The gloating camber of his mouth and the devilish gleam in his eyes told me his mind was running on a much dirtier bandwidth. “Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, because I’ll be subjecting your sweet body to regular encores.” He licked his mouth, and the pulsing between my legs soared.
Blood prickled my fingertips as it flooded back into my hands, and then it prickled my cheeks even though no leather cord had been wound around my throat.
Before I could speak, he leaned over and kissed me, and I froze as the taste of my pleasure hit my tongue. My surprise didn’t put a damper on his mouth’s grinding, and after a while, I got used to my taste and opened up for him.
I curled my arms around his back, then freed his shirt and glided my fingers beneath it, freezing when I encountered the raised outline of his scar. I popped my hands off his skin and my mouth off his lips. “Did I hurt you?”
“Hurt me?” He sounded hoarse, as though it was his vocal cords that were in pain.
“The cut on your back.”
“The only thing hurting at the moment is located much . . .” He lowered his hovering body and pressed his hard length against the inside of my thigh. “Farther south.”
Smiling sultrily, or at least, that was the look I was going for, I raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you still clothed?”
“Because if I get naked, you can forget about your first time being romantic.”
All of my senses sharpened. “Maybe you can make my second time romantic.”
He turned to stone. Even his chest stopped moving as though my offer had squeezed all the air out of his lungs. I wrapped my legs around his, pinning his lower body to mine.
The planes of his face tensed and twitched, and so did another part of him.
“Honey, I’m home!” The deep voice that erupted through the thick walls of Jarod’s home shattered the moment.
I whipped my neck toward the bedroom door, panicked Tristan was about to barrel inside. Thankfully, the handle stayed immobile.
Expelling a rough sigh, Jarod buried his nose in the crook of my neck. “I’m very tempted to tell him to fuck off, but he and I have much to discuss.” He kissed me before climbing off my body, then yanked on his bedsheets and draped them over me. As he readjusted himself, he added, “Don’t think for a second I’ll be forgetting about that offer.” He shoved his rumpled white shirt into his pants.
I scooted onto a forearm. “I should probably go back to the guild. I need some fresh clothes.”
He halted mid-tuck. “I don’t want you going back there.”
“It’s where I live, Jarod.”
“How are you supposed to keep me from murdering people if you leave?” His shirt was still half-out.
“Are you blackmailing me into staying?”
“Maybe.”
“You have no shame,” I murmured lightly.
“None whatsoever.” He thrust the remaining piece of fitted cotton into his pants, then leaned over, pressing his fists into the mattress. “Say yes.”
“What if I say no?”
“I’ll tie you to my bed again.”
“Not much of a threat.”
He smiled wickedly.
I gnawed on my lip. “Are you certain you want me here?”
“Never been more certain of anything.”
I stared around me at the vast space covered in dark wood paneling, antique books, and priceless oil paintings. When my gaze landed on the recliner, I asked, “Why did you keep the chair?” And the letter opener? But I didn’t add that part.
All the playfulness bled out of him. “As a reminder to never give up, however fucking hard life gets.”
“Jarod!” Tristan’s voice seemed to have gotten closer.
Jarod pressed off the bed and strode to the door.
Before he left, I said, “I’ll need to go back to the guild at some point. To get some clothes.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I’ll have Muriel bring you some. And tomorrow, she’ll take you to Avenue Montaigne, and you can buy the whole fucking street.”
I sat, tucking the sheet around my torso. “This might come as a surprise, but we’re pretty tightly budgeted, so Avenue Montaigne might be a little out of my price range.”
He flashed me a smile. “You’re cute, Feather.”
I frowned.
“Your budget’s unlimited from now on.”
“Jarod, I can’t—”
“Consider it payment for saving my soul. Plus, you’ll need some outfits for the coming week. I have to go to the opera, and I’d much rather take you than Tristan.”
My mouth parted to protest again, but by the time I got my throat to work, he was gone. “That’s not how it works,” I mumbled.
I fell back against the fluffy comforter. My beloved romance novels were full of scenarios like this one, but they were fictional. That this sort of thing could really happen, and to me, of all people, was so preposterously farfetched that I didn’t have the slightest clue how to cope with it. I could turn Jarod down by insisting it would cost me feathers, but if I lost a feather telling him this, he’d handcuff me to Muriel and make her drag me down the opulent avenue.
I pushed the shopping issue aside. I’d revisit it later when I was done examining the issue at hand—me, naked, save for a scrap of wet lace, in Jarod’s bed. Had I really propositioned him before Tristan arrived? Maybe Celeste had been right to worry about me even though her worrying was misplaced. It wasn’t my safety she should’ve been concerned about, but my sensibleness.
Sex. The act we grew up cautioned against. Here I was offering myself to a man who, although not a stranger, wasn’t a boyfriend.
My body thrummed as it rekindled the softness of his tongue and the firmness of his fingers and the sweetness of his words. Running my hand idly over the silky sheets, I realized that the only regret I felt was that he’d left.
“Leigh, can I come in?” Muriel’s voice had me sitting up so fast the dusky space swam and blurred.
“One sec!” I yelled, scrabbling to locate my dress. I yanked it on, then straightened the sheets at warp speed. “Come in,” I blustered.
She bustled inside carrying hangers dripping with sequins, leather, satin, and lace. Their narrow shapes told me they’d all be snug, but at least, their colors were all muted. “Jarod told me to bring up some clothes. Unfortunately, we mostly have dresses. I don’t think you’re going to like them very much.”
I thought of the outfit balled up inside my bag. It was probably too wrinkled to wear tonight. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “I heard we’re going shopping tomorrow.”
My ears felt like they’d just come out of the oven.
“I’m hoping this means you’ll be staying.”
I studied the starburst pattern of sequins on one of the dresses she’d laid out on the foot of the bed. It mirrored the explosions detonating everywhere inside my body. “Uh . . .” Anxiety apparently made me devolve into a primitive, non-verbose version of my species.
Her eyes crinkled with the same smile bending her rouged lips. “I need to get back to the kitchen. I’m making soufflés tonight. I even prepared a special sweet one for you. I hope you’ll like it.”
Talk of food loosened my tongue. “Considering I’ve loved everything you’ve made up till now, I’m certain it’ll be delicious.”
“Good. I’ll let you get ready. If you need anything else, just call me from the bedroom phone.” She showed me what button to press to reach her in the pantry before leaving me alone with an array of dresses that would make eating way less enjoyable.
As I walked toward the bathroom, the sound of yelling made me freeze. The thickness of the floors and the plushness of the oriental rug distorted the words but not the tone with which they were delivered. Jarod wasn’t having a pleasant conversation with Tristan. Part of me felt guilty, because I was certain the thunder in Jarod’s voice was my fault. Another part hoped this would influence Tristan’s behavior for the better. In truth, i
f anyone could reform Tristan, it was Jarod—the only person the former respected and admired.
Not wanting to meddle any more than I already had, I stepped into the temple of black marble that was almost as vast as his bedroom and turned on the water in a shower that contained more jets than a propeller plane and could easily fit everyone on Jarod’s payroll.
Chapter 46
After wiggling into a dress that made my hourglass figure look very hourglassy, I slid my feet into a pair of black patent stilettos. I tried not to wonder if the dress and shoes had already been worn. I also tried not to fret too much about going without underwear—the two I’d brought were presently drying on the heated towel rack after I’d had the presence of mind to wash them.
Steadying my nerves, I opened the door and walked down the stairs. As I passed Amir stationed beside the study, my cheeks heated. Had he heard me earlier? The walls were thick, but were they thick enough?
When he glanced my way, the barest flicker of something animating his impassive features, I magicked my wings into existence and cocooned my heating skin. It was silly and useless considering it only hid him from me.
“Um.” I shifted on the checkered marble, and my silver feathers caressed the skin below the cap sleeves of my black Band-Aid of a dress. “Should I wait for Jarod inside the . . . ” Before I could finish my sentence, the door of the study opened, and Jarod’s body filled the frame.
“Thought I heard you.” His own jaw was flushed, but that probably had to do with his impassioned conversation.
From the look on Tristan’s face, I suspected it had just ended. My nemesis observed me a moment over Jarod’s shoulder before lifting his cell phone to his ear and turning away, so I was left staring at the back of his silver suit that matched the hair at his temples.
My feathers were still wrapped around me, but they’d loosened and allowed Jarod glimpses of what I wore.
His eyes turned as black as the stretchy fabric binding my curves. He took a step toward me, pressing away my wings, his fingers skimming the newest growths in the process and sending frissons straight into my wing bones.
Gripping my hips, he uttered a single word, “Wow,” and that word flicked the switch on my skin, turning me into a strobe light. My smoldering ticked one side of his mouth up. Against the shell of my ear, he murmured, “Shall we skip dinner?”
My heart must’ve started smoldering too, because my insides felt like a brazier. “Muriel made soufflés,” I whispered hoarsely, thinking it would pain her if they collapsed because Jarod and I were busy feasting on each other.
“And they’re ready, Jarod,” Muriel said.
I whirled around, smacking Jarod with my wings. He pressed them away, smile intact. I hoped his gestures didn’t look too strange.
“Good. I’m ravenous,” he said, the heat of his body licking up my spine.
When he ran a lazy knuckle on the underside of one of my wings, I magicked them out of existence. He let out a little grunt of disappointment before murmuring, “I want them out later.”
I bit down so hard on the inside of my cheek that I punctured the skin and the tinny taste of blood hit my tongue.
Muriel eyed the server who’d stepped out of the pantry behind her. “Will Tristan be joining you two?”
“He will, Mimi. As soon as he finishes his call.” Denting the supple flesh at my waist, Jarod nudged me into the dining room.
The server hurried to add a third place setting as Jarod pulled out my chair before taking up his seat at the head of the table. Muriel brought over a bottle of chilled white wine with a label that had seen better days. I imagined it was another deliriously rare vintage.
Jarod picked up his glass and took a sip. When he nodded to Muriel, she filled my glass.
I was drinking wine. Letting a mob boss do things to my body that would make the residents of Abaddon pray for my wicked soul. And wearing a very unangelic dress commando.
When both Muriel and the waiter left the dining room, I said, “Maybe I shouldn’t help get your rank under fifty. I’m pretty sure if I ever ascend, I’ll be going straight to Abaddon.”
Jarod tossed his head back and laughed, which in turn made me grin.
Now I was cracking jokes about Hell? What was the world coming to?
Still chuckling, he leaned toward me and raised his glass. “To Abaddon and the magnificent angel who’ll be sharing my cell.”
Shaking my head, I clinked my glass gently to his, then drank, the crisp buttery flavor thrilling my taste buds. I must’ve hummed, because Jarod’s mouth twisted into a brazen smirk.
The dining room doors swept open then. I squared my shoulders as Tristan took the seat opposite me. The room became so silent I could hear the brush of his chair’s feet against the deep-hued rug.
Jarod leaned back, spinning his wineglass between his long fingers. “Tristan? I think you have something to tell Leigh.”
Tristan eyed the wine shimmering in my glass. “Leigh, I apologize for having subjected you to Jarod’s meeting. I have little faith in people and projected my qualms on you. My actions and words were indecent and undeserved.”
I gave a quick nod, but that was mostly for Jarod’s sake, because Tristan’s apology was far too polished to settle me.
As he scooped out the bottle of wine Muriel had placed in a silver ice bucket at the center of the table, he said, “I thought drinking was against your faith.”
“It . . . is.”
“Devout people make my skin crawl. They’re so convinced that prayers and higher beings can solve all of their problems it turns them into indolent, entitled societal burdens who talk out of their asses more often than their mouths.” He took a swig of his wine and licked his lips. “Looting Uncle Isaac’s cellar, I see.”
“He’s no longer here to drink, but we are.”
“To the simple pleasures in life.” Tristan raised his glass. “Wine, women, and punishing swine.”
The waiter arrived then, holding a tray laden with crimped white ceramic dishes overflowing with golden domes that wobbled as he walked. He presented me with the tray first, and I picked up one of the plated soufflés.
“Don’t touch the ramequin, mademoiselle. They’re very hot,” he warned.
I waited until everyone was served to break the puffed cupola with my spoon. The egg concoction deflated like an unplugged bouncy castle, discharging a ribbon of tangy steam that made my stomach grumble. I ate in silence, listening to Jarod and Tristan discuss an upcoming trip.
They left out the finer details, and the larger ones too, for that matter. All I gleaned was that they would depart for Nice in the morning on a private jet and be back in time for dinner. As my spoon scraped the bottom of my dish, I pondered how Jarod’s score could decrease if he kept conducting business with shady people, because sadly, I doubted all the Court of Demons did was punish swine.
The waiter returned to clear our soufflés, presenting us with new ones, pink this time. “Tomato reduction,” he explained.
Would there be more savory ones after this? Perhaps, I shouldn’t clean off each dish, but the eggy treats were so incredibly light . . .
Dipping my spoon in, I asked, “Jarod, why don’t you hold your day of succor once a week instead of once a month?”
Tristan gored his soufflé. “That would turn La Cour des Démons into the Wailing Wall.”
I disregarded his comment, waiting for Jarod’s response.
He studied his pink dome. “I don’t have time to organize it every week, Feather,” he said, making my hope deflate like Tristan’s soufflé. “But we could hold it twice a month.” He lifted his eyes to mine.
If Tristan hadn’t been in the room, I would’ve gotten up and kissed Jarod for his concession. Instead, I held on to his gaze and expressed my gratitude with a smile.
“Tristan, find a date in my calendar for the next one and spread the word.”
Jarod’s order turned Tristan’s cool expression crisper. “I’ll get to it after din
ner.”
If we’d been kids, and the table hadn’t been banquet-sized, he probably would’ve kicked my shins under the table. Since we were all adults, we contented ourselves with ocular jousting and tight retorts.
“Thank you,” I told Jarod.
He placed the back of his hand on the table, offering me his palm. Without hesitation, I fed my fingers through his. Perhaps, I should’ve hesitated. By holding hands in front of Tristan, we were revealing a new alliance that didn’t include him.
Although his face remained smooth, there was a new gleam in Tristan’s eyes that hadn’t been there the night he’d introduced me to his boss.
Chapter 47
Even though the food had been delicious, I’d had trouble appreciating the meal fully because of the tension that stretched like a rope between Tristan and me. How could I make him see I wasn’t trying to steal his place but make my own beside Jarod? A heart-to-heart without Jarod was in order. When they returned from their trip . . . or the following day.
“You’ve been unusually quiet tonight,” Jarod said, leading me up the stairs to his bedroom after Tristan had taken his leave.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“I’m thinking Tristan’s afraid I’ll dethrone him.”
“Dethrone him?” Jarod’s eyebrows jolted. “No. He’s afraid you’ll hurt me. And I can’t blame him, because I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” I twirled toward him when we reached the landing. “I’d never.”
He tendered me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He really believed I would hurt him . . .
“Jarod, I promise—”
He kissed me to quiet me.
Had my sinner been burned so often by empty promises he no longer believed in them? I decided then and there that I would have to prove my loyalty and affection with actions instead of words.
I clasped his neck as he backed me into his bedroom and kicked the door closed, his hands traveling over the black spandex compressing my form. Instrumental music played softly, and I assumed it was in my head since there’d been no music when I’d left earlier. This should’ve preoccupied me, but Jarod’s kisses were so intoxicating I wasn’t surprised they filled my ears with beautiful harmonies. When our lips unsealed and the music kept playing, I realized it wasn’t in my head.
Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1) Page 28