The Darkest Night (3 page)

“Cyril,” she murmured and lifted her hand.

He caught her wrist, and for a breathless moment, she thought he would push her away again, but then he brought her fingertips to his face.

She traced the hard edges of his jaw and cheekbone, felt the flex of muscle as he swallowed. She touched his lower lip. Almost as hard. An unyielding man. Or was that the angel in him? What other parts of him would be as hard? The want and need welled up, more violently now, weakening her bare knees, and she swayed toward him.

He anchored one hand at the small of her back and reeled her into his chest.

This time, she had no opportunity to power up her arsenal. His mouth slanted across hers with ferocious intent, stealing her breath. She leaned into him, giving it up, willing to give more, so much more. Not everything, of course. Some parts he couldn’t be allowed to see, no one must see.

But the good parts… She loosened the wrap of her dress and let the V gape to her navel.

Fane dragged his mouth free. His hands went to the edges of the V, eased it wider. “Ah, just looking at you makes me hot.” His voice was an even rougher growl than before, as if his path had not appreciably smoothed but he was determined to find his way.

Frigid air whispered across her bared skin, and she shivered.

“But you’re cold,” he murmured.

“I don’t even feel it,” she said honestly.

“Let me make sure of that.” He kissed his way down her throat to her collarbone, then lower, over the swell of her breast filling the demi-cup of her bra. “It’s all you in here.” He brushed his lips over her swelling flesh. “I wondered how it could be. You are so…”

She waited a moment for him to finish, then suggested, “Bosomy?”

“So beautiful,” he whispered against her skin, still moving down, loosening the wrap with every inch he uncovered. He knelt at her feet. “I can’t believe you…”

No, he couldn’t, but she didn’t want him to go there. “Angels have to believe,” she reminded him. “Job requirement.”

“They fired me,” he pointed out.

“Use that fire for good.”

He circled his tongue around her navel and she gasped. She braced her hands on his shoulders as the dress fell open, exposing her to his gaze, his hands, his tongue.

He kissed a line across the top of her panties, his hot breath seeming to infuse the silky fabric, an advance army stealing between her legs. When he tangled his fingers in the fabric over her hips, twisting it tighter, she whimpered at the echoing pull across her sex. His soft laugh sent another flare of heat over her skin, as he slicked his hands down the backs of her thighs, drawing the panties down too, urging her legs apart. But when she complied, he grasped her hips and with one strong boost, rose to his feet, lifting her to the bar counter. He leaned his hips between her spread thighs and kissed her again, his tongue a hot and heavy portent of more to come.

She tore her mouth away and flexed her fingers on his shoulders, digging for the bulk of muscle beneath the heavy wool of his coat. “Take this off. I want to feel you.”

Without moving from between her thighs, he wrenched off the coat while her fingers made quick work of the buttons she found centered down his chest. She groaned when she found the T-shirt underneath.

He chuckled, at least until she grasped the collar and ripped the T-shirt wide open. “Hey now!”

“I’ve shocked you again,” she guessed. “The trick with tearing a T-shirt, as with most things in life, is not to hesitate. You gotta go all in.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to the notch of his throat. “All the way in.”

Under her kiss, his pulse leaped. She walked her hands down his chest, exploring the faint sprinkling of hair across his pecs that trailed away to nothing until she hooked her fingers into the waist of his trousers and her fingertips brushed his crisp pubic curls.

His hips jerked. “I want…”

“Me too,” she promised.

With a strangled curse, he jerked her closer to the edge of the counter, so her body was flush against his, bare skin to bare skin, their hearts thudding against each other, finding one beat. She speared her fingers through the thick, soft wave of his hair and angled her mouth under his for one last, deep kiss, the kind they called soul kissing.

She certainly hoped not.

She broke free and skimmed her hands down his arms, shedding his shirt and remnants of his T-shirt. The button and zipper of his trousers were harder since he was standing so close, but she pushed down the material to bunch at his hips. His cock thrust toward her, hotter than anything in the bar, so hot she almost imagined a glow. Just let the cold dark try to get her now. She had an angel between her thighs.

“Bella,” he said again.

“No warnings,” she said.

“But I didn’t bring—”

She kicked her booted foot across the space between the bar and the back counter, and her heel caught the cash register. It sprang open, bell pealing. “There.”

Fane coughed. “You keep your condoms in the cash register?”

“The money shot.”

He strained backward to reach without leaving her, and the foil crinkled in his hand. He paused. “These are old.”

“Is that the angelic way of saying thank you for not being a slut?” She flexed her legs, urging him closer.

“Exactly one year old.”

She didn’t like the look of calculation on his face. Time had never been her friend. “My Christmas fuck.”

“You have such a mouth.” He kissed her again, hard, his strong arms braced on either side of her so she felt like he was consuming her from every direction.

She whimpered as the fever of him worked deeper. She coiled her legs behind his hips and drew him in.

“Wait,” he said breathlessly. “I have to—”

“Let me.” She snatched the open condom wrapper from his grip and sheathed him. His flesh surged in her hand. “Now, Cyril.”

“But—”

She strained toward him. “Talk later.” She might not have a later if she didn’t have him now.

Still he lingered, his fingers finding the needy bud of her clit and giving her a soft caress. Without her breath, the noise from her mouth was barely a whine—this was no time for games—but that only seemed to embolden him. He stroked her again, still maddeningly gentle when she needed his light as high and bright and fierce as an explosion.

She lowered her hand between their bodies and gripped his sac. His balls tightened; pleasure or fear she didn’t care. “Cyril, damn it—”

“Don’t remind me.”

For half a heartbeat, she wanted to reassure him. Exile from the sphericanum didn’t equal damnation. It took more than that. She ought to know. But if she told him as much, he would question her and where would that get them?

“Stop thinking, angel-boy.” She gave his balls a squeeze and then a flick of her finger along his crease. He bucked against her hips, she angled just so, and—ah!—finally, he was in her, his flesh sheathed in her, their breath and pulses ratcheting higher. She gasped at the possession, complete and carnal and oh-so human.

He wasn’t huge—angelic possession didn’t grant everlasting life or superpowers, in bed or anywhere else—but the hard, hot length of him stretched her tight passage with a pressure almost like pain, a reminder she was here, now, pinned to this bar by his cock and his whiskey-drenched mouth. She closed her eyes even as she opened her legs wider to the intimate invasion.

They couldn’t come for her, not when she was coming.

He hauled her hips toward him, so her ass hung precariously on the edge of the bar, and she propped her heels on the narrow well. He bent her back, one hand under her breast to plump her nipple over the demi-cup bra. His mouth fastened on the aching tight peak, and the lightning pleasure shot all the way to her clit. She rocked against his pounding flesh, finding a rhythm that would have put her club’s dance remixes to shame, and let his harsh breath in her ear drown out the whisper of winter she heard all around.

She curled over him, her hair tickling her breast and belly, her core tightening, tightening. “Cyril…”

He straightened with one more hard thrust of his cock deep inside and his tongue in her mouth. His big hand was hot over her crotch, and he stroked her clit with a deft thumb. Three… two… one… ignition.

She went off like a bottle rocket, from sizzling fuse to screaming launch. He laughed against her mouth and let her shriek while he pummeled her.

The throb of her orgasm matched his beat, unabated, and he groaned. “You feel so damned good. I can’t…”

Three-two-never-mind-one-go, and he shouted aloud—some wordless, profane invocation—and convulsed against her. With a last gasp, she came again around his climax. She wasn’t a sparkler, she was a whole multi-stage rocket with extra boosters. The black was all around her and she didn’t give a damn because the light and heat and boom of him held it all at bay.

She slumped back on the bar, her head hanging off the far end, blood rushing to her brain as he stroked a few more times, with a deep groan, then pushed again, far inside. The thick pulse of him heated her from within, and she wanted to hold him there forever.

But slowly he withdrew, his finger brushing softly against her twitching clit. She gasped but didn’t straighten.

She heard the wet squeal-snap of the condom coming off and the surprisingly loud plunk as it hit the garbage can. Man, how much had he come? Apparently she wasn’t the only one going Methuselian lengths of time between carnal encounters.

She flinched in surprise as soft cotton tucked between her legs. He’d found the stack of bar rags under the counter.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He kissed her navel, and she couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers through his hair again. The thick strands sculpted themselves into waves under her petting hand like demanding cats.

She opened her eyes, not that it mattered. “What color?”

“Pink. Pink and cherry red. Like a dessert.”

“You have pink hair?”

“What? No. I have brown hair, light brown. I thought you meant…” He kissed her again, much lower this time.

She jackknifed upright, stiff-arming him. “Whoa.”

“Now I’ve shocked you.” He sounded smug. “We’ll save it for next time.”

Next time? She reached for the edge of her wrap and pulled it around her to cinch the waist. If only her hair came together as easily. “That’s an angel for ya. Always going for the save.”

He swung her down off the counter, steadying her while her still-wobbly knees aligned with her boot heels. “Have you had dinner yet?”

First next time? Now dinner? “I was actually headed out for the night. I have some errands…”

“Oh.” The smug note was gone from his voice.

She bit her tongue against the urge to explain more. They’d swapped body fluids, some fluids anyway, but that didn’t mean they could share everything. In fact, now that her desperation had eased, she could see—despite being semi-sorta blind—how fucking an angel-man might just be her dumbest move in a lifetime of bad choices.

Still, biting her tongue made her taste the lingering flavor of whiskey, and her knees wobbled again. “I really should get going.”

“Yeah, I was heading home, like the sign on your door said.”

“Okay, that’s good.” And angel-men
were
good. Too good for the likes of her. “I’ll see you around then.” Except she wouldn’t, really, what with her cataracts and all. She didn’t even
want
to see him again.

“Yeah, right.” His tone said he’d thought exactly the same thing. Just as well the clouded haze over her eyes shaded her from the worst of his angelic glare.

He helped her on with her coat and waited at the front door while she locked up. She wished he would just get in his fancy car and go.

But he lingered. “I was wondering if my car would still be here.” He sounded a little disappointed, as if he wanted an excuse to stay. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

“No, thanks. I get around fine.” She prickled a little. Let him think she took pride in her independence. Independent sounded better than lonely. “I don’t need a Porsche.”

“How do you know what I drive?”

“Some of the talyan were complaining to me about their vehicular crap. They were wondering how much blacker they’d stain their souls if they rolled you for the Porsche.”

“So you saved me.”

“Actually, I told them a dozen Hail Marys and a few dead djinn-men would absolve them. I try to stay on their good sides.”

He snorted. “I’ll have to watch my back then.”

A faint stir of guilt made her shift on her heels—or maybe that was just the last quiver of her orgasm—but she felt compelled to add, “You should find somebody to help you watch behind you, ex-Warden Fane. This is a bad time to be alone.”

“Yeah. See you, Bella.”

And when he said her name this time, it sounded like a threat and a promise in one.

Chapter 3

Bella waited for the rumble of the Porsche to fade before she ducked back down the alley to retrieve her car.

Nothing so nice as the Porsche, of course, but the club’s generic little hatchback was respectably efficient for her employees to do whatever needed to be done around the place. Enough people used it that nobody wondered why sometimes the gas tank ran a little low. Anyway, it was her damn car, she could drive it whenever she wanted.

Even if the view was a little hazy.

With the night wearing on, there wouldn’t be anyone where she was going. The whole point was no one would see her, so it didn’t matter she couldn’t quite see them.

She circled her chosen route quickly, just in case anyone was watching. This was the fourth year she’d done it, and so she’d had to hit some places for the second time. She’d made the afternoon news last year, and she didn’t want to be prime time this year. She squelched the guilty feeling. Another side effect from being near an angel.

On her way back to the club, she passed through a familiar neighborhood, and curiosity nipped sharper than the guilt. Well, that wasn’t such a terrible thing. Curiosity had never hurt anyone.

She touched the curved rim of her cat’s-eye glasses wryly.

The nursing home where she pulled up was decorated for the season with a small herd of white-lighted reindeer, an umbrella-style fake Christmas tree, an inflatable menorah, and a large nativity scene with the plastic wise men draped in kente cloth colorful enough to burn through even the haziest cataracts.