Nick was big, bigger than she’d been prepared for, and the stretch and sting was at first intense. And then he thrust again, harder, grunting. And then he seemed to lose all control. With one arm around her leg and the other shoved under her back, he dropped his head to her shoulder and just fucked her, wildly, fiercely, rapidly. Punctuating every brutal thrust with a violent, growling grunt in her ear, he slammed into her again and again and again.
At first, Bev was afraid—it was far more intense than any sexual experience she’d ever had, and she could feel that it was more than physical need, somehow. There was something dark and dangerous in his wild abandon, something that she knew, that she could sense, transcended his assertion that he was not a gentle lover.
But her fear was quickly overtaken and silenced by her own need. He felt so good. His body on hers, in hers, felt incredible; his need of her, wild and consuming, suffused every physical sensation with emotion and intensified it all. Soon she was grunting with him, bringing her free leg up and around his waist, closing her fists in his hair, biting down on his shoulder as the waves of ecstatic frenzy rose and rose inside her until they crashed, and she threw her head back and cried out.
His thrusts continued their frantic pace for long afterward, extending her release until her body was a quivering, over-stimulated, exhausted mass, and then his pace changed, became syncopated, and he went still, with one last, anguished grunt that went on and on.
All at once, he relaxed, his full weight coming down onto her for the first time. Her need sated, her release achieved—and his, too—the complaints of Bev’s still-healing body began to clamor. She withstood for as long as possible, loving and wanting this supreme closeness, but she couldn’t breathe, and the pain grew until she thought she’d cry.
“Nick,” she whispered, trying not to sound distressed. He didn’t respond. “Nick, my chest.”
Her words took a beat to sink in, but then he said, “Fuck,” and pulled away—and then all the way up, out of her, off the bed. He grabbed his track pants off the floor of her bedroom and pulled them on, then left the room completely.
Bev lay there, stunned. She watched, too shocked to feel anything else, as he walked down her short hallway to the living room. Expecting him to leave, she felt a surge of relief when he went to her sofa and sat down. Then he put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands.
She sat up and watched him for a minute or two. He didn’t move. So she got up and went to him.
When she sat next to him, one leg tucked under so she could face him, he didn’t react. She scooted closer and kissed his shoulder. Keeping her voice calm and soft, feeling like she was trying to soothe a wild animal, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
He lifted his head and dropped his hands, letting them dangle between his thighs. But he didn’t look at her. “I’ll send someone to the drugstore when it opens.”
She hadn’t expected him to say anything like that. “What?”
He turned his head slightly, but still not enough to make eye contact. “I didn’t use a condom.”
“Oh!” She let that sink in some more. “Oh! No—it’s okay. I’m on the Pill. And I’m healthy. If you are, then it’s okay.” She had no concerns about his health. Maybe that was stupidly trusting, but she simply felt sure he was healthy.
Now he looked at her. “You didn’t think that was something I should know?”
“Well, yeah. Of course. But I don’t know…it’s a weird thing to just bring up out of the blue, you know? Usually I use condoms anyway until I’m serious with a guy. When I know it’s safe. But it’s okay—I’m not worried.” A tiny nit of worry goosed her then. “Should I be?”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a barely-smile. “No.” Now that his eyes were on her, he studied her, that small smile gone. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
She smiled brightly, teasing, trying to lighten his mood a little. “I thought you didn’t have regrets.”
His only answer was a short, audible exhale, the stunted syllable of a mirthless laugh.
She kissed his shoulder again. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. My ribs happily suffered a moment’s discomfort for it. But something’s wrong, Nick. Will you tell me? Can you?”
He pushed his hand into her hair, cradling the side of her head. His eyes, once they’d met hers, had not left. “Brian died today.”
“Oh, no. Oh, my God.” He hadn’t told her much about his life yet, but he’d talked about Brian several times. She’d met him at Neon, of course. He had saved her and Nick both that night. He was Nick’s best friend. “I’m so sorry.”
She rose onto her knees on the sofa and encircled him in her arms, his head tucked to her chest. He resisted at first, holding his body rigid, and then he gave in, resting against her, but only lightly, his hands going around her waist. They sat like that, silently, for a long time. Bev felt even closer to Nick like this, giving him comfort, than she had earlier, in her bed, though she understood that she’d been giving him comfort then, too.
She knew not to ask what had happened; he would tell her if he wanted to, and she had no need to know. In the time she’d known more than simply his name and face, two people close to him had died. Maybe more than that, for all she knew. She and he had almost been killed by a bomb. In the time she’d known Nick Pagano even existed, others had been killed, including his father. That story, and the events at his funeral, had made the news. She’d been online, too, in the past week and a half, and she had a fuller understanding of Nick’s own reputation.
He had not exaggerated when he’d told her that he and his life were dark and violent.
Chris was right: she was making a dangerous choice. Maybe even a foolhardy choice. But it didn’t matter. If this was the latest incarnation of her bad-boy fetish, then so be it. But she didn’t think it was that. She’d seen his eyes when he’d told her that he treasured what was his. Nick was usually inscrutable, his face a dark mask, but that day, when he’d come in to know why she’d been crying, she’d seen past his controlled exterior, and she had seen his regard for her. Since that day, he had been more open to her. She knew it; she trusted in it. He was dangerous, but not to her.
She kissed his still-damp head and dropped a hand to his back, rubbing over that broad expanse of muscle and skin. And that amazing tattoo. Sitting back on her heels, she kissed the top of one wing. “You have feathers, too.”
He chuckled a little. “Mine are a lot different from yours.”
Realizing that this was the first chance she’d ever had to get a really good look at his back, she turned a little to study the artwork.
His feathers really were a lot different from the light, downy puffs on her wrist. His made up enormous angel’s wings that seemed to have burst painfully from his shoulder blades. They arced over the curve of his shoulders and swept down his sides, trailing off below his waistband. The wings, the feathers, seemed to be made of steel and were inked with so much talent and precision they seemed to have actual weight.
The sword that spanned the length of his spine, from the grip, beginning at the base of his neck, to the point, again below his waistband, was intricately detailed. The metal seemed to be etched with ancient runes and symbols, and the grip was like carved, grained wood. The barbed wire that wound around it all made Bev ache a little in its brutality. And then she noticed that some of the barbs had been made to look as if they’d pierced his skin.
His ink was the opposite of hers in every way. Hers was meant to remind her of lightness and freedom. His was weight and pain.
She kissed the wing on his shoulder again. “What’s the story of your ink?”
He smiled a little at that and then reached across his body, took her hand from his shoulder, and held it. “What do you know about the archangels?”
“Like, Michael and Gabriel and whoever?”
“Yeah. And whoever.” His smile widened to fullness.
She shrugged and then smiled, too, feeling a litt
le sheepish. “Not much. Actually, most of what I know came from Supernatural.”
“Supernatural?”
“The TV show. About monsters and demons and angels. The archangels are a thing.”
“Oh—is that the one about the gay guys who ride around in the vintage Impala?”
“Oh, my God! They’re not gay—they’re brothers!”
He chuckled. “Okay. Anyway, there are seven archangels. Catholics only recognize three: Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. But there are four more. One of them is Samael. All archangels are God’s warriors. They’re not gentle beings with harps—they’re violent and powerful. Samael walks the line between good and evil. He’s an angel of retribution and destruction. Of death. He’s God’s enforcer. He’s also known as the Prince of Demons.”
“Sounds like Sam and Dean got it right, then.”
His brows drew in at that, but Bev just shook her head and went on. “So, you have Samael’s wings and sword on your back?”
“Yes.”
“Because you identify with him.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.” It made sense, actually. But there was a lot of pain represented in that ink. “But you don’t rest easy with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way the wings are made to have torn through your skin, and the way the barbs are embedded. It all looks as painful as it is beautiful.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “Don’t romanticize me, bella. My soul isn’t tormented. I am at peace with who I am. I’m necessary. I’m important in my world. I do what others can’t or won’t, and I keep things in balance.”
He was speaking as if he’d already told her exactly what he did in his world, when in truth he had never said anything more than that he was dangerous. But, then, recalling his explanation of Samael, Bev realized that he had told her exactly what he did. The rumors she’d read were true. He was a killer. A torturer. That was his job.
That should matter, she knew. To normal people, that should matter greatly.
It didn’t.
“You’re tormented tonight.”
“Not because of what I do. Because of who I’ve lost. It’s been a hard few months. Brian was my best friend since I was seven.” He dropped his head and took a long, deep breath. Bev wondered if he ever allowed himself to be truly sad, if he ever cried.
“I’m sorry.” She cradled his head in her hands and kissed his forehead. “So sorry.”
There was nothing she could do to take that kind of pain away or even ease it at all. But she felt a potent emotional connection to him, knowing that he was showing her his pain, that he’d come to her, even the way that he had—especially the way that he had—that he had given her a kind of vulnerability that she already knew he did not offer lightly.
And there was one thing she could do. His head still cradled in her hands, she kissed his forehead again. And then his cheek. His jaw. His mouth. As she pushed her tongue between his lips, she scooted forward on her knees, pushing him back to lean against the back of the sofa. Then she straddled him. Still bare, and still sore and sensitive from earlier, she gasped at the feel of his cock growing hard under her.
His hands went under her nightgown, digging into the muscles over her hips. But he pulled his mouth away. “You’re hurt.”
She shook her head and pulled off her nightgown, then kissed him again. With her lips on his, she murmured, “Not like this.” And then she reached into his pants and pulled his cock free. God, it was big. She still hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but it had felt huge inside her, and now, with her hand around his girth, she had more evidence of his size. She rose up on her knees and settled down again, filling herself with him. He groaned, and his fingers dug in more deeply.
“Oh, God, you feel so good,” she whispered, biting at his lips.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back sharply, making her cry out—but not so far back that it tweaked her ribs. “Are you a talker, bella?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes. I just do what feels right.”
He grinned. She loved his smile so much—everything good in him shone out at her. “I like that,” he said, his voice low. “I like that a lot.”
A fist still tangled in her hair, he pulled her to the side, and his free hand cupped her breast. And then his mouth was on her, for the first time, sucking, nipping, drawing her nipple between his teeth, flicking his tongue back and forth until she was moaning again, unable to keep her hips still.
He released her breast and eased his hold in her hair. “Your body is so beautiful. Bellissima.”
She stilled and smiled at him, needing to challenge him. “I’m not built like the other women I’ve seen you with.”
“Don’t, Beverly.” His expression closed, and his tone was impatient. “Don’t do that thing that women do. I don’t respond well to that passive-aggressive bullshit. I gave you a compliment.”
“I wasn’t fishing for another compliment or throwing yours back.” She moved to get off of him, but he held her hips firmly in place. “I like the way I look. It took a lot of soul-searching to get to that place. I made an observation. Since I moved in, I’ve seen you with three different women. They all looked pretty much alike, Nick. The logical observation is that you have a type. And I don’t look like they do.”
He eased, and even smiled a little again. “Point taken. You are different. You’re unique among women I’ve known, inside and out. I love your body, especially now that my hands are full of you. You are visibly strong, and yet when I hold you, you…yield.” For emphasis, he squeezed his fingers into the muscle of her thighs. “That’s a potent feeling. Your breasts are supple and sweet, and you move in wonderful ways when I touch them.” His hands moved to her breasts, and his fingers pinched her nipples firmly, then twisted, and her entire body clenched into a knot of fierce, sudden pleasure.
As she clenched around him, he groaned. “I want to fuck you again, but I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“Let me fuck you, then.” She flexed her hips, drawing him back and forth inside her until they were both panting, and his hands came up to hold her face. He stared into her eyes, and Bev comprehended that he didn’t give up even that much control. So when he nodded, she knew what he was giving her. Another way he was opening himself to her.
Maybe it was his vulnerability and need on this night making him so open to her. Maybe he would regret it later. But he’d said he didn’t do things he regretted.
Either way, she knew at that moment beyond any doubt that her heart was his for the taking.
Feeling powerful and happy, she began to move in earnest, not bothering to draw it out, wanting his need and frenzy as quickly and intensely as she could get it. He made an indistinct, animal noise and then buried his face between her breasts, his hands clamping again onto her hips. She rocked and rolled, driving him into her over and over again, feeling him swell inside her as she felt his breath heaving on her.
Suddenly, one hand let go of her hip and smoothed over her ass. He pushed between her cheeks, and she felt his fingers playing behind her, tracing the ridged and unbelievably sensitive skin of her anus. No one had ever touched her there.
When she didn’t slow the pace of her hips, his hand moved farther and then returned, his fingers now wet with her juices. He didn’t look up from her chest, or ask, or even hesitate. And she didn’t try to stop him. Once he had made her moist, he pushed a finger inside her.
She gasped and sat upright, driving his finger deeper. “Oh, God! That’s…God!”
Then he looked into her eyes, his expression passionate and intent. “This is new to you.”
She nodded.
“Good. This is mine.”
An entirely new kind of pleasure radiated from that spot like tendrils of fire, and then he pushed a second finger in, and she was coming. She was coming so hard. Her hips moved faster and faster, chasing the end of the climax, and every flex drove his fingers in and out, in an
d out.
Sensation burst through her and she stilled, her hands clamped hard on his shoulders. As sensation receded and sense returned, she relaxed and let herself drop to his chest, ignoring the dogged complaints of her ribs. He was pulsing inside her, and she realized that he’d come, too. She’d been so wrapped up in her own pleasure, she hadn’t noticed.
She really had fucked him. The thought made her giggle, just quietly, to herself.
“Ah, bella,” he groaned, his voice like gravel, “You are a revelation. Sono abbagliato da te.”
She had no idea what that meant, but she didn’t care. It sounded beautiful, and she could hear in his voice that whatever it meant was beautiful, too.
~ 11 ~
Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) Page 15