Page 87 of Kiss of Wrath

With her hands on his shoulders and her legs still wrapped around his waist, he walked them into her bedroom where a bedside lamp provided a dim, subdued light. He didn’t bother to towel them dry. Their body heat would take care of that in no time, Miranda mused.

She thought he would lay her on the brass bed, but instead he sat her at the bottom edge and dropped to his knees before her, spreading her knees wide.

“No,” she protested. Then more vehemently, “No! Not like that the first time.”

“I just want to look at you. It has been a long, long time since I’ve gazed at a woman’s secret place.” He smiled and winked at her. “So pretty. Pink. Like the petals of a flower.”

Then, before she could guess his intention, he stood, picked her up by the waist, and tossed her to the center of the mattress. He crawled up and over her, settling his body in alignment with their respective body parts.

“My need for you is fierce,” he said, using his furred legs to rub against her calves.

She hadn’t realized she was so sensitive there. But then he used his ankles to spread her wide, exposing that area she had known was sensitive. Sex Central, so to speak.

“I am afraid I might hurt you,” he said against her ear where he licked the outer shell, then blew softly.

Her body lurched at the intense sexual pleasure that rippled out, igniting other parts of her body. Her lips. Her breasts. And lower.

When she was able to put two words together without blubbering, she put a hand to his face. “I need you, too. If there’s something I don’t like or if I’m hurting, I can use a safe word.”

“Miranda,” he said with exaggerated shock. “Have you been reading Fifty Shades?”

She felt herself blush but then countered with equal exaggerated shock, “Mordr! Have you been reading Fifty Shades?”

“Only the good parts,” he admitted with absolutely no embarrassment, nibbling a path along her jaw, an especially diverting exercise because of his fangs. “An angel, even a vangel, must understand modern sins in order to avoid them.”

“Is that theory accepted by Michael . . . the, uh, archangel?”

“No. What will your safe word be?”

“Oreo.”

They both laughed, and then they were not laughing at all as Mordr braced himself on extended arms and used his erection to stroke the moist folds between her legs. It must take an incredible strength to do that, Miranda thought with what had to be feverish irrelevance.

Giving her no warning, he plunged into her, filling her, causing her inner muscles to expand to accommodate his size, and, yes, to her mortification, to have a mini-orgasm, just from that alone. But Mordr didn’t notice, he was busy lifting her legs by the knees and pressing them up against her chest, giving him even more room to impale her fully, pubic bone to pubic bone.

“Holy Sex in the City!” she murmured.

Mordr’s face was transformed in the sex act. His normally blue eyes turned almost silver. His nostrils flared. His lips parted, exposing the fangs. She assumed that fangs played some role in sex, as they did in fighting demons or saving sinners, but she wasn’t about to ask that now. Maybe never. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

He began long, slow strokes that about had her eyes rolling up into her head.

“You feel like a tight glove of warm honey down there,” he informed her on about the fifth stroke. Or was it fifty. Her brain was no longer operating on a full tank.

“You feel . . .” She tried to reply with equal vividness, but all she could think of was “. . . so damn good.”

His little half smile told her the compliment was well taken.

The force of Mordr’s shorter strokes was so hard they moved her up the mattress, almost hitting her head on the spindles. Without breaking stride, he sat up on his knees, still inside her, with her butt resting on his thighs, and turned so that when he came down over her again, their feet were on the pillows. Which must have given him an idea—and, boy, did he have ideas—because he reached behind him for one of the pillows and placed it under her hips, canting her body at an angle off the bed. With this position, Mordr’s public bone hit her clitoris every time he plunged in.

Instantly, without warning, her vagina began to spasm, clutching him in nature’s vain attempt at keeping the man inside if he was so inclined to withdraw. Not that Mordr was. So inclined, that was.

When Miranda began to come down from the high of that orgasm, she noticed that Mordr was unmoving inside her, and still big as a horse—well, not a horse—but big. The man had not climaxed himself. Darn it! Instead, he was waiting out her mind-blowing peak before resuming his long strokes. At the same time, his fingers were busy playing with the nipples of her breasts. Rubbing, flicking, pinching, tugging.

As if she were a puppet, he played her body, directing her to move this way or that, sometimes in positions she would have balked at in the past. Before Mordr.

So much was going on in so many different places that Miranda didn’t know where to concentrate. His hands at her breasts. His erection inside her. His lips kissing her. She wanted to swat at him and order him to do one thing at a time, and then she wanted to tell him, Whatever you want, baby.

Her vision went blurry. Her legs, which were looped over his shoulders—How did that happen?—went rigid. She was fast climbing to another climax, heightened by the slapping, wet sounds of his private male parts smacking against her female no-longer-private parts. And, yes, it did hurt. A little. But in a good way. For the love of Fifty Shades!