Dark Awakening

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Dragging her gaze away from the dagger, she scanned the neck of the man and found a similar marking behind his ear. She had first noticed the strange marking when he'd been in the passenger seat of her car. His hair had been wet from the rain and brushed back from his face and neck, exposing the mark. She memorised it, wished she could reach out with her fingers and trace it—feel it—read it as though it were Braille. But she was not brave enough for that. If he was who she was thinking he was, she wanted nothing more than to get him the hell out of her kitchen.

  Her gaze flitted back to the mark on the left side of his neck. Swallowing hard, she recalled the raised symbol branded onto the neck of the man who had held her in the park. He had been an angel. She had seen him, falling to the earth, his white wings spread. This guy, well, he had the mark, on the same side, but the wings were curiously absent. Yet somehow she knew he had them, and what colour they were.

  He was the fallen angel she had seen in her vision. And what was more, he had been there tonight on the bridge, sitting on the railing like a menacing black crow.

  Shit, a fallen angel. Now which one? Which damn angel was he? Nadira looked back at the dagger. She took in the blade that was serrated and jagged on both sides. It was designed to tear and mutilate—to kill and destroy.

  Gadriel.

  The name came to her on a rush of fear and excitement. Of all the fallen angels, Gadriel had most intrigued her. Every picture she had ever seen of him the artist had portrayed him as big, terrifying, but none of them had ever captured the soft waves of his hair, or the blue of his eyes.

  Gadriel, the angel of ... what? She couldn't remember. Mentally, she went through every book she had ever read on Angels, and the Watchers—the original fallen angels. But his occupation still eluded her.

  "I'd better keep cleaning,” she said in a rush while she wiped at the wound with the gauze. “You don't want this getting infected. Sepsis is a nasty way to die."

  He cocked his head and studied her. His knees closed a fraction, caging her between two hard, denim clad thighs. “Why do you help me? I am not known to you."

  Nadira looked away from his gorgeous face and concentrated instead on the wound. But that really wasn't much better since he had a set of spectacular pecs—all bronzed skin and hard muscle. She looked at his arms, and decided they were just as spectacular. No way did she dare to gaze lower. She just knew from looking at the width of his shoulders and the bulk of his arms that he probably possessed a chiselled six pack.

  Fallen angel, she reminded herself. He had fallen from God's grace because he had sinned. Had done some reprehensible thing to invoke God's wrath. He was not some stud she could take pleasure in for the night. This was serious shit. She believed in angels—the good and the fallen. She knew many that would laugh at her, tell her she was acting like an idiot. But she knew better. He was dangerous—evil.

  He grabbed her wrist and she yelped, her pulse leaping in her chest. She gasped at the strength of his fingers as they wrapped around her wrist. She was no waiflike pixie. She had strong bones, with lots of meat on them, yet the size of his palm and the length of his fingers dwarfed her hand. Lowering his head, he angled his face until he could catch her gaze, which was staring fixedly at the toe of his black Doc Martens.

  "Why do you help me when I am a stranger to you?"

  Her breathing seemed to stop, and no matter how hard she tried to regain a breath she couldn't force it into her burning lungs. She couldn't do anything, except stare into those blue eyes.

  He shook her wrist, drawing her toward him, his eyes now dark and suspicious. “Why?"

  "I ... I couldn't leave you like that."

  Damn it, she couldn't stop looking at his lips, at the contours of his strong jaw. And those eyes ... she could get lost in those eyes, and all that hard maleness.

  "Do hum—” he stopped abruptly, then licked his lips, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. “Do you usually do this for strangers?"

  "No,” she answered, the reply sounding like a pant. His lips looked so kissable. She groaned, imagining their mouths atop each other, their tongues brushing and rubbing. “I have never stopped to pick up a stranger. I have never brought a stranger to my home. I ... I don't understand why I could not drive past you. I just couldn't."

  His fingers dropped away from her wrist, and he looked away from her, dismissing her. She reached for the needle and thread that sat in a bowl of boiled water, trying to forget about the pain in her chest. He seemed satisfied with her answer, but less than satisfied with her. While she might be hot for him, he was not feeling the same for her. “I'll sew this up as quickly as I can,” she mumbled, trying to hide the embarrassment and the hurt that not being pretty, or thin enough caused her.

  He didn't say anything, only stared at her with those intense blue eyes of his. Stepping deeper into the vee of his thighs, Nadira bent over him and poised her hand, the needle between her fingers, over the jagged flesh. She heard his breath hitch and refused to look up at him. She just wanted to get this over and done with and him out of her kitchen and back out onto the street—back to wherever fallen angels hid amongst humanity.

  Working fast, she punctured his flesh with the needle and pulled the string through, almost disbelieving what she was doing. After a few stitches she realised how poor of a suturing job she was doing.

  "This isn't going to work. You need a doctor."

  He said nothing, but reached for her hand and brought it back to the wound. He commanded her to finish with his beautiful eyes.

  "It's your funeral,” she grunted, “it's going to get infected and you're probably going to die."

  Could angels die from infection and blood loss? And if they couldn't, if he wasn't in any mortal danger, then why was he demanding that she finish the job?

  She waited for him to say something, but he remained silent. His expression, while intense, was unchanging. He didn't watch her work on him, instead she felt his gaze linger on her face, then she swore she felt it lower, straying to her breasts, which freely swayed in her damp T-shirt. His gaze, now feeling hotter, seemed to be fixated on them as they pressed and swayed against the white cotton. Conscious of how she must look, Nadira pulled her damp hair from its ponytail and let it free till it tumbled past her shoulders. It didn't conceal her breasts, but she hoped it would cover the rash of embarrassment that was creeping up her neck and into her face.

  She heard his breath, a deep intake through his nose. Heard it again and she paused, the needle in mid air, listening to his breathing. Was he ... sniffing her?

  She waited and heard it again. He was definitely smelling her hair. He inched a tiny bit closer to her. She felt his breath against the skin that was bared through the vee of her T-shirt. He sniffed again, followed by a deeper, fuller draw.

  She shivered, totally turned on. He was like an animal, sniffing around her, like he was in heat, or a lethal predator preparing to pounce. Another inhalation, another inch closer. A few strands of her hair were lifted and she saw that he brought them to his face. Inhaling the scent of her, he closed his eyes. When his black lashes lifted, his blue eyes shone like lapis. His gaze bored into her and without taking his gaze off her, he tore the needle from her hand, ripping the string from his chest. He tossed them on the table and reached for her, turning her so that she was facing him.

  Her breasts were nearly level with his gaze. She knew her nipples were clearly visible through the wet shirt. Her hips, which all her other lovers had thought too wide, were almost dwarfed in his big hands. His shoulders bunched and his biceps flexed as he came closer to her, pulling her hips forward until her belly was level with his face. From her navel he worked his way up until he was between her breasts, sniffing at her in that sexy, animalistic way of his.

  His strong fingers dug into the waistband of her jeans and with a deep breath, he moved his head so that his nose and mouth slid against her until his lips came to rest millimetres from her nipple. His breath was hot against the cold
wet fabric, and she shivered, feeling her nipple furl and crinkle. He sniffed her at the same time, making her nipples tighten even more.

  Her jeans were suddenly opened and pulled down over her hips, revealing the white cotton boy shorts she wore underneath. His fingers traced her navel, then dipped lower to the lace waistband. He traced the lace edging, then gripped her hips, his palms sliding over her, then behind. She felt his finger skim the flesh of her bottom that peeked out from her panties.

  Finally, he looked up at her.

  "I want to smell you. Every inch. And not your rain soaked clothes. I want to smell you. I want to taste all this beautiful, human flesh."

  Chapter Six

  He knew this woman was trouble. Had known it from the moment he'd been compelled to listen to her voice on Mary's answering machine. Had felt it the second their gazes had met through the glass of her car's windshield.

  He'd fought those feelings—the attraction—the way his body tensed when she was near him. He'd fought it all, every sensation she had provoked in him, but he could not fight this. Not the desire that was now ruling him. Not the need to feel her and explore her body, or the compulsion to feel himself deep inside her.

  God damn, Sammael for filling his head with thoughts. He couldn't stop thinking of how soft she was against him. How his whole body seemed to light up like a nuclear power plant when her fingers trailed along his skin. His cock was straining against his jeans, and it was the first time he'd ever been truly aware of the damn thing.

  Like an animal, he let his instincts rule him. Pressing his face to her throat, he sniffed her, lowering until he was between her breasts and his big hands were overflowing with the soft flesh of her breasts. Kneading them, weighing them, he let himself explore her as he made his way down to the vee of her thighs.

  "You smell so right,” he said, sniffing—no—purring, for Christ's sakes. He was actually purring like a cat as he inhaled the sweet scent of her sex which was still hidden beneath her white panties.

  He remembered the feel of her ass peeking out from the cotton, at how warm and soft it had been. How it had filled his palm and made him want to reach for more. Needing to see her, he roughly turned her so that she was pressed against the wall and he was staring at her beautiful bottom. And what a gorgeous picture she made for him, her waist tapering in above the flare of her hips, the heart shape of her ass, the teasing bit of her cheek that crept out of her panties.

  She was restless against him, and he cupped her hips in his palms to steady her. He set his tongue to the curve of her cheek, tracing the shape of her bottom, letting the tip of his tongue rest against her folds. She tasted of salt and arousal, and his head seemed to swim. His tongue swirled in his mouth and he tasted her, fuelling the need that was threatening to overtake him.

  Pushing the edges of her panties up, he pressed them up into her crease, until they parted her lips, and the cleft of her bottom—baring all that pink, wet—luscious—flesh. She gasped, and his cock pulsed. He heard his purring grow louder, while he appreciated the sight of her full bottom, his hands cupping and groping, spreading, revealing little pink flashes of her swollen vulva.

  Pressing in, he smelled her, pushed the bunched fabric aside and revealed her glistening sex. He kissed her there, licking away the wetness on his lips. Then he touched her, gently grazing his fingers between her parted lips. She was wet, shimmering. Instinctively he pressed in, lapping the wetness off his fingers, before pressing them against her again. Again, he licked his fingers, tasting her, letting her fill his mouth.

  She whimpered, jarring him. Tearing his gaze away from her, he dropped his hand from his mouth and looked up into her face, expecting to see fear and revulsion shining back at him—after all—he was acting like an animal. Instead, he saw a shy smile and eyes that had turned glassy with passion.

  She was the most gorgeous creature He had ever created. Long blond hair that fell down past her shoulders and dark eyes that had grown even darker stared back at him. Her face was a perfect oval, and her lips were full and ripe, ready to commit any mortal sin. And her body. It was a thing of a beauty. Full and lush with heavy pink tipped breasts and round hips. A soft little mound of a belly beckoned him, told him she was ripe—ready to be taken and explored. And Christ he was ready to take her.

  "It's okay,” she whispered, as if she could sense the inner turmoil warring inside him. “Really, I want ... it's all right, go ahead. Oh, God,” she moaned, as he brought his fingers once more to his mouth, sucking off the taste of her sex. “You look so damn hot when you do that. No one has ever savoured me like that."

  Something akin to the pain of Sammael's mazzariel plunging into his heart heated his chest. Although, it was not pain. It was something else. Something much more complicated than pain.

  Unable to understand his next move, he stood to his full height and lifted her into his arms. She squealed as she found herself being carried in his arms to her bedroom, which he sensed was just down the hall from her kitchen.

  "Put me down,” she gasped, struggling in his arms. “I'm no lightweight. You're going to pull something if you keep carrying me."

  "You're not heavy. Besides, you feel ... right in my arms."

  She sighed and seemed to melt into his chest, almost as if she were becoming one with him. Christ, what the hell was he thinking? This was a human. He despised humans. Hated them. Yet he liked the way this one felt. The way she tasted. The way her sex seemed to beckon him.

  "We really should be fixing the rest of your wound. It's started to bleed again."

  Any thoughts toward hating this human flew right out of his head when he heard her whispered words, so full of concern, and felt the gentle, probing touch of her fingertips.

  "No,” he commanded as he found her bedroom. “Never mind the wound."

  "You're not much of a talker, huh?"

  "No.” Laying her down on the bed which was covered in the same mound of white bedding as Mary's bed had been, Gadriel stood and stared down at the beautiful sight of Nadira's pink flushed body. She was lush, curved in all the right places. Shell pink nipples stood at attention, and he couldn't stop staring, or thinking how damn much he wanted to take her breasts into his mouth and taste and lave, watching his tongue traversing over her pale skin, then flicking over her taut nipples.

  "I want to taste you,” he blurted. “Everywhere. I want to get inside you, in every place I can.” She stiffened, and he saw that her eyes went wide. Christ, he was frightening her. “Sorry,” he muttered, wiping his hand through his hair as he tore his gaze from her body.

  "Don't be,” she said and heard her move. Felt her body's heat as she came to her knees on the bed. He was on top of her before she could breathe. His hands and lips were everywhere, her jaw, her throat, the rounded curves of her breasts.

  "Please.” Her voice was hoarse as she guided his mouth to her breast. “I can't explain it. I.... I don't do this, pick up strangers, and take them home. I don't have sex with strangers. But you ... you don't feel like a stranger to me. And I need ... I need this, the feel of you inside me."

  It was the same for him, this overwhelming drive to take to her—this human. He was beyond rational thought, beyond reminding himself that he supposedly despised her kind. All he could think about was how warm and soft she was, how sweet she smelled to him, and how damn much he needed to be inside her.

  Filling his hands with both breasts, he watched the expression of pleasure cross her face. Their gazes met and he very purposely skimmed both thumbs across her nipples so that he could watch her eyes widen and her tongue come out to wet her lip.

  "You take my breath away, Nadira.” He tried to stem the words, to hide from the strange, new feelings bubbling inside him. Unable to resist the temptation she offered when she filled his palms with soft flesh, he pressed forward, nuzzling the valley of scented skin. Her nipple was scant inches from his mouth and he flicked it with the tip of his tongue, first in short flicks, then in slow, languorous circles.
His cock grew to massive proportions, and he drove it against her belly as he sucked her nipple greedily into his mouth. She sucked in a breath, as if it were painful, but she followed it up with a moan and he knew that what he was doing brought pleasure to both of them.

  Her hand slid down between their moulded bodies. Her palm flattened against the fly of his jeans, and he closed his eyes allowing himself the pleasure of imagining her small hand surrounding him, pumping his thick shaft slowly until he could stand the torture no longer.

  Tearing open the button of his jeans, she freed his cock into her palm. Gripping him, she stroked him, and he bit tenderly at her nipples as he let out a long groan.

  He felt his cock stiffen, felt a change in his lower body, and instinctively he moved his hips away from her. She followed him, wanting more, but he knew somehow that if he let her continue touching him, the moment would be over. And Gadriel knew he was nowhere near done exploring her body. In fact, he wondered if he would ever be done with this female. Even now, he felt her creeping into his chest. Felt the comfort of her, the warmth.

  What was this, this heat he felt, this need to protect her, this desire to scream mine as he looked down at her beneath him?

  Nadira was beyond thinking as his hands slid up her thighs, only to move to their inner facings. She was breathing hard as he took the waist of her panties and pulled them down her hips and thighs. His lips followed the path of her undies as he reverently went to his knees and kissed her as though he were worshipping her.

  "I am,” he whispered, and she heard him in her mind. Their gazes locked and she reached out to him, stroking the wound on his chest as his fingers, so long and beautiful skated along her calves and thighs. “I would lie at your feet and beg you, Nadira,” and he meant it. He'd get down on his knees and kiss her feet if she had asked. Anything, for just another glimpse of her sex, and the chance to be inside it.

  "Who are you?” she asked as he pressed his mouth to her thighs, kissing her.