Archangel's Kiss

His abdomen went tight. "You're giving me ideas." He could still taste the wild musk of her on his tongue, sumptuous and earthy. "Next time, I might use my teeth on far more delicate flesh."



Shuddering, she unsnapped the next two buttons . . . before leaning forward to press a wetly sensual kiss on the lowest part of his navel. His hips jerked, his hand fisting in her hair. "I," he ground out, "do not have that much control." Releasing her, he stepped back.



"That's no - " Her words trailed away as he stripped off what remained of his clothing, wanting nothing between his flesh and her touch.



Elena's breath whispered out of her. The impact of him was . . . indescribable.



Then he was walking back to her, his erection pure unadulterated temptation. She curved her fingers around him, aware of his hand going to her hair again, of him wrapping the strands around his fist. "Enough teasing." A gentle nudge. "Fulfill your promise."



Her skin went hot, tight at the rough sexual tone of that demand, but she shot him a teasing smile. "Giving orders even in bed?"



Elena.



Hearing the edge in that, suddenly violently aware of how long her archangel had waited for her - and it was still a kick to the heart, that she was loved by him - she dipped her head and ran her tongue over the vein that pulsed along the thick line of his arousal. He made an inarticulate sound of mingled pain and pleasure, his hand tugging slightly at her hair. Unable to resist now that she'd had a taste of him, her thighs clenching, she retraced her journey and took him into her mouth.



Elena!



She couldn't take all of him. He was too big, too thick.But I'll have eternity to refine my technique. The sensual thought blazed out on an inferno of need as she loved her archangel, licking and tasting and sucking.



Brilliant white fire against her skin and she knew he was glowing, this lethal being she dared tease in the most intimate of ways. His response when it came, was starkly sensual.Your mouth  - his voice sandpaper in her mind - is a little piece of heaven and hell.



Moaning low in her throat, she stroked up, swirled her tongue around the head before sliding her mouth back down the enticement that was his body. She loved the taste of him, the contrast of steel and silk, the way he murmured hot little promises of retribution.



Under her hands, his muscles grew granite-hard, his skin sheened with heat. "Enough, Elena." A command.



She let him feel her teeth.



A crash of waves inside her mind, a wild storm.I am, he said, no trace of the civilized male in him now,tying you to the bed next time.



Knowing he was so close to the edge that another caress would tip him over, Raphael stroked his hand down the sensitive arch of Elena's left wing, sliding out of the sweet, hot prison of her mouth while she was distracted by the shock of sensation. But though her eyes glittered with the fever of their combined hunger, she didn't give in. Lifting a single taunting finger, she sucked it between the kiss-swollen beauty of her lips.



That was all the encouragement the voracious hunger inside him needed. Spreading through his veins, it took him over, a rippling black fire. He returned to the bed in a dark wave of heat, flipping Elena onto her front, pulling her legs up and spreading them wide.



It was the rawest, most primitive way to possess a woman, but his hunter pushed up on her elbows, gave him a challenging look, and said, "I'm waiting."



He slid into her in a single hard thrust. Her scream echoed off the walls, but it was a scream that held equal parts demand and need. Gripping her hips tight, he pulled out almost fully, then slammed back in. There was no mercy in him any longer, but Elena didn't ask it from him.



Learn to fly fast, Elena, he said as he pushed them both to a final, blinding peak.Then we will dance in the sky.



They did have that bath - much later, Raphael stroking the washcloth over her wings with lazy movements as she leaned on the rim. "That feels so intimate."



"It is." A kiss pressed to the ultra-sensitive edge where her right wing grew out of her back. "Allowing someone to care for your wings is considered an act that takes a relationship well beyond the sexual."



Limbs heavy with desire sated, she thought about that. "Can I wash your wings?" It would be the most delicious of indulgences, the most exquisite of pleasures.



"You've had that right since our first bath."



The unadorned truth of his words made her heart ache.



"But," he continued, placing the washcloth on the rim as he fit himself to her back, "right now, you're in no shape to do anything but relax."



She heard the thread of male pride in that, felt the ache translate into sensual affection.



"You give good sex, Archangel."



A squeeze of her breasts, his free hand reaching between them to stroke two fingers into her. Sucking in a breath, she found her voice. "Again?" Heat uncurled in her abdomen.



"Again." Withdrawing his fingers, he dropped a kiss to the curve of her neck, his erection nudging at her.



"Be gentle."



She felt him smile at her echo of his earlier words.For you, Elena, anything. He slid into her in a smooth thrust, her body stretching to accommodate him in sharp ecstasy. And when he moved this time, it was slow and deep, a claiming so tender, he would've stolen her heart if she hadn't already given it to him high above a ruined Manhattan.



Elena was fairly certain her muscles were jelly the next day, but she crawled to the training session with Galen regardless. Raphael had given her the massage he'd promised her before they fell asleep, and nothing was actually torn or broken, so it was going to be all about working through the muscle pain.



Galen took one look at her and threw her what felt like a ten-ton metal brick. She stared at the claymore - and it sure looked like the heavy Scottish weapon - for a second, then set her feet and lifted. Her biceps quivered, but the damn blade ended up vertical, the tip pointed to the cloudy blue sky.



Galen scanned her shoulders, her arms. "You're stronger than a normal mortal."



"I'm no longer mortal," she pointed out, only just keeping the claymore upright.



"No one has records on an angel Made, but if the same principles apply as with vampires, then your strength won't increase to immortal levels for a significant period."



Shrugging, she left it at that. The fact that the hunter-born were slightly stronger than ordinary humans wasn't exactly a secret, but neither was it advertised. And while she might now be an immortal, she was still hunter-born, still a member of the Guild. Those were loyalties she'd never betray.



"Throw it to me."



She narrowed her eyes and walked across the snow-sprinkled ground to hand him the blade. "What? Do you want to prove to me how weak I am? You can do that with one punch."



"But then Raphael would kill me." An imminently practical response as he took the claymore and turned to retrieve something from a small table in the corner of the training area. He was shirtless once again, but still wore that thin metal band around his left arm, the metal a solid gray with the slightest sheen. A small amulet of some kind hung from the center, but she couldn't put a handle on its origins.



Norse? Maybe.



She had no trouble seeing him as part of a bloodthirsty warrior culture. Glancing away from the armband, she found herself the focus of at least twenty pairs of curious eyes.



"We've got an audience again."



To her surprise, Galen frowned. "We don't need one - not in the condition you're in."



Raising a hand, he made a sharp downward gesture.



A silver blue bullet dropped out of the sky, streaking toward the ground like lightning unleashed. Illium's landing was wildly showy, a hard, fast drive that left him grinning on one knee, his wings spread in blatant display. "Vain," she told him, figuring her heart would stop trying to leap out of her throat any minute now.



He rose to his feet. "It's not vanity if it's truth, Ellie."



Shaking her head, she looked to Galen. "What's Bluebell going to teach me?"



"Nothing. Illium is going to play butterfly."



Elena had no idea what the other angel meant until he ushered her inside the huge building that overlooked the ring of beaten earth they'd been using for the past weeks. An indoor training salle, she realized as Galen closed the doors, locking out their audience.



"Impressive." The ceiling soared, reminding her of an amphitheatre stripped down to its very basics.



"Voles-tu, mon petit papillon."



Illium laughed at Galen's instruction to "fly, little butterfly" and gave the other angel a desultory finger, replying in a language Elena thought might have been Greek.



She was shocked to see a grin crack Galen's face. That grin disappeared the instant he turned to her. "Good, you're wearing arm sheaths." He came closer, examined them with the quick, careful hands of a weapons expert. "Excellent quality."



"Deacon's the best."



Those pale green eyes locked on her. "You know Deacon personally?"



She tilted her head to the side. "He's married to my best friend."



Illium gasped. "Now you've got Galen by the short and curlies. He has wet dreams about getting into Deacon's . . . weapons shed."



Another rapid-fire exchange of Greek and French, Galen's French too fast for her to follow. She didn't need to understand - it was obvious the two were ribbing each other.



Friends, she thought suddenly. For some reason, Illium, with his laughter and his heart, was friends with this cold-eyed angel who seemed hewn out of stone.



"I thought," she said when Galen turned back to her, "close-contact fighting was a no-no?"



"You won't be close. Illium."



Illium rose up into the air, not stopping until he was hovering at the very top of the salle, a bolt of blue against the dark grain of the wood.



"Hit him."



She took a step back, shook her head. "These knives are real."



"He's immortal. A minor knife wound won't hurt him. And if you can do it with a knife, you'll be unbeatable with a gun."



"He might be immortal, but he feels pain." And Illium had already hurt for her.



"I can take it, Ellie." A shout from the roof. "But you're not going to hit me."



"Oh yeah?" She played a knife in her hand.



"Yeah."



Still, she hesitated. "You sure?"



"I dare you."



Reassured by the playful goad, she tracked his lazy movements as he hovered . . . and threw. He was gone before the knife left her hand. And she understood why Galen had called him a butterfly. Illium could move incredibly fast in a contained space, seeming to need little to no room or time to turn, zip in another direction.



Sweat was pouring down her face by the time she ran out of knives - her own and the ones Galen had given her. Illium blew her a kiss from his perch on a rafter. "Poor Ellie.



Want a nap?"



"Shut up." Wiping her face, she shook her head at Galen. "How the hell can he move like that?"



"They call his mother the Hummingbird." Galen caught a knife Illium threw down, one of several that had lodged in various parts of the salle. "You have some skill - it'll make it easier to get you to a point where you can consistently hit the neck."

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