Page 153 of Price of Angels

Holly reached through the still morning air and laid her hand against his skin, over the tapering shape of the right wing.

He jerked, stiffening, and she smiled. It wasn’t often that she got the drop on him.

She sat up, drawing her legs beneath her, fitting her front to his back and sliding her arms around his neck from behind. She loved the heat of his skin soaking through the thin nightgown, warming her breasts and belly. She loved the clean-sheet and masculine smell of him; the mess of his unwashed hair.

Over his shoulder, she saw the quick retraction of his hand from the waistband of the shorts he slept in. Saw him press his palm down guiltily on the mattress. The flush of color in his cheekbones. He’d been busted, and the sight of him like this flooded her with tenderness.

She pulled her arms from around his neck, wrapped them around his waist instead, her hand going to his lap, where she found him thick and rigid with usual morning arousal.

Holly curled her fingers around the shape of his cock, stroking him lightly through the shorts.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she asked, lips flitting against his shoulder.

He grunted something she couldn’t make out, and reached to pull her hand away.

“Wait.” She flattened her palm, trapping his hard cock against his thigh, and saw his abs leap in response. He took a deep breath in through his nose. “The doctor said I’m fine to get back to ‘normal activity.’ ” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “That means sex, you know.”

“Maybe you should wait a little longer,” he said, and she felt the tremors running beneath his skin as she teased him with her open palm. “Christ, stop…You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself?” She chuckled. “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. I think this is about to snap off in my hand.” She squeezed him, to prove her point, biting back a sharp laugh as he half-leapt off the bed and forced himself back down with a ragged sound.

“Holly,” he said through his teeth. “If you don’t stop, I’m not gonna be held liable for whatever happens.”

“We haven’t even had a proper wedding night,” she said into his ear, taking the lobe lightly between her lips.

They hadn’t had a big club wedding. There was a tiny white chapel with a stone staircase ten minutes from Chaceaway Farm. Uncle Wynn had put on his best shirt, pressed his Wranglers, and combed his hair down with water, so it clung tight to the sides of his head, little wisps curling up as it dried.

They’d needed another witness, and when Holly asked Ava if she’d mind, Ava and Mercy had both come, lean and well-matched in their casual fierceness, all in black as they stood beside the pulpit.

Holly had found a simple long-sleeved gray dress on the clearance rack at Macy’s, and she’d worn her boots.

Michael had worn his cut over his black shirt, and his hands had been strong and sure and warm as they held tightly to hers.

That night, he’d stretched out beside her in his bed – their bed – and he’d kissed her for a long time, alternatively slow and deep. Knee-melting, clinging, time-stopping kisses. Then he’d folded the covers around her and told her to go to sleep, because it was too soon after her surgery, and he wouldn’t risk her hurting anything.

She’d cried against his shoulder, touched beyond measure by his sweetness.

But now, she was about ready to cry from frustration. She wanted her husband; wanted him to love her as his wife.

She withdrew her hand, like he’d asked. But then she slid the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and pulled her arms through, pushing the slip of fabric to her waist. She lay against his back, pressing her naked breasts to his skin, to his wings, letting him feel their weight, and the points of her nipples.

He groaned. “Hol, your stitches…”

“All healed up. Here.” She could hear how her breathing had picked up; her pulse was elevated. “Feel.” She reached for his hand, intending to draw it back and place it over the faint scar at her abdomen.

Instead, she gasped as he whirled around and tackled her back across the bed. A careful tackle, but a tackle nonetheless. There was no delicate word for the way he covered her with his body.

She sighed inwardly, a sigh of relief. Finally.

He didn’t kiss her. He’d kissed her to death in the last weeks. In an unacknowledged part of her mind, Holly had begun to wonder if he still wanted her in the same way, now that the crisis was past, now that they were looking down the long barrel of forever together.

That worry was obliterated as she watched his head bend to her breasts, and he clamped his lips to her nipple.

He suckled her, one breast and then the other, wet, desperate sounds leaving his mouth. He bit the tender inner curves, abraded her skin with the stubble along his jaw.

She heard seams rip as he dragged the nightgown off her hips and found her naked beneath, growling to himself, his breath leaving his lungs in harsh bursts.

He stripped off his shorts, and then reached between her legs, spreading them, searching for the hot warmth of her readiness. She was beyond ready, and he settled his hips into the cradle of her thighs, brought them together with one vicious thrust that caused them both to stiffen, gasp, draw up tight against the sudden sensation.

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