Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(42)
Author: Gena Showalter

Would she find the courage?

Stupid question, plaguing her.

What if she sucked—the bad kind of sucking? What if she turned him off kissing forever? What if she freaked out? Or, what if she liked it? What if she wanted more? What if he refused to give her more? What if he rebuked her as he’d done to that other female? That beautiful angel with the dark, curling hair? Despite the fact that he claimed to desire Annabelle.

Or, what if he wanted more than a kiss but Annabelle refused to give him more? Would he then decide she wasn’t worth the effort and dump her somewhere?

No, she thought next. He wasn’t a slime. He might be cold and callous, but he wasn’t a liar, either. He had agreed to stay with her for a month, and so he would…no matter what. Would he regret that promise, though? Or would he be glad for it?

Only one way to learn the answers to all your questions…

Added bonus: the first time would be over, done, and the nervousness would leave her once and for all.

Well, that settled it.

“Zacharel,” she said on a wispy catch of breath.

His gaze drilled into her very soul. “What are you thinking about, Annabelle?” Huskily asked, a caress to each of her senses.

Like him, she couldn’t lie. Not this time, the truth already proven by the softening of her lips. “Kissing you.”

His gaze immediately dropped to her lips, his pupils gobbling up his irises. “Why?”

Because you think I’m a prize. Because, when you look at me, I feel cherished rather than leered at. “I believe you’ll be familiar with my answer—because.”

Slowly the corners of his mouth curled up. “So what are you waiting for? You know what you must do.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ZACHAREL WAITED, TENSE, as Annabelle slowly stood and closed the distance between them. He tensed further when she at last positioned herself between his legs. Part of him screamed to stop her, to stop this. After the first tasting, there would be no going back. He would know, the knowledge a part of him. The rest of him screamed for more. For all.

The rest of him won.

His curiosity was far too great, but more than that, his need to pleasure this particular woman was too great. Her scent was the sweetest of aphrodisiacs. Her curves had been made for his hands, and his alone—as he would soon confirm. He coiled his fingers around her small, fragile hips, just as she flattened her palms on his shoulders. At the moment of contact, her heated gasp filled the space between them.

“Closer,” he rasped, tugging her until they were flush. Because he was seated, they were now eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. Have to taste…

But she didn’t give him what he wanted. “If you don’t like it, just tell me to stop, okay? Don’t go all caveman and push me away or call me names or blame me.”

“I will like it, and you will teach me what to do.”

“But if you don’t—”

“You’re stalling.” Zacharel slid a hand up the ridges of her spine and into her hair, fisting the strands and urging her to close the rest of the distance.

“You’re sure?”

He pressed his lips against hers. Lips so different from his own; softer, as soft as rose petals, fuller, holding him in thrall at that very first brush. He pulled back, marveling, and then he went in again…marveled anew at the decadence of her…then again, and this time, moaning, she opened for him.

Her tongue rolled against his, bringing with it the tastes of summer: berries dipped in cream, newly blooming roses and sultry midnights.

As focused on her as he was, he was able to follow her lead. When her tongue thrust, he knew to meet it. When her tongue retreated, he knew to chase it. He relished every new experience, growling his desire for more.

Her fingers slicked through his hair, decadent sensations dancing over his scalp, tickling skin that had never before been touched by another’s hands. “I don’t know about you but I like this,” she breathed, sounding surprised.

“Yes.” His blood had been icy for so long, with only the occasional flash of heat to prevent him from freezing. Heat he’d only felt with her. Now that blood was molten, scorching through his veins, warming him up. Sweat beaded on his brow, between his shoulder blades, and trickled down his stomach.

Even his breath burned him, singeing his lungs and scraping at his throat. There was only one cure for the fever, and he instinctively knew what it was. He had to be closer to her, had to touch all of her. Had to have all of her.

“Up.” A command.

When she failed to immediately obey, Zacharel cupped her bottom and lifted her, forcing her to straddle him, to settle her weight against him. And oh, sweet heavens, yes, that was exactly what he’d needed. Pleasure rocketed through him, a beautiful sort of torture.

She moaned into his mouth, her nails sinking into his scalp, as if to hold him in place. As if she worried he would try to get away. Never would he do such a thing. He was lost, tied only to the woman in his lap and glad for it. Except…

Except the new position was no longer the blessing he’d thought.

“Annabelle.” He hurt and needed some kind of relief.

“Zacharel.”

Hearing his name on her lips, uttered so breathlessly, filled him with a sense of possession. Mine. “Do…more,” he pleaded.

“Okay. All right. Yes.”

But she didn’t, and he had to flatten his hands on her hips to stop himself from trying to caress her everywhere all at once.

“What kind of more do you want?” she whispered.

“Whatever you will give.”

“I don’t…maybe…rock into me.”

Rock into…yes. As they kissed and kissed and kissed, he arched against her. Forward, back, seeking, retreating. Every point of contact wrung a groan from her and a growl from him. The pleasure blurred with pain, as unbearable as it was necessary.

How had he gone without this for so long? How had he resisted this? No wonder so many humans were willing to war with their brethren, just to have or even save the one they lusted after. This sense of connection…Zacharel had never before experienced its like. He wasn’t just Zacharel, he was Annabelle’s man and glad for it.

“Zacharel?”

Her br**sts smashed against his chest, causing a brand-new ache. He had to feel her against him, skin to skin, no barriers. He released her long enough to rip his robe down the middle and jerk his arms free of the fabric, allowing what was left to mend itself and tighten around his waist. Next he ripped the cotton of Annabelle’s top, causing it to gape open and her to inhale sharply.