Dark Admirer (4 page)

Carrying the woman, he walked deeper into the building. Down a dark hall, he listened for the clicking of the dog’s nails against the floor. Silently he followed, watching as dark shadows passed over the woman’s face. His wings. They were the shadows. He glanced up and saw their silhouette on the wall. He stopped for a second, watching as they moved with his shoulders and flickered with a wayward draft of air.

For long seconds, he studied the image and how his wings seemed to cocoon her, protect her. From deep within him a primitive drive to protect this woman reared quickly, and he shook free of the thought. He was not that sort of angel. His wings were the same colour as portrayed by the shadow—black.

Fallen. Sinful. Corrupt.

The woman shivered in his arms, and he lifted her higher so that she was pressed deeper into the wool of his coat. He walked the rest of the length of the corridor until he came to a large opening. The cracking sounds of a fire greeted him, as well as a large window where he could see the snow and ice earnestly falling from the sky. The enormous room was filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. In the corner was a long counter with a computer and a mountain of paper bags.

A bookstore of some sort he thought, as he spotted a wingback chair beside the fire. Not bothering with his coat, he sat down, still holding the woman in his arms. She was still unconscious, her body lax like a rag doll.

Her head rolled back off his arm, and gently he guided it so that it came to rest softly against the wing of the chair. His eyes were immediately drawn to the steady pulsation at the base of her throat, and he knew she was alright. She would awaken soon and Anael could not stop the disappointment the thought caused him.

He was an abomination. A walking catalogue of sins. He was a fallen angel, hidden and feared by his brothers. He was not the sort of being—mortal or angel—that would inspire this woman’s desire.

Yet he craved that. Yearned for the feel of her body responding to him. He wanted to watch her pale, bloodless skin slowly turn pink. He wanted to feel the coolness being chased away by the heat his touch invoked.

But that could never be.

He tried his voice, hoping he might be able to talk to her, but as always he was mute. He was eternally silent. Only when he was with the mortal summoner who called upon him was he able to speak.

And this woman was not the one who had summoned him—Anael, the angel of desire. The seraph of passion, pleasure and sexual gratification.

He was the angel that mortal men prayed to, the seraph they summoned when they needed his aid in attracting the fairer sex. It was his skills the mortals needed in order to please and pleasure. God had given them, the humans, the means to procreate, it had been up to him to ensure they enjoyed it.

As he gazed down at the woman lying still in his arms, he had a strange regret that she was not the one who had wanted him—needed him. For he suddenly had the very odd sensation that he needed her, that her sudden and unexpected presence in his life was not an oddity, or a matter of poor timing. It was something much different. Something much more profound than a chance meeting.

If he had been a mortal man, he would have thought it a touch of destiny, of fate and kismet that made his path cross hers. But he was not a human. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to touch her. To feel that smooth ivory skin beneath his palm, but he resisted the temptation.

His punishment—or part of it—was soon to be over. To fall again into sin would only perpetuate the punishment. He had to resist this woman. This strange urge he felt heating his blood. So instead of reaching out and drawing his fingers along her cheek and throat, he rested his head back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling which was covered with copper tin, and decorated with red bows and evergreen garland. In the centre of the display, stood a golden angel, its wings spread wide, its hands in prayer.

Once, long, long ago, he had been that sort of creature. Dutiful. Respectful. Faithful. He could hardly remember it now, what it was like to be showered with His grace; what it was like to live side by side with his brothers instead of being hidden away, caged in the furthest corner of Heaven, waiting to be used, waiting to bestow his great gifts amongst the mortals.

For so long he had been alone. Empty. Lifeless. Excommunicated from his brothers and his God.

Anael silently wondered if the seventy generations he had been imprisoned in the Abyss with the Incubi and Succubae who had tortured him was not more bearable than this isolation.

He knew without a doubt, that his fall from grace had not been worth the temptation. Those early human women he had taken to bed had not been worth the punishment meted out to him. The temptation those women had presented, had long since lost their lustre. Now the only thing he felt was not the uncontrollable desire he had first felt, but regret, and perhaps, shame as well.

A ringing from the vicinity of the window jarred him from his thoughts. Twisting, he looked over the top of the chair to see a red cell phone resting on the window sill. A light flashed by the display screen as it continued ringing. His gaze moved to the right, to a table that was placed before the window. A table, which held a majestic black feather.

So, that is what had brought him to the woman. She had found a feather from his wing. She had touched it. Stroked it. And he had felt each glide of her fingers along his body as he tumbled through the air. He had felt each slide of her fingers as if it had been his naked flesh she had touched, and not just an errant feather.

Holding out his palm, he reached for it, watching as the feather obeyed his silent command and came to him. When he held it between his fingers, he felt the woman’s aura clinging to the feather, smelt her perfume and the delicate scent of her skin as he brought it to his face, inhaling the scent of her.

He saw her then, a vision in his mind. She was standing before the window, staring in wonder at the feather she held in her palm. Then she lifted it to her face, trailed the tip of it along her cheek and jaw. Her eyelids slowly lowered, as if she could feel the same current run through her own flesh.

And then he began to feel what she felt. The touch of a hand along her satiny skin. The feel of a mouth slowly descending to her cheek. He sensed her response. Sensed his own. And for the first time in more than seventy generations, he allowed himself to be drawn in by forbidden pleasure…

Eve was having the strangest dream. She was back at the window of her bookstore, the strange and beautiful black feather lying in the flat of her palm as she watched the snow gently falling outside. It was dark now, the sun long since having slipped beneath the grey clouds. The moon was out, illuminating the snow and ice crystals that covered the street and sidewalk. It was cold and blustery outside, yet she felt nothing of the cold, despite the drafty window.

Behind her was a comforting warmth. It was not the fireplace, although the log continued to burn in the hearth. It was another source of heat. A body—large and broad—it felt so warm and safe. And the scent…the scent was like nothing she had ever smelt before. Exotic, mysterious. A hint of Eastern spice. It drew her in, relaxing her as if she were enveloped in a cloud of opium.

She was in a haze. Her limbs felt languid, heavy. Yet, despite her body’s immobility, she felt restless. A deep yearning inside her was quickly taking over.

“Let me in,” a dark velvety voice whispered to her, the words caressing her skin like a lover’s touch.

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling his hands go around her shoulders. His fingers felt long and sure against her—manly—yet so gentle. So skilled as they drew small circles down her arms.

“I could make you feel so good,” he said again, his voice hauntingly beautiful. “I would worship you, if you would let me.”

“Your voice…” Eve murmured, feeling her eyelids grow heavy, as if his voice had the ability to send her into a trance.

“My voice is only for you,” he said, and this time she felt his breath whispering against the shell of her ear. “My words are only for you. My touch…it is just for you. My body…it is yours.”

Eve felt her body go liquid. His voice made her respond like she never had before. No man had made her feel like this. This languid, this free to indulge her most secret fantasy.

“I can smell your desire. I can feel it, your body heating beneath my hands. I can taste it,” he purred, then flicked his tongue beneath her ear. “Let me touch. Let me taste.”

His hands, warm and soft sneaked beneath the hem of her top. As if by magic, the cotton seemed to evaporate, leaving her exposed. Her nipples tightened, lengthened as her breasts grew impossibly heavy as his palm slid up the expanse of her belly, up to towards her ribs. Eve felt his breath, quicker—uneven—ruffling the tendrils of her hair. She smelt him, the exotic spice of him growing stronger as though someone had lit an incense stick. The heat from him—his chest at her back, his hand beneath her breast—engulfed her body.

“I could show you Heaven. I could take you to places that no man ever could.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice nothing more than a quiet pant. Her body arched of its own accord as his palm left her and hovered overtop her breast. “Please,” she begged. Her nipples ached to be touched. They were so sensitive. Even the cool air sensitised them to an extreme that was a mixture of pleasure and pain.

“You are so perfect. So lush and lovely,” he said, his voice sounding as though he were awed. “I have never seen another more beautiful. Let me see you. Let me look upon the beauty He has bestowed upon you.”

Eve turned then, seeking the owner of the dark, mysterious voice. He allowed her that, slowly turning her with his hands. His head was lowered, his face pressed against her neck and shoulder as he nuzzled and inhaled her scent. His palms shaped the contoured sides of her breasts. Over and over he slid his palms over her heavy breasts, each time coming closer to her nipples.

“Look upon me,” he whispered, his voice sounding like a plea. “Look upon me but do not fear what you see. Never fear me,” he murmured as he pulled back from her and looked down into her upturned face.

Eve felt her eyes go wide. A scream was trapped in her throat. Those eyes…those gorgeous teal eyes. And that face. That frightening tattooed face was peering down at her.

The man from the alley.

She screamed then, and threw herself out of his hold. Struggling, she wrestled with her consciousness, trying to awaken from the dream.