Death Angel

For her, he was willing to kill again, and count the cost well worth it, so long as he was the one who paid and she didn’t have to.

She didn’t think she made any sound, no gasp or sob. He’d known she was in the room behind him, of course, because she hadn’t been trying to sneak, and the house was small anyway, so small he probably knew where she was every minute. But he was so attuned to her that abruptly he turned, every muscle alert, ready to go into action once he identified the source of whatever had upset her. He saw her swaying there, her face paper white, and reached her in a few quick strides to wrap those strong, supporting arms around her.

"What’s wrong? Are you sick?" Even as he spoke he was lifting her off her feet, cradling her to his chest. There was no distance between them now, no reserve in those dark eyes that could look so icy.

"No, I’m fine," she said, winding her arms around his neck and holding him close, holding herself close to him, two actions that might look like one but were very different in intent. "I love you, Simon Goodnight. Simon Smith. Simon Jones. Simon Brown, Simon Johnson, whatever your name is, no matter what, I love you."

His arms tightened around her and she saw something ease inside him, some burden get a little lighter. "No matter what? Even if my real name was Clarence or Homer or Percy?"

"Well, then I might have to rethink this," she said promptly, just to tease him, and was rewarded by one of his little smiles.

"Cross," he said, so easily that for a split second she missed the significance of what he was saying.

"Cross? That’s it for real? Truly?"

"Truly."

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "Thank you," she said, because the trust represented in that simple action, telling her his name, was enormous. "You can let me down. I’m all right."

"You looked as if you were about to pass out."

"No. You know how it hits you sometimes, how much you love a person, and it’s almost too much for you to hold in? Like that." She pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw, loving the smell of him, the feel of his skin cool under her lips but with his vital warmth just below the surface.

He released his hold on her legs, letting her slide down to a standing position, but he simply rearranged his grasp on her and pulled her fully against him as he bent his head to kiss her. She went on tiptoe to meet him halfway, her hands clasping around his neck, stroking beneath his collar. His erection pushed against her and a heated mixture of excitement and anticipation began stirring deep in her belly. Though they had slept together since arriving here, he hadn’t made love to her, and she hadn’t felt able to bridge the distance between them to reach him.

She felt able to now, though. He was right there, in her arms. Sliding her hands from his neck, down his chest and belly, she unfastened his jeans, slid his zipper down, and discovered he was commando. Humming a little with delight, she wrapped both hands around his length, wringing a guttural sound from him that made her shiver.

Moving swiftly, once again he hoisted her in his arms, breaking her grip on his penis. "Bed or couch?" he asked.

"Bed." Oh, the bed. She needed room to do to him everything she wanted to do.

He carried her into the small, sunlit bedroom and dumped her on the large bed that took up most of the space in the room. She laughed, trying to shuck off her own jeans while she was still bouncing. He stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans and that was it for him, so he turned his attention to helping her with the rest of her clothes.

She wasn’t wearing a lot, herself; the heat was too intense for layers and layers of clothes. Jeans, underwear, and a loose tank top was all she could tolerate. He pulled the top off over her head, then immediately palmed both her breasts. "These are so pretty," he murmured, brushing his thumbs over her nipples and making them flush with color as they firmed beneath his touch.

He made her feel pretty all over, the way he looked at her as if he could lick her from head to foot. She had never felt pretty, even though the mirror told her differently. Sometimes she had looked like a million bucks, but inside she’d felt worthless. But when Simon touched her, when she felt the tenderness with which he handled her, as if she were something precious beyond reason, then-then-she felt pretty.

He spread her legs and moved over her, settling his heavy weight into the vee of her thighs. She sighed in contentment. She could have done with some foreplay, but she also enjoyed his urgency, and the sense of pressure, of being stretched, as he slowly pushed into her mostly unprepared body. Her legs quivered around him, then tightened as her body lifted to his and she took him deeper.

Magic. Making love with him had been like magic, right from the start. Her body soared in response, in delight, in sheer, bone-melting pleasure, because that was the difference-not having sex, not fucking, but making love, so caught up in being with him that her protective mechanisms had shut down and she had just let go.

She did so now, flying from unprepared to orgasm so fast she felt she would have spun apart if he hadn’t been holding her locked tightly to him. When her brain cleared and her body relaxed in utter contentment she returned the favor, holding him steady with arms and legs as he stiffened and shuddered and lost himself in pleasure.

They dozed, and when Andie woke it was to the uncomfortable reminder that they weren’t using condoms. Most men would simply be happy they weren’t having to suit up, but Simon wasn’t most men, and she wondered if he was hoping they might have children. Her heart constricted, because some pains never lessened, never went away.

"I can’t have children," she said into the silence, and put her arm over her face so she wouldn’t have to see his if disappointment shadowed it.