Chapter 25 #2
"I want to taste every inch of you." His mouth finds my collarbone, kissing a path across heated skin. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg."
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He pauses again, still giving me the choice.
I reach up and undo it myself.
The bra falls away and his hands are there immediately, cupping, weighing, learning the shape of me. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I make a sound I've never made before, desperate and needy.
"There," he says with satisfaction. "That's what I wanted to hear."
His mouth follows where his hands have been, and I'm lost. My head falls back against the wall, hands tangled in his hair, holding him to me.
Even the shining gols strands of his hair feel like silk.
Every touch is deliberate, thorough. He's learning me, cataloging what makes me respond, what makes me writhe against him.
"Croesus, lease." I’m not above begging right now.
"Please what?" His mouth is on my breast, his teeth grazing sensitive flesh. His eyes closed. "Tell me what you want."
"More. Everything. Stop being so..." My words cut off in a gasp as his hand slides down my stomach, fingers playing with the button of my jeans. "Stop being so methodical."
He pulls back, and even though he can't see me, I feel the weight of his attention.
"I want to memorize you. Every sound. Every response.
Every way I can make you fall apart." His hand presses against me through denim.
"Because in a few months, when you're gone, this is all I'll have.
Memories of how you felt under my hands. "
The words are devastating. A reminder that this is temporary. That we're both on borrowed time.
"Then stop wasting time," I tell him, reaching for his shirt.
He lets me unbutton it, his gaze fixed close, as if he’s watching my face as I work. My hands are shaking but I manage to get it open, push it off his shoulders. And God, he's beautiful. All lean muscle and golden skin, unmarked except—.
I pause. There are scars on his chest. Faint, old, even.
"Holy weapons," he says, following my attention even though he can't see where I'm looking. "Angels can scar if the wound is deep enough. Inflicted with the right power."
I trace one with my finger, a long line across his ribs. "Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore. They're thousands of years old." He catches my hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses my palm. "But the pain was... instructive. A reminder of what I lost when I fell."
I lean forward and press my lips to the scar. He goes rigid under my mouth.
"Raven," and I practically preen under the feral growl as he says my name.
"Shut up." I kiss another scar. And another. Mapping his damage the way he mapped my desire. "Your turn to let me learn you."
His breath comes faster as my mouth moves across his chest, his stomach. My hands work his belt, the button of his pants. He's hard against my palm when I touch him and the sound he makes is gratifying.
"You're going to kill me," he says roughly.
"Good."
But before I can go further, he's pulling me up, kissing me again. Desperate now, the control starting to slip. His hands are on the button of my jeans again, and this time he doesn't pause. Doesn't ask. Just opens them and slides his hand inside.
I gasp against his mouth as his fingers find me, slick and ready and so desperate for him I could scream.
"So wet," he breathes. "Is this all for me?"
"Do not fucking tease me."
"I want to hear you say it." His fingers move in slow circles, deliberate torture. "Say you want me."
"I hate yo-" The words cut off as he finds the perfect spot, the perfect pressure. "God, I hate that I want you."
"I know." His mouth finds my ear. "I hate it too. Hate that I need this. Need you." His fingers slip inside me and I make a sound that's embarrassingly desperate. "But I do. I need you like I've never needed anything."
He works me with his hand, learning this too, what rhythm makes me clench around him, what angle makes my knees weak. I'm clutching his shoulders, barely able to stand, when he withdraws.
I actually whimper at the loss.
"Not yet," he says. "When you come, I want to be inside you."
He pulls my jeans down, and I step out of them, kicking them aside. Now we're both in just our underwear, pressed against each other, skin on heated skin.
"The desk," I manage. "Or the floor. Or anywhere. I don't care. Just, don’t leave me like this."
He lifts me. Just picks me up like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist automatically. He carries me to the desk, golden surface gleaming in the firelight, and sets me on the edge. The papers go flying, fluttering, flinging through the room as he clears everything off the surface.
His hands hook in my underwear. "Last chance," he says, even as his body is pressed between my thighs, even as I can feel how much he wants this. "Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me this isn't what you want."
I reach for his underwear instead. "If you stop now, I'll kill you myself."
He laughs, dark and raw, and helps me push his underwear down. Then mine. And then there's nothing between us. Just skin and heat and desperate need.
He pauses, one hand bracing beside me on the desk, the other sliding up my thigh. His gold eyes are pointed at my face even though he can't see it. "This changes everything," he warns. "Once I have you like this, once I claim you, I won't be able to let go."
"I know."
"You'll be mine."
"And you'll be mine." I pull him closer with my legs. "Remember that part. You don't get to own me without me owning you right back."
Something flashes across his face, surprise maybe, or relief. Then he's pushing into me, and the world narrows to this single point of contact.
We both groan at the sensation. He fills me completely, perfectly, like we were designed to fit together this way.
"Move," I demand when he stays still, clearly trying to regain some control. "Croesus, please."
He moves. Pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in. Slow. Methodical. Like he's learning this too, what I like, what I need.
"Faster," I tell him, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"No." His voice is strained but controlled. "I want to feel every second of this. Want to remember exactly how you feel."
"You're being cruel."
"I'm being thorough." He sets a pace that's maddening, slow and deep and absolutely devastating. Every thrust hits exactly where I need it, building tension until I'm shaking with it.
"Tell me what you need. Tell me what else you want. How I can make you come so hard you’ll never be fuck anyone else.”
"Faster. Harder. Stop being so..." The words dissolve into a gasp as he changes angle. "Oh Gods."
"There?" He does it again. "Is that what you need?"
"Yes, fuck."
He gives me what I asked for then. Picks up the pace, drives into me harder. The desk is cold against my back but I barely notice because he's everywhere, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck, his body claiming mine with every thrust.
"Mine," he growls against my throat. "Say it."
"No." I drag my nails down his back hard, digging in, wanting my claim on his equally. "You're mine too. Say it."
"I'm," He groans as I clench around him. "Fuck. I'm yours. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Yes."
"I'm yours. Completely. Devastatingly." His hand slides between us, finding the bundle of nerves that makes gold sparks dance behind my eyelids. "And you're mine. Even if it's just for now. Even if it destroys us both."
The combination of his fingers and his cock and his words is too much. I come apart around him, his name torn from my throat as pleasure crashes through me in waves.
He follows a moment later, my name a curse and a prayer falling from his mouth as he empties himself inside me.
Then it's over.
We're both breathing hard, tangled together on his desk, covered in sweat and scratches and the evidence of what we've done.
Reality crashes back.
Croesus pulls away first, stepping back, putting distance between us. He's still shirtless, his hair disheveled, golden blood drying in scratches across his shoulders.
He looks wrecked.
"That was..." he starts.
"A mistake," I finish, pulling my shirt back on with shaking hands. "Obviously."
"No." His voice is rough. "Not a mistake. But definitely a complication."
"That's one word for it."
He finds his ruined shirt, looks at it, tosses it aside. Crosses to a closet and pulls out a new one. Buttons it methodically, like he's trying to regain some semblance of control.
"I don't share," he says finally. "I need you to understand that. I can't, I won't, share you."
"You don't have a choice. In ten months, or so, I’ll be gone."
"I know." His hands clench on the shirt buttons.
"I know you're leaving. I know other angels will have you.
I know the binding doesn't make you mine in any way that matters.
" He turns to face me. "But while you're here?
While you're in my house? There is no one else.
No demon-blooded ex-lovers. No phone calls to men who've had you. Just me. Just this."
"That's not fair, how many of your lovers live within these walls?"
"I don't care about fair.” He snaps. “I care about surviving the next few months without losing my mind." He crosses to me, cups my face. "I'm falling for you. You're falling for me. We're both going to get hurt when this ends. But at least let me have you, completely, while I can."
Through the binding, I feel his desperation. His need. And underneath it, the fear. He's terrified of losing me. Terrified of wanting me this much.
I'm terrified too.
"Okay," I whisper. "While I'm here. No one else."
"Promise me."
"I promise. But, " I meet his eyes. "You don't own me, Croesus. This doesn't make me your possession."
"I know."
"I'm not another thing for your collection."
"I know that too." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "You're the one thing I want that I'll never truly have. And it's killing me."
"Then we're even. Because this is killing me too."
He kisses me then, soft this time, gentle, almost tender. So different from the desperate claiming of a few minutes ago.
"Stay with me tonight," he says against my mouth. "Don't go back to your room. Stay here."
I should say no. Should put distance between us, let us both cool down and think about what we've done.
But I'm tired of fighting. Tired of pretending I don't want exactly what he's offering.
"Okay," I say. "I'll stay."
Relief floods through him, I feel it through the binding like a wave.
He leads me out of the study, down the corridor to his private chambers.
Not a dragon's hoard or a throne room or anything ostentatious.
Just a bedroom, large but simple. A massive bed with silk sheets.
A fireplace that burns with golden flames.
Windows that show impossible views: desert sunsets, ocean waves, mountain peaks.
All of them fake. All of them beautiful.
We don't talk. Don't discuss what happened or what it means. We just lie down together, still half-dressed, exhausted and wrung out.
He pulls me against his chest, arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"I hate this," he murmurs into my hair.
"Me too."
"But I don't want to stop."
"Me either."
Through the binding, I feel his emotions, want and fear and desperation all tangled together. And underneath it all, something that might be love, even though neither of us is brave enough to name it yet.
I'm falling for him. An angel who owns my service, who's possessive and jealous and greedy. Who hates wanting me as much as I hate wanting him.
And in ten months, I'll have to leave.
It's going to destroy us both.
But right now, in his arms, in his bed, with his heartbeat steady under my ear, I can't bring myself to care.
I'll deal with the consequences later.
For now, I just let myself have this. Have him.
Even knowing it's temporary.
Even knowing it will hurt.
Even knowing that what we've started tonight can't possibly end well.
I fall asleep to the feeling of his fingers stroking through my hair, and the whisper of words I'm not sure I was meant to hear:
"Mine. For now, at least. Mine."