The Fallen 01 - Raziel

by Kristina Douglas

  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 then 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 an 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.

  My voice had vanished. I couldn’t think, couldn’t doubt; all I could do was feel. I was his completely, but he was holding back. “Take me,” I whispered. “Take me.” And reaching up, I took his head and pushed it toward my neck, so that his mouth was there, hot and wet, and I felt the scrape of his teeth, and I wanted more. “Take me,” I whispered again. “Take everything.”

  He tensed, froze in my arms, and for a moment I was terrified that he’d pull away from me. He lifted his head and looked at me, and there was such sorrow in his eyes, a sorrow I didn’t understand. “Allie,” he said softly.

  But I was inexorable. My body was aching with need, a need I neither recognized nor understood; but I somehow knew I had to have his mouth on me, drinking from me, for me to finally feel complete. “Please,” I begged him, when I’d sworn I would never beg. “Feed.”

  He kissed my lips, so gently I wanted to cry. He leaned down and kissed the side of my neck, with the same feathering sweetness. And then I felt the sharp, sweet, piercing pain as his teeth sank into my skin, felt the draw of him sucking at my neck, drinking from me, drinking life from me, and I felt tears running down my face, as I was finally made complete. Filling him as he was filling me.

  His cock inside me seemed to swell, and I cradled his head against me, running my fingers through his thick, curling hair, whispering to him, soft words, love words.

  And then he pulled away, rising up, and I could see my blood on his mouth, see the glitter in his eyes. He stared down at me, not moving, and I felt his climax deep inside me, giving me back what he had taken from me, and I joined him, flinging myself into the darkness with only him to guide me.

  I MIGHT HAVE SLEPT MINUTES, hours, days. It didn’t matter. I was wrapped in Raziel’s arms, and neither of us was moving. I felt his hand brush my cheek, so gently. “You’re crying,” he whispered. “I hurt you. I knew I shouldn’t have.”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” I said, rubbing my face against his hand like a hungry kitten. “I’m happy.”

  He moved a fraction so he could look at me, and his expression was bemused. “Do you always cry when you’re happy?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever been happy before,” I said simply.

  He was about to argue, then stopped as he remembered my life, the life he knew almost as well as I did. “Maybe you haven’t,” he said finally, and kissed me.

  I wondered if his mouth would taste of blood, but it didn’t. It just tasted like Raziel, and I kissed him back, then let him tuck me against his warm, naked body. I didn’t really want to move.

  I ran my hand up his arm, my fingers delighting in the feel of him. “What does my blood taste like?”

  His hand was at the back of my neck, his long fingers kneading the lingering tightness there, but at my words they stilled for a moment. “To me? Like honey wine, sweet and rich and intoxicating. Not like blood would taste to you.”

  “So can you bite people and turn them into va—into blood-eaters?” I asked.

  “No. Why would I want to? It’s a curse put upon us for disobeying God. Why in the world would I want to spread that curse, even if I could?”

  “Because it would give eternal life, wouldn’t it?”

  He knew what I was getting at, and he sighed, pulling me even closer. “No, Allie. It can’t be done. Humans are not made for the sacrament, and the one time one of the Fallen gave in to temptation, his mate died. It’s forbidden.”

  “I was just curious,” I said.

  “Of course you were.” His voice was wry.

  “Are you always going to be able to read my thoughts?” I asked with a trace of asperity.

  “I can try not to. When you’re feeling strong emotion, it will come to me, and it will go both ways. In day-to-day life, I can shield you.”

  “And in bed? I’m assuming we’re going to do this again?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer. Was he still fighting it? Should I still fight it?

  It was a long moment before he spoke, an endless one. “As often as possible,” he said.

  I knew his thoughts, knew what he wanted. Now. Again. “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  I SHOULD HAVE FELT GUILTY. I HAD tried to resist, but in the end she’d just been too much for me. I’d fed from her, drunk deeply, and in doing so I tied her to me forever.

  It was something I swore I would never do again. I had my choice, aeons ago, and I paid the price. There was no escape for me or the others, but for Allie it was different. As long as I had kept away from her vein there was still a chance she could eventually leave.

  Not anymore. And having taken her blood, I was going to find her serving as the Source even more difficult. Dangerous. Not for me, but for whoever dared approach her. They might have to restrain me for the first year or so, until I learned to control my possessive fury.

  I should have known I couldn’t stop myself. Not when she was pleading. And I should have known she would plead. A bond
ed mate needs that ultimate joining. Without it she never feels complete, and I’d accepted that she was, indeed, my wife. Once I’d taken her to bed it was a foregone conclusion, and it was remarkable I’d fought it for so long. I wasn’t usually so thickheaded.

  I’d lied to her, shielding my mind so she wouldn’t know. There had been rare occasions when a mate had fed from her partner, but it was very dangerous. Four out of five times the woman would die. The fifth time she’d gain hundreds of years of life, as long as she continued to feed.

  Morag had finally died when her mate had fallen beneath the Nephilim; she’d been well over eight hundred years old. I knew what Allie would do if she heard about it, and I couldn’t afford to let that happen.

  I wasn’t going to worry about that now. I’d done my best to protect her—by taking her blood I’d made her escape impossible, and I was sorry for that. But sorry for nothing else.

  I left her sleeping. I would have preferred staying with her, but I had to find Azazel. I knew him well enough, could feel his energy, and I knew things were very bad. Sarah had been his soul. He would be empty without her.

  I found him perched on the top of the ledge, looking down over the compound and the sea beyond it. The funeral pyre of the Nephilim had burned down to a few live coals, and I shuddered as I saw it. Our fear of fire is so deeply ingrained that it haunted me. Like us, the Nephilim were terrified of it, but we were too vulnerable to use it as a weapon.

  I folded in my wings and sat down beside Azazel. He was staring at the boat that had hastily been built, the boat piled high with the bodies of our women and our dead brothers. Sarah would be on that boat. It would be set afire and then sent out to sea, a Viking burial to suit brave warriors, men and women alike. It was our ritual, one we couldn’t avoid, the only time we willingly embraced fire.