Page 154 of Price of Angels

“Ah, sweetheart.” Michael stretched out above her, his forearms braced alongside her head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered against her throat. “I’ll be careful, I swear. Hold on to me. Hold on and I’ll be easy.”

It was a tighter fit than she remembered, and her muscles were liquid and weak. She wrapped her legs around his sharp hips, put her arms around his neck, laid her hands on his wings and lifted into him, wanting all the heat of his skin touching hers.

“Move,” she pleaded. “I’m fine, just–”

The slow churning of his hips rendered her speechless.

It was a fast, hard climb, and Michael cursed and strained as his release came. She felt the hot spill inside her, and it was the idea of him finding his deepest pleasure in her body that sent her over the edge.

He pulled her onto her side facing him afterward, his breath heaving. He touched her: the inward curve of her waist, the flat of her belly; cupped her breasts and teased the nipples with his thumbs, the little touches he hadn’t had the time or patience for before. Slow-burning caresses, building them toward the eventual joining again. Once hadn’t been nearly enough; she knew they both felt that without saying it.

When she sought his gaze with her own, she saw that his face was thoughtful.

“What?” Her voice was breathy, exhausted. She reached to touch his face, skimming her fingertips along the razor points of his stubble.

“Does it ever scare you anymore?”

“Does what scare me?” But she knew.

His hand slid boldly, possessively between her breasts, down her belly. “This.”

His eyes were fixed and bright hazel in the morning sunlight. He wanted the truth.

Lucky for her, she could give it to him. She smiled, cradling the line of his jaw in her palm. “Nothing about you scares me.”

He leaned in and kissed her then, his arm falling heavy and hot around her waist, drawing her in closer.

Holly speared her fingers through his hair, held his head to her as she opened her mouth under the warm stroke of his.

Twenty-Eight

Two Months Later

Ava came awake with a start and realized she’d been sleeping in a less than dignified pose. She’d kicked her covers off at some point, and the oversized t-shirt that was all she slept in these days had ridden up. Her belly was smooth and shiny as a melon, skin stretched tight over the active occupant within. She blinked and pushed up on an elbow and realized who had awakened her: Remy. Baby boy was doing somersaults in her womb; it felt like that, anyway, the way he was squirming and kicking.

“I can actuallyseehim moving around,” Mercy said beside her, breathless with wonder, his gaze trained on her belly.

He lay on his side, white topsheet down around his waist, contrasting with the tawny, sun-glazed color of his skin. Head braced on his fist, Ava could see the small black shape of the tattoo on the side of his neck, the little gator that matched the one on her foot – the mark of remembrance for the child they’d lost.

The new sunlight picked out the lines on his face. She loved those lines; he’d lived, and he was the man beside her, reaching to cover her stomach with one careful hand because of it.

“He’s strong,” she said, as Mercy smiled, feeling the thrashing against his hand.

He was big, too. The doctor had already laughingly told her he was going to be “one whopper” to birth, when the time came.

She’d snorted. “You should see his dad,” she’d told Dr. Wyatt, and he’d laughed.

“I don’t doubt it.”

Ava reached to tug down her nightshirt, but Mercy pushed her hand away, continuing to smooth his own across the shape of their unborn son.

“Merc.”

“I like looking at you,” he protested.

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

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