even as his hand found the curve of my hip.I reached up to trace the hard line of his jaw, feeling the contrast between rough stubble and the unexpected softness of his lips as they descended to claim mine.

The kiss started slow, deliberate, like everything Azrael did.Nothing rushed, nothing wasted.His mouth moved against mine with a precision that spoke of experience, but there was something else there too -- a hunger that seemed specific to me.I’d never felt that before, the sense that a man like him -- who could have anyone -- wanted me with such singular focus.

“Zara,” he murmured against my lips, my name becoming something sacred in his mouth.His hand slid up from my hip to my ribs, stopping just beneath my breast in a question that wasn’t really a question at all.

I arched into his touch, answering without words.The danger heading his way soon hung over us, making each touch feel like it might be the last, making each sigh more precious.

His bedroom was sparse, like the rest of his house.No clutter, no unnecessary decoration.A heavy dresser against one wall, a chair, a nightstand with a lamp, a gun, and a book dog-eared halfway through.The blinds were partially drawn, allowing slivers of moonlight to cut across the bed, highlighting the planes of Azrael’s face as he looked down at me.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, his thumb brushing my lower lip, drawing my attention back to him.

“Pot, kettle,” I replied, earning a rare half-smile that softened his features and made him look younger than his thirty-nine years.

“Fair enough.”His hand moved to cup my breast, his thumb circling the nipple through the fabric of my tank top until it hardened beneath his touch.“But I’m thinking about you.Only you.”

I believed him.In that moment, with his eyes fixed on mine and his body warm and solid above me, I believed that the Angel of Death, the man whose name made hardened criminals tremble, was thinking only of me.It was a heady power that I never asked for but couldn’t deny wanting.

He lowered his head again, this time to trace the line of my jaw with his lips, working his way down to the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder.His teeth scraped gently against my skin, drawing a gasp from me that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

“I like that sound,” he murmured against my throat, and did it again, harder this time, bringing his teeth down in a gentle bite that had me clutching at his shoulders.

The material of his shirt was smooth beneath my fingers.I tugged at it, wanting to pull it off, needing to feel more of him, needing the barrier gone.He helped, yanking it over his head and tossing it onto the chair across the room.It landed perfectly, as if even in the midst of passion, Azrael couldn’t allow disorder.

His chest and abdomen were a terrain of scars and tattoos that mapped his life.Bullet wounds, knife marks, the Devil’s Boneyard insignia over his heart, and above that, in Arabic script that flowed like calligraphy, a woman’s name.“Your mom?”

He nodded.I traced her name with my fingertips, feeling him shudder beneath my touch.

“Cold?”I echoed his earlier question, knowing full well he wasn’t.

“No,” he admitted, his voice rougher now, less controlled.“Just… you.”

I smiled, pulling him back down to me, my hands exploring the muscled expanse of his back, feeling the ridges of old scars.Each one a reminder of close calls, of violence survived, of the dangerous world he inhabited and that I had stepped into willingly.

He slowly removed my tank top and tugged down my pajama pants.When he tugged the fabric away, exposing my skin to the cool air and his heated gaze, I felt vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with the intensity with which he looked at me.

“Beautiful,” he said, the word simple but heavy with meaning coming from a man so economical with praise.

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