by Lisa Hughey
Rafe slanted his head and edged closer to take her mouth. With a firm lick of his tongue against her sweet soft lips, she opened for him. He sipped at her lips as if they were the sweetest of nectar, and learned her taste and her texture. Then she kissed him back. Her lips pressed just a little more insistently. Her breasts were crushed against the hard planes of his chest and their thighs aligned like the planets.
But they had to stop.
Rafe inhaled slowly. He wanted to hold this exact moment in time within him before he pushed her away. He wanted to touch her. To heal her. To make her his. Before he regained his sanity. And they moved back to their roles of teacher and pupil. Archangel and human. Taboo.
Her skin still held that unique scent that was strictly Angelina and laced with gardenia and brimstone.
Except that as he inhaled her sweet and sultry essence, he realized that it was the scent of them together.
When he realized that, he was lost.
THIRTY-FOUR
Angelina knew he was going to pull away.
She could feel his intent in the bunch of his muscles, the soft sigh of his breath against her forehead. Pain struck her heart. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected him to go.
She’d known this moment was inevitable from the first time he’d told her this was forbidden. But she’d be damned if he would leave now.
Not while her nipples ached for his mouth and her body was slick with desire. Her legs tingled from the brush of his hands against her thighs. His face was a dark pleasure as she stared into his gray, tormented gaze. Dark with desire but ready to deny them both. Even though his erection was heavy and strained the bounds of his jeans, he planned to turn her away.
Not this time. She was determined to reach out and take what she wanted, consequences be damned. Because she already was.
Deliberately, she clasped his hands. Rough calluses marked his palms. She marveled at the contrast of his darker, masculine skin against her pale white hands as she carefully pressed his palms to her aching nipples.
“Heal. Me.”
She stepped closer to Rafe and cupped him through his wet jeans. Heat burned through the cold. He was on fire. For her.
A groan rumbled through his body. His hips instinctively pushed against the hard pressure. “We cannot.”
Angelina unsnapped the button on his Levi’s and slowly lowered the zipper with difficulty. “Please.” She pulled his mouth down to hers.
As if with the action she had snapped his control, Rafe surrendered to her demands. With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her back and slid his palms down to cup her buttocks, pulled her harder into the throbbing length of his manhood, and held her as if he’d never let her go. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, and suddenly she was desperate to feel him. Everywhere. All over her body, inside her.
She needed him. Now.
Angelina pulled him down to the bed with her, his wet clothes a cool contrast to the heat burning up her skin. His rain-soaked clothes dampened the simple cotton gown from her breasts, to the hard ridge of her pubis bone, to the muscles of her thighs.
Angelina was determined to take this moment for herself.
There would be time for regrets later.
She savored the smell of crisp ozone, the soft give of the mattress at her back and the hard, strong length of his muscular body. His bulk was solid, reassuring, there.
The hard rod of his erection pressed into her concave belly like a hot brand through the thin cotton nightgown.
Angelina arched up into his chest, and tugged at the plain white t-shirt still wet from their dash to the house. With a fierce move, she ripped it over his head and flung the shirt to the floor. As Rafe pulled the old gown up from her ankles, the material dragged against the hypersensitive skin of her back.
Angelina shivered. She had been lost for a little while. But as she came back into her body, she found herself in the arms of her dream angel. His fingertips skimmed along her arm, tingling with awareness, as he learned her body, and caressed her curves.
His heart thudded in his chest as her hand rested over his broad pectoral.
Angelina closed her eyes. She didn’t want reality to intrude.
The soft sheets, faint with the scent of bleach, rustled against her bare skin and sensitized her nerve endings. He made love to her mouth, his lips clung to hers as if he was drowning and only she could save him. She shivered as the rough pads of his fingers caressed the sensitive skin of her breast, then cupped her.
She needed his acceptance, needed this.
He gathered her hands, still chilled from the cold downpour, and rubbed gently along her arms. His motions soft and soothing until he blew lightly on her mark.
The air brushed across her wrist and swirled along her Angel’s mark, his breath unbearably erotic. As if the almost-touch gave her body permission to come alive, sensation caromed through her bloodstream, arced to her core, and washed over her in a dark rush of liquid desire.
Angelina opened her eyes and stared into Rafe’s silver eyes. His gray gaze glowed with lust. His body caged hers. Her hands were captive in his, the rough pad of his thumb stroked along the mark, and shot bolts of sensation through her body. Every innocent caress zinged her core. Her womb clenched in demand for him.
As each stroke lengthened, her breath shortened.
She was trapped beneath him, her movement limited by the press of his weight holding her down. She was desperate to feel his satin skin stretched tight over his muscles, to find relief from the ache of unfulfilled desire and the crushing weight of failure.
This wasn’t a dream. He was here. In this room with her. Dim light filtered through the lace curtains at the window.
She stared at him mutely, afraid to speak and break the spell of silence. Afraid to tip the balance the wrong way, afraid he’d realize that it wasn’t a dream. They were here together in this bed, surrounded by symbols of tradition. A virginal white gown, a white ticking bedspread, the maple turned bedposts, scarred and faded from generations of use, and a cross-stitched family tree on the wall above Battenberg lace shams. Tradition seeped from every pore of this room, decorated for a lifetime. But she knew they only had this moment, for her feelings could not be permanent. And their time together wouldn’t be forever.
His erection rubbed against the heat building at the junction of her thighs. His chest, thick and roped with muscle, pressed down against her softer, fuller breasts, his skin hot, burning with a passion he could no longer hide.
Angelina wanted this. Wanted him.
She knew their time together was almost at an end. And she refused to waste a moment of it. Angelina ran her palms over his heavily muscled shoulders and over his naked back and down to the hard contours of his butt. His erection pressed against her stomach. And oh, she wanted him naked and inside her.
“Please.”
“We cannot.” He nudged her with his erection. “This is forbidden.”
She didn’t want to be responsible right now. And even as disappointment washed over her, Rafe skimmed his hard, callused hand down her body.
“But I would give you this.” He slid his finger along her wet sex. Even as her mind cried out for more, for all of him, her body began to move against his hand. Rafe entered her with one thick finger, then two and even as she clutched against him, trying desperately to pull him inside her, her body betrayed her. Her core burst in orgasm, lit up her body with flame, and blew her mind with pleasure.
Rafe muffled a shout as he spurt his seed over her stomach.
Angelina held on to sensations crowding her. The thud of his heart against her breast. The slick skim of his weight on top of her. The solid bulk of his hips cradled in hers. The soft sough of his labored breath against her neck.
If she could stay right here, in this moment forever, she would chose not to leave this bed. She would hold onto the sense of euphoria and belonging as long as she could.
But of course the moment was too perfect to last.
Rafe lifted his head from the curve of her shoulder. He stiffened and rolled away from her. She mourned the loss of his weight but realized she couldn’t stay here even if she wanted to. Her life was full of responsibilities and commitments. But someplace deep inside where she needed, just for a little while, to be free, her hopes crumbled into dust.
Rafe grabbed the damp towel from the floor and lovingly cleaned her stomach. Then he dropped the towel and pulled her into his arms. Angelina curled around Rafe intimately, and savored the solid support of his ribcage and the hard contours of his chest. Maybe if she distracted him they could stay in this bed just a little longer.
He turned her shoulders so she faced him, which forced her to look at him. She pressed her eyelids closed, deliberately refusing. Like a little kid who knew punishment was imminent.
This was it. She was destined to be fired from healing. She’d held a kernel of hope in her heart which had blossomed with each successful time she’d put her hands on someone. And then it had been suddenly smashed under the dead woman’s body, crushed under the force of the little girl’s tears.
Mrs. Hooper was likely a fluke. An aberration. Maybe Gary had actually been the one to save her and somehow Angelina just got caught in the wake of his expertise.
“What’s wrong?”
Apparently Archangels didn’t have the same filters about the after part of sex. Mere men never wanted to talk. And conversation was not exactly what she had expected. As if all the resistance fled in a single breath, she sighed. “I didn’t save her.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“The mother?”
Rafe tried to get his head around her statement. But it was difficult. His heart still pounded as if he’d run a four-minute mile and his body still throbbed from the most explosive sexual encounter he’d ever had. And they hadn’t even consummated their passion.
But Rafe forced himself to focus on the misery in Angelina’s gaze.
The mother had been beyond help. Angelina needed to understand that the mother’s death had not been her fault. They needed to discuss this. And he needed to teach her how to hold herself in reserve.
“Her death was not your fault.” If anything, it was Rafe’s fault. Angelina was still in training. Under normal circumstances, he would never have put a newly transitioned Angel in that position. Trying to diagnose and heal an unknown and sometimes virulent disease was not a job for a newbie.
But they didn’t have the luxury of waiting. The Council had decreed she had to be a part of this investigation, so her training had to be on the job.
“She died,” Angelina said flatly.
The mother. Tomasz’s wife. A Nephilim.
“She was beyond help.” But Rafe’s thoughts returned to that mark.
“I grew up without a mother.” Angelina cleared her throat as if the words had stuck there.
He knew her grandmother had raised her, but he didn’t know why. “What happened?”
“She took off.” Angelina shook herself as if coming out of the trance. “My dad left when I was a month old. Then mom couldn’t handle two little girls on her own so she dropped us on my Grammy’s doorstep and just left.”
“It’s hardly the same.”
“The girl’s mother is gone.”
“But she didn’t leave, she was sick,” Rafe argued.
“The end result is the same.” Angelina stared at cross-stitched sampler of a family tree on the wall next to the bed. “The loss will change her life. Change her view of herself.”
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Weak sunlight snuck through the curtains to cast late evening rays over the bed. As if the sun was drawn to her, the rays gently bathed her face in a pure soft light.
His chest grew tight at her stunning beauty and haunted eyes.
“Is that what happened to you?” He really wanted to know. She seemed to have so little confidence in her own abilities. Rafe understood now that before when she refused the gift of healing it had less to do with rejecting the gift and more to do with her belief in her own worthiness.
She shrugged and tucked her head under his chin, effectively blocking her gaze from his.
As he stared down at the delicate curve of her neck, he finally understood. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I know this is difficult.”
“Right.” She laughed, the sound a harsh bark in the dim room. “Do you want to do it now?”
Do it? His thoughts went immediately to the wrong place. Suddenly Rafe was violently aware of the fact that they were still ensconced in the cozy bed. Her lush body pressed against his side, her leg thrown over his thighs and her soft, wet curls flirted with the tense muscles of his thigh.
And he might have thought that was what she meant, except her sorrow permeated every corner of the room, and weighted her down. He could literally see her despondence. Worse than when he’d first invaded her dreams.
Her gaze was dead. “I failed.”
“Wrong.” He grabbed her hand and held her palm against his beating heart.
“She died.”
“Angelina, she couldn’t be saved.”
But she just shook her head, a look of devastation on her face. No matter what he said. “Look, you must learn how to protect yourself.”
“Why?”
“You need to know when you’ve had enough. If you keep healing when your energy stores are depleted, or if you take in too much excess energy, the Vis Viva will overwhelm your body and you will die.”
She lifted her head, and the movement pressed her breast to his chest. “You mean....”
Her pulse beat in her neck and hope shone from her gaze as he waited for her to finish her sentence.
“You are not sending me back?”
“Of course not. Why would you think that? You have already recovered from an attempt that would have killed most healers. Your gift is extraordinary.” This conversation was important. She needed to understand her role and her duty.
“Extraordinary?” She blinked, as if trying to process his assertion.
“Yes.”
Angelina shifted slightly, and the sheet that covered her breasts dipped, the edge caught on the hard point of her nipple. “How do I protect myself?”
Her hand rested over his heart as the organ boomed in his chest. He only partly paid attention as her succulent areola played peek-a-boo with the old white sheet.
“Time.” Rafe gently brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “Give yourself a few minutes between healings.”
“Time?”
“Although you may not need too much. You are uncommonly strong.”
She nodded.
“You really are extraordinary.” The sheet finally gave up the fight, and slipped to reveal her rounded, female form. The temptation was too much to ignore, so he lowered his head.
“Okay,” she answered breathlessly.
“But if you get overwhelmed, you can always call me.” He sipped and worshiped her breast, marveling at the soft skin and supple roundness.
“How are you able to find me?”
“Every healer is connected to my consciousness. If you call me, I will come.”
“Any time?”
Rafe lifted his head to stare into her eyes and pledged, “I vow it to be so.”
She nodded. But he could still see the hesitation in her.
“You must embrace your destiny.” He gave in to the impulse to stroke the inside of her arm, and trace her blue veins. He was reminded of Tomasz and how he’d stroked the arm of his dead wife. The Nephilim. Dead from the disease.
Many of the sick were Nephilim.
The Nephilim. Rafe needed to think more about the significance. Suddenly he realized what nagged at him. Had all of the people who contracted the disease had Nephilim blood? Was that the connector between why certain people fell ill, while others were perfectly fine?
THIRTY-SIX
The lonely crow of a rooster jerked him out of his thoughts. H
e needed to get to the lab to compare the blood samples they had taken against the analysis from the dead chicken.
“Rafe?” He glanced down at Angelina, wrapped in his arms. Her breath tickled his neck as he inhaled her gardenia scent. He hated to break this connection. For a few moments, he lay in the comforting embrace of the old saggy mattress and savored their closeness.
But the lull was fleeting and the clock was ticking.
“We need to go to the Angelic Realm.” Rafe gently ran his hand down her soft skin and meshed his fingers with hers. “Now.”
Angelina rolled away, the worn sheets wrapped around her body, as a flush spread over her pale skin, she stretched her arms over her head. “What for?”
“We need to go to the lab.”
“Okay.”
Within a few minutes they were back in the laboratory where he’d first subconsciously drawn her to him. Rafe stared at the table where she’d loved him with her mouth. Angelina flushed when she noticed his attention on the table. They had to focus.
Rafe worked to compare the blood samples.
“Can I help?” Angelina peered over his shoulder. “I may not have gotten my degree but I aced chem.”
They worked together efficiently. Rafe observed the various slides under the microscopes, and dictated his thoughts to Angelina. She interjected with points he’d overlooked or not connected.
Once they made the correlation between the sick chickens and the sick people the rest had come together. He still wasn’t sure how or why the chickens first contracted the disease. And when he ran the computer analysis, he finally found what had been bothering him. The chickens had a strain of Archangel DNA within them. That meant someone had genetically modified the chickens to produce a hybrid animal. Just like frost resistant strawberries had arctic fish DNA injected into their strawberry seeds, the sick chickens had Archangel DNA.
That meant the DNA could only have come from the Third Sphere. This was huge.
Rafe requested an urgent audience with Nora.
“Raphael.” She shimmered into the room, pristine, as always, in her long white gown.