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Authors: Heather Killough-Walden

Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels (35 page)

BOOK: Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
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The woman smiled warmly at Eleanore and put her hands on her hips. “Oh my goodness! Look at you two; you’re soaked through. Have you come from far?”
“Sort of,” Uriel said, playing along with ease. He was good at acting. “We were wondering whether you had a room available and we’re also hoping it isn’t too late to get a bite to eat.”
Bite . . .
“Of course we have a room!” the woman chirped happily. “In fact, our corner suite on the second floor cleared out this morning and won’t be booked again until Thanksgiving! You’re welcome to it; it’s already been cleaned and prepared.” She bustled past Eleanore to a small writing desk against one wall, where she extracted a few forms from a folder and handed them to Uriel.
“My name’s Tilda, by the way,” she said as she handed them the forms. “If you’ll just fill these out real quick, I’ll go ahead and put some soup on the stove. Minestrone all right with you?” she asked.
“That would be fantastic,” Eleanore said with a grateful smile.
 
A half hour later, Ellie had finished her meal in the bed-and-breakfast’s dining room and the two of them headed to their room on the second floor of the inn. Eleanore’s heart was beating fast by the time she followed Uriel up the stairs. During dinner, she had confessed to him that she needed to talk. Though she’d been having a fantastic evening, she knew she had to tell him about her contract with Samael.
The room they had procured for the night was actually two separate rooms, joined by a long hallway that sported an enormous bathroom. The bathtub was more like a hot tub, complete with jets and nooks in the marble for placing cold drinks. There was a fireplace in the master bedroom, and Tilda had already started a fire for them. It burned low, crackling warmly and lending a comforting glow to the rest of the room.
But it was the view that people were paying for with this suite. One side of the master bedroom was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and a set of sliding glass doors that led out onto a balcony. The sound of the surf was clearly audible, as were the cries of seagulls and the barking of sea lions somewhere in the distance. Even at night, Eleanore could tell that it would be breathtaking in the morning.
“Did you enjoy your dinner?”
No,
Eleanore thought.
I spent the whole meal worrying about what was going to come afterward.
“Yes,” she fibbed. “It was good soup.” At least
that
was true.
Uriel was still watching her closely. He nodded once and lowered himself into a large leather chair that sat across from the master bed. Then he rested his long, booted legs on the coffee table in front of him and speared her with a hard look. “Now talk.”
“I’m scared,” she told him honestly. “This has been such a wonderful night, Uriel. You’ve . . . you’ve shown me so much. But I’m afraid.” She shuddered, a chill working its way through her body.
He did not fail to notice it, but the hardness in his gaze also didn’t let up. “What are you afraid of, exactly?” he asked softly.
“I don’t want you to hate me.”
“I could never hate you, Ellie,” he told her calmly. “So you can stop being afraid of that right now.”
Eleanore slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and stared into the fire. “Fine. What’s done is done.” And though she knew it was foolish to have made such a deal with such a man, she also knew, in her heart, that she had done it for the right reasons. She had done it in the hopes that Samael would cure Uriel of his vampire curse. To her, that was a noble motive. She only hoped Uriel would see it that way as well.
“Yesterday, I signed a contract with Samael,” she said, deciding to just let it out all at once. She didn’t look up at Uriel to see his reaction. Instead, she gazed steadily into the fire and didn’t even move. “The deal was that I would come to him for protection if, at any time in the following week, you did anything to . . . to hurt me.” She swallowed, fighting past a lump that had formed in her throat. She was beginning to tremble, but she forced herself to go on. She still didn’t look at Uriel. “In exchange, he agreed to free you from your vampire curse at the end of the week.”
The room was silent but for the sound of the crackling flames and the seagulls and surf outside the windows.
Eleanore wondered whether she should look up and meet Uriel’s gaze. She considered it. She considered pleading for understanding or forgiveness. But a part of her—the stubborn part—also felt that she shouldn’t need forgiveness in the first place. After all, she wasn’t the only one who had made a deal with Samael.
The silence continued to stretch until Eleanore was so nervous, she was certain she was going to break out in hives.
“Did he hurt you?” Uriel finally asked, his tone eerily calm.
The question surprised Eleanore, but she still didn’t look at him. She shook her head.
Again, he was quiet for some time. And then, “You did this for me?” he asked.
Eleanore nodded, keeping her eyes stubbornly trained on the crackling hearth.
Suddenly, Uriel blurred into impossible motion, carrying with him a burst of wind that rushed through her hair and sent the fire into a frantic, crackling fit. Eleanore shut her eyes as her hair whipped at her face. She felt strong arms at her waist lifting her, but she had no time to cry out or object before she was taken at breakneck speed through the air and shoved up against the wall. There she was pinned beneath a tall, hard body.
Uriel’s dark vampire power was instantly penetrating her mind, flooding it with desire. Her lips parted, a moan of harsh longing climbing her throat, but it was never given voice, as Uriel’s lips crashed down hard against hers, claiming them in brutal subjugation. He delved deep, with no hint of gentleness, and she could feel his fangs, fully elongated and sharp, threatening at the tip of her tongue.
A rush of trepidation fought to climb up her spine, but Uriel shoved it back down, ruthlessly smothering her in her own desire.
He reached down with one hand, his palm sliding along the side of her waist. He held her body against the wall with the weight of his own and wrapped his other hand gently—but threateningly—around her neck. He squeezed, a show of ultimate control over her, as the fingers of his other hand found the hem of her T-shirt and shoved it up, exposing the taut flesh of her abdomen. His fingernails raked across her skin, drawing a gasp of desire from somewhere deep within her, which he swallowed as he continued to kiss her harshly, drinking her in.
I want you,
she heard him breathe into her mind.
She was befuddled and hot, feverish with confusing desire. She could not reply, but she found herself arching against him when his fingers headed south, ripping open the front of her jeans so that he could shove his hand under the lace band of her panties.
God, I need you, Ellie. . . .
He was all around her. Encompassing her, bringing her to terrible, delightful, agonizing life. Her nerve endings cried out for him—to stop? To go on?
He found the soft curls between her legs and tightened his grip on her throat.
She was on fire.
I love you,
he told her then, as his fingers pressed on, invading her, parting her, and sinking deep.
Then take me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 
U
riel was mad with lust. He was angry as hell at what Sam had done to his archess. He was so furious that, at Eleanore’s words, his world had once more painted itself red. But his wrath was for the Fallen One, not Ellie.
His own spiking adrenaline had set off fireworks within his body. First came the anger, then the fierce jealousy that another man had gotten to Ellie in any way, then the pride and awe that she would do such a thing for him. That deeper, more heartfelt emotion was what really did it for him. Desire leapt to life like a bonfire, consuming his entire being, until all he knew was that he wanted Eleanore, needed her, and had to have her, or he was sure he would die.
Very slowly, he withdrew his fingers from her tight moistness and had to suppress a growl of mounting insanity when she actually moaned her disappointment. She was not herself, he realized. He had taken her over, body and mind, and she was a slender, wanton vessel of desire beneath him.
It was all he could do not to fist his hand in her hair, yank her head back, and sink his fangs into her throat.
“Christ, Ellie . . .” he hissed across her lips, and then nibbled gently at them, his fangs piercing her slightly before he moved to her jaw line. His grip on her throat tightened, just a little, before he slid his hand away and replaced it with his mouth.
Eleanore gasped when his teeth scraped across the side of her neck.
Uriel nibbled at her throat, his hot breath threatening, and then, as he pressed his body firmly against hers, barely leaving her room to breathe, he growled low in his throat and straightened, capturing her gaze in his once more.
With a roar of raging need, he pulled back and shoved himself from the wall, taking her with him. Coherent thought all but left him as he turned to the bed and threw her down onto her stomach in the center of the mattress.
Eleanore gasped and cried out, clearly struggling to make sense of the sudden movement, scrambling to get her hands and knees beneath her.
He didn’t give her the chance. He was on top of her, pressing her into the quilt before she could gain any leverage.
“Uriel!” she cried out, and he again combed her mind. Her need was still there, her desire still hot and wet and demanding, but he was frightening her. He was all hard angles and unrelenting strength to her—and strange, dark eyes. A part of her coiled with fear, at once unsure and unsettled. Another part of her relished in the domination, wanting more.
He gave it to her.
“Don’t fight me, Ellie,” he hissed in her ear as his hands found her wrists and pulled them together, pinning them above her head in one taut grip against the mattress. “Just give in to me and let me lead.”
Trust me,
he told her firmly, lodging the command deep within her thoughts. It stilled her beneath him so that the only part of her that moved was her chest, rising and falling in quick, fierce succession with each desperate breath.
Uriel’s self-control was gone. There was nothing left in him but a dominant vampire, an archangel who needed his archess, and a determination that forced his will upon the woman trapped beneath him. He would ease this transition for her in the only way he now could. He would give her the pleasure he felt himself and hope against hopes that it was enough.
He could have ripped her clothes off of her then and destroyed them. He could have morphed the material and made it fall away. He possessed powers that normal men did not have at their disposal and, if he’d chosen to, he could have laid her bare to his touch with no more than an impatient thought and flash of will.
But Eleanore was enticing in the extreme and there was no way Uriel was going to deny himself even the smallest pleasure when it came to bedding her. Her boots, he did flash away, as they would only slow him down. But the rest of her, he would damn well undress himself.
In one clean movement, Uriel shoved his hand between her taut stomach and the mattress, and fisted his grip around the top of her jeans. Uriel yanked on the material, shoving them and her white cotton lace underwear over the tight, round swell of her bottom.
Eleanore cried out at the sudden exposure, undoubtedly unused to baring herself in such a manner to anyone at all.
Uriel leaned in to chuckle in her ear. She shivered as he continued to strip her, his strong hand moving up under her T-shirt, shoving it upward as he went. When he reached the underwire of her white lace bra, he fought the urge to wrap his fingers around it and rip it clean away from her body. That might cause her too much pain. So he forced himself to unclasp it, his arm beneath her, his body still holding her down on the bed.
Once he’d removed her bra, Eleanore shivered, her breathing ragged. He had her fully at his mercy now and the knowledge that she was aware of her helplessness made Uriel’s rock-hard dick throb so that it pressed painfully against his jeans.
“I’m going to let you up. Don’t try to get away, do you understand?” he whispered harshly in her ear.
She hesitated in answering, her desire fighting with her natural instinct to flee. Uriel’s hand was out from between them and once more wrapped around her throat in a flash. He used it to pull her up and against him, squeezing in warning.
“Do you understand?” he demanded again, his lips at her ear.
“Yes,” she gasped, and he could scent that more wetness flooded her in response to his domination. She trusted him and wanted him to take over as much as he did. “I understand.”
He released her and moved back enough for her to find her hands and knees. She raised herself to a kneeling position and straightened.
“Raise your arms over your head.”
She did as he said and he yanked her shirt up and over her head, taking her bra with it. As soon as it was off, he pulled her against his chest, his hand spanning across her midsection and sliding up to cup her firm, supple breast.
BOOK: Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
13.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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