“You are the most decadent creature ever created, sweetheart,” he said. He withdrew his hands from her, hands that were still burning in a way he’d never experienced, and she cried out in distress. “I’m here,” he assured her, “and I’m not going anywhere. I just want to lift you, just want to be able to go deeper.”
He placed a pillow under her hips and returned to what he’d been doing. Soon she was gasping, rolling her hips toward him, touching him as intimately as he was touching her…driving him wild…making him hunger for what he didn’t understand….
…hunger so desperately…
He was in pain, but he couldn’t stop this. Need more, have to have more.
The same fog he’d experienced before was trying to roll in, to consume him, but he resisted. Yes, his blood had heated, becoming fire, singeing him all the way to the bone. Yes, his teeth were gnashed together and his muscles knotted more painfully than ever. But he was master of his body, not desire. He would make this special for Annabelle. He would not ruin it.
At least, that’s what he told himself—before she lifted his robe and took his length in hand and he nearly jolted off the bed. She stroked him up and down. He loved it. He hated it. He needed more, more, more, but couldn’t withstand any more. Would die, surely.
The faster she moved her hand on him, the faster he moved his fingers in her. It was…it was…
Happening. Something was happening to him.
As she cried out, arching her body against him, utter pleasure overshadowed every bit of his pain, starting in the middle of his spine and arrowing up and down, affecting every inch of him. His hips bowed toward her, and his own hoarse cry filled the room.
All he could do was hold on to Annabelle, pray she never let go of him and die a thousand little deaths, each one making him rise up again, a different man, someone stronger and better, weaker and worse. Because in those moments of absolute, utter vulnerability, where nothing seemed to matter but the female who had given him such divine bliss, he realized he was already addicted to what she made him feel.
Give her up?
No. Never.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ANNABELLE HAD NEVER BEFORE spent an entire night in a man’s arms, had never thought to, since Heath had always had to jump out the window of her bedroom so that her parents wouldn’t catch him. But last night, she had remained snuggled into Zacharel’s side. Warm and strong, he held her, soothing her back to sleep when bad dreams dared to intrude.
She woke well rested, drug free and ready for whatever came. Or so she thought. By the time she’d brushed her teeth and showered, she had to face Zacharel and nerves nearly got the better of her.
The things he’d done to her… He was a man who had given her more pleasure than anyone else ever had, burning away the terrors of the past, leaving new, amazing memories to sigh over for years to come. She wanted that again. But…did he?
Probably not, she thought when she emerged from the bathroom once again wearing the maid’s uniform, because he did not look happy to see her. Although, if she were honest, his unhappy look pretty much matched all his other looks. Except for his smile, when those gorgeous dimples made an appearance.
I really want to see those dimples again.
He stood in front of the bed, his white robe pristine, unwrinkled, and his muscled arms crossed over his chest. He smelled of morning sky and sunshine, his hair brushed to a glossy shine.
“What’s got you in such an irritated mood? No demons attacked us last night,” she said, going for bravado rather than timid insecurity. “And notice I used the word irritated and not irritating, even though that’s what I was thinking.”
“I am not in a mood,” he replied. “Perhaps I am just overcome by my first sexual experience.”
Oh…well. Okay, then. Blood rushed into her cheeks, heating her skin. “You sure didn’t seem like a beginner,” she admitted.
“Thank you. Also,” he continued blithely, “I am content. I was right. You are harder to find when other humans surround you, which means I now know how to protect you.”
“Subject change accepted,” she muttered.