Raziel

by Kristina Douglas

“Feeding blood to vampires is a higher calling?”

  “Giving life to the Fallen is a higher calling. And the term is blood-eaters.”

  “I don’t care what the term is, you’re vampires.”

  I ground my teeth. She really did have an extraordinary ability to get under my skin, when I’d managed to be impervious to everything and everyone for so long. She was bringing me back to life, and reanimating the dead was always painful.

  “Fine,” I said. “We’re vampires. Get over it.”

  “What did you do in the past when the Source died? Did one of you have to quick find a willing sacrifice?”

  Beneath her hostility I could sense a real concern, and I decided to answer her. “Azazel has been the only one married to the Source. The Source has never died suddenly—it was always natural causes and there was plenty of warning. The healers . . .” I wasn’t sure how I was going to phrase this, but Allie filched the image out of my mind.

  “They take blood from her at regular intervals and store it,” she supplied. “How charming. So how long does Azazel get to mourn? How long before Sarah is replaced by some nubile young thing?”

  “He has always had enough time to grieve. With Sarah it will be a problem. I don’t know how long it will take him to recover from her loss.”

  “He’s had enough practice,” she said, her voice brutal. “So why me? And don’t give me that crap about being bonded mates—you and I both know that’s impossible. We don’t even like each other.”

  I resisted the impulse to smile. She was putting so much effort into keeping me at a distance. She didn’t want me anywhere near her. She didn’t want me pushing her down among the pure white sheets, moving down her sweet, gorgeous body, tasting her, my hands on her thighs, my mouth—

  “Don’t do that!” she said, shaken. She was searching for some way to stop me, some kind of insult. “After two nights ago, I thought you didn’t believe in foreplay.”

  “Was I too fast for you?” I said, unruffled. “It seemed to me you were right there along with me. Are you telling me you didn’t like it?”

  “Of course not!” she snapped. “I’m just saying that women like to be wooed, slowly and respectfully.”

  I laughed. “So those orgasms were faked? You’re able to control your body that well? I must admit I’m impressed. And clearly my information was incorrect—it said you only climaxed by yourself. Which, by the way, is considered a sin by some scholars, but which we embrace enthusiastically.”

  She was blushing, and I couldn’t resist her. “Come to bed with me,” I said, rising and holding out my hand.

  She just looked at me, mutinous. “So you can feed on my wrist? You may as well do it here.”

  “No.” Again I felt that little growl that seemed to come from nowhere. The growl I knew she sensed, and which frightened her. I struggled to control it. “I won’t take your blood. If I did, it would be from an artery, not a vein.”

  “Ew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “What if you screw up your anatomy lessons?”

  “I can hear the difference,” I said. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  “Why won’t you take my blood? If I’m your supposed mate, what’s stopping you? Everyone else will be having a go at me.”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  She looked at me, long and hard, and the conclusions she was jumping to were a mishmash in her brain. “Fine,” she said, rising. “You can sleep on the couch.” And she started for the bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I WASN’T GOING TO SLAM THE DOOR, I was going to close it quietly and forcefully, indicating dignified displeasure, but he was already there, his hand yanking it open. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

  “All right,” I said. “I will.” I started past him, but he caught me, spinning me around and pulling me against him, his strong arms imprisoning me.

  I didn’t like being controlled. At least, not really. There was a tiny little shiver of erotic reaction as my body was clamped against his, and for a brief moment I took that pleasure, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I looked up at him, so close, so damnably, deliciously close.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and bent his head and kissed me.

  So, okay, I liked kissing him. I know I should have stayed still, and I tried, I really did. But he cupped my chin, his long fingers gently stroking my face, and his mouth was soft, damp, and really, how could I resist? Because the brutal truth was, I felt more for him than I’d felt for anyone in my entire life. He was mine, even if I was afraid he still wanted to wiggle out of it. He was mine.

  I softened against him, and he released my wrists, knowing I wasn’t going to hit him. I slid my arms around his waist, pulling him closer, and rose on my toes so that I could reach him better, so that I could press my breasts against his hard chest, so I could sink into the heat of him.

  He picked me up effortlessly. Yes, I knew he was supernaturally strong, but I still loved it, loved feeling delicate and weightless when I’d always felt clumsy. He thought I was luscious. I knew that, even as my doubts tried to discount it. He thought my soft, rounded body was irresistibly erotic. And I felt my blood heat, flowing through me like a river of pleasure; I wanted his touch, wanted his mouth on me, wanted everything.

  He carried me into the bedroom. The light was muted through the bank of windows, and the awful stench was gone. Instead it smelled like cinnamon and spice, like Raziel’s warm flesh and something underneath it, something hot and rich. He set me down on the bed, and this time I didn’t try to jump up again, didn’t try to argue or to fight, with his hands on me, unfastening the white tunic and pulling it over my head. He kissed my mouth, he kissed the swell of my breasts above the lacy bra, he let his tongue dance across my lace-covered nipple before fastening his mouth on it. I let out a quiet moan of delight.

  I’d never known my breasts were so sensitive. When other men had touched them it seemed simply part of the process, but when Raziel put his mouth on me—

  He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and glittery. “Stop thinking about other men,” he said, his voice close to a growl. I wondered if I was supposed to be afraid of him.

  “No,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

  I caught the strain of guilt and regret. He’d thrown me away from Tamlel, and I’d been knocked unconscious. I said nothing. His deep sorrow over what had been an accident was enough to assure me that I was safe. Whatever rage lived inside him, and I could feel it simmering, it would never be turned on me. He pushed me back on the bed and I went, letting my eyes drift closed as he pulled the loose white pants off. He took the underwear as well, a little sooner than I was comfortable with, and flicked off the bra with a practiced hand. Well, of course he was practiced—he’d had thousands of years—

  “They’ve only had bras for the last hundred years,” he murmured against my skin, and his voice was thick with longing.

  “Stop reading my mind,” I protested, though my languorous voice was far from harsh.

  “It’s half the fun,” he said, and I felt his mouth on my stomach, moving downward. I knew where he was going, and I knew I shouldn’t mind. He thought he’d be doing something nice for me, when in actuality it had always left me unmoved. I sort of hated having him go to all that effort when I didn’t particularly like it, but I didn’t want to discourage him—

  “You’ll like it,” he said, his long hands on my thighs, parting them, and he put his mouth on me, his tongue, and while I was telling myself to humor him the first shiver of reaction hit me by surprise.

  I squeaked, and I could sense his amusement, but he didn’t stop what he was doing, thank God, and I reached down and threaded my fingers through his hair, caressing him as he let his tongue flick across my clitoris. I let out a low, mewling noise, arching my hips, and his hands were there as well, long fingers sliding inside me, a gently thrusting promise of things to come, as his tongue worked its wicked magic. And the
n he used his teeth, gently, and I exploded.

  Oh, he was a very bad man. He wouldn’t let me savor the first rush of climax; instead he had to draw it out, to keep touching me, licking me, biting me, so that wave after wave swept over me and my body went rigid, every nerve ending spiking, and I think I must have cried out, begging him to let me alone, begging him not to stop, begging him . . .

  I collapsed against the bed, breathless, trying to control the sobs that were in my throat. He wiped his mouth on the sheet and moved up beside me, still fully dressed, and I wanted to put my hands on him, strip the clothing away, but for the moment I couldn’t move.

  He laughed, a soft, enticing sound. “That’s all right. I know how to undress myself.” He stripped off the black T-shirt, then reached for his jeans.

  He was so fucking beautiful. But then, angels were supposed to be, weren’t they? Long, graceful limbs, beautiful pale skin stretched over taut muscles.

  He was already erect, and I wanted to touch him, wanted my mouth on him where I’d never put my mouth on anyone.

  The last stray shudders were finally ebbing away, but I still felt weak, exhausted, strangely on the edge of tears when I never cried. “Take your time,” he said, stretching out beside me, letting his hand trace the plumpness of my breast. “We’re not in any hurry.”

  “Maybe you’re not,” I managed to mutter. “You’re eternal. I’m not.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. The playful expression on his face vanished, and darkness closed down. He started to pull away, but I shook off the last of my malaise and grabbed his arm, drawing him back. “Look, it’s just me. There’s no need to go all broody about it. It’s not like I’m the great love of your life.”

  I could feel his anger again, but this time it didn’t frighten me. He caught me, rolling me underneath him. “You idiot,” he said. “Don’t you understand anything about this?”

  “That you go through women every century or so? Sure, I get it. And you said Azazel and Sarah were an anomaly, so I assume once I hit my forties or fifties you’ll be turning your attentions elsewhere, and—”

  “You don’t know anything,” he said brutally. “We’re bound together, you and I. It’s not casual, it’s not until you grow old. It’s not ‘just you.’ It is you. Why do you think I’ve fought it so hard? From now on, you’re the most important thing in my life, whether I want it that way or not.”

  It still sounded to me like he didn’t really want me, that some cosmic jester was playing a game with him, tying him to me when he would rather have been with someone else.

  “No,” he said, reading me again. “You’re missing the point. I didn’t want to care about anyone this way, ever again. The loss is too hard. If I think about losing you, it makes me crazy with grief and pain. I can’t lose you.”

  “Just because someone put a whammy on you—” I began, prepared to argue my point.

  “No one put a ‘whammy’ on me, whatever the hell that is. We were destined, and I was a fool to try to fight it. If I hadn’t been so determined to stay alone, I would have saved us both a lot of trouble. Look into my eyes, Allie. Look deeply. You know me.”

  He was making me nervous, and I skittered away from the memories I was afraid to face.

  “You know me,” he said again, and I looked deep into his black, striated eyes, and remembered.

  Sitting alone in the yard, listening to my mother scream at me from the living room, hugging myself, and he was there, and I didn’t feel alone. And later, when my mother dragged me from the drugstore where I’d been looking at makeup, I saw him again. And remembered him, even when he wasn’t there, and somehow I managed to withstand the rage and the lectures, knowing he was there. And my throat burned.

  “I should have come for you sooner, Allie,” he said gently. “If I hadn’t been fighting it so hard, I would have been there. As it was, I didn’t even recognize you.”

  I wasn’t going to cry. “But you still want to escape,” I said. “You still want to break this . . . connection.”

  He hesitated, and that hesitation was enough to tell me I was right. “It’s not that simple,” he said finally. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t think you’re ready.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m ready for,” I said. “I know what I feel. And all I want to feel is you.” And I moved up and put my hand on his chest, pushing him back on the bed.

  He was warm, almost hot, and his skin was smooth and taut. I leaned over and kissed him, just the briefest brush of my lips against his mouth, and when he would have deepened it I moved away, letting my mouth trail down the side of his neck, kissing him where he’d tasted me, where he would have bitten me if he’d really wanted me forever.

  But he wasn’t going to sense that. I kept my mind filled with images of him and me, images and words and all the reactions of the senses, taste, touch, smell as well as sight and sound. I could hear his heart pounding, the blood pouring through his body, and there was something unbearably erotic about it.

  I moved my mouth down, down, not quite sure how to go about it. I’d seen porn at Jason’s insistence, so I knew the mechanics, but I didn’t want to follow that energetic example. Instead I wanted to explore him, carefully, using my tongue, tracing the blue veins, the thick, hard weight of him, closing my mouth around the head and sucking it gently, until I heard his moan of such blind surrender that waves of sexual delight danced through me, and I wanted more of him, wanted to pull and suck on him, wanted all of him in my mouth, and his groan sent shivers of pleasure through me.

  He pulled me away, breathless, hauling me up to look at him. “Not that way,” he said. “Not this time.” And he pulled me under him, his mouth closing over mine.

  I was shaking again by the time he moved his mouth. Could I come just from kissing him? Could I come from simply putting my mouth on him? Climaxes were there, just out of reach, almost ready, and my hands were trembling. It was too much. Panic was suddenly beating around me, and I tried to scramble away from him.

  “I can’t,” I said in sudden fear. “I really can’t.” And I tried to get off the bed.

  He caught me at the edge, pulling me back underneath him so that I was facedown on the bed, my mouth against the linen sheets that smelled of lavender and spice and something even more elemental. “Yes you can,” he said with simple truth, and he slid his arm under my stomach, pulling me up to my hands and knees.

  I knew what he was going to do, and I was past the point of having expectations. I wanted whatever he wanted, and if he was going to take me this way I would revel in it. I could feel him against my sex, hot and solid and still wet from my mouth, and even at that angle he slid in smoothly, filling me, and I let out a strangled cry at the thick invasion that twisted at my heart. The different angle made it feel new, strange, incredibly powerful, and almost more than I could bear.

  He took one of my hands and pulled it behind me, placing it on his cock, and I realized to my dismay that even though I felt completely filled, there was a goodly amount still waiting. I let my fingers wrap around him, and I wanted more. I wanted all of it. All of him. Everything.

  “Allie,” he breathed, a sound of regret and longing. “I don’t think I can stop if you need me to.”

  “I don’t need you to,” I said, trying to push back at him, trying to get more of him. “I won’t break, you know. I just need you.”

  He groaned, and pushed in, deeper, harder, and he felt huge, almost more than I could handle. Almost.

  “More,” I whispered, and he thrust.

  I let out a little cry, a mixture of pain and surprise, as he somehow managed to sheath himself all the way inside me, and I could feel him against my womb, and I wanted his child in there, wanted it so desperately.

  But I could never have it. No children, no family, no cottage with a white picket fence.

  But I could have him, all of him, and I let out a soft grunt of satisfaction as I took him. He was mine, I reminded myself. Even if he was looking for a
n escape clause, I had taken him, everything, inside me. He was mine.

  He pounded into me, a heavy dark rhythm that was like drumbeats from the heart of Africa. The drums of the gods. And I couldn’t stop the shudders rushing through me, mini-climaxes that were building, and his hand went between my legs, his fingers touching me, and I screamed, putting my head down, my face into the sheets as I gave in to the wildness and power, the animal need washing through me. I gave myself to him with complete trust, no longer thinking, no longer doubting. He would keep me safe, he would stop when I had more than I could handle, he would know.

  Again. And again. And again, he thrust into me, and each hard push made me shatter, over and over, until I couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, I was nothing but a seething mass of sensation.

  He pulled out and I raised my head and cried out from the loss of him, but he simply turned me underneath him, pushing inside me again, deep, so deep. “I want to look at you when I come,” he said, his voice a low growl, holding very still inside me.