It was darkness, shimmering, shattering darkness, iridescent blue folding down around us, tightly, as soft as feathers wrapping around my back, sealing me into a cocoon of such infinite delight that I felt a stray climax sweep over me before everything vanished and there was nothing but pure, healing warmth.

I had no idea how long that blessed, velvet darkness lasted. I must have fallen asleep, because I opened my eyes to find that I was lying in the middle of his bed, naked, a sheet wrapped around me, and Raziel was nowhere to be seen. Of course. What man stayed around long after the fact?

I tried to turn over, then groaned in sudden discomfort. It had definitely been too long since I’d had sex, I thought dimly.

It must be the middle of the night. I managed to sit up, wincing slightly at the discomfort between my legs. I still felt the faint lingering of postcoital bliss, that heavenly warm feeling that washed over me, when I knew I shouldn’t be quite so happy. Something was wrong, something was off, yet I couldn’t remember what. I still felt as if I were floating, so pleasured that I probably could have climaxed again just thinking about it.

I’d told him not the bed, and he’d taken me at my word. Up against the wall. I hadn’t ever done that before—my erstwhile lovers weren’t what you’d call adventurous. That was good as well—the up-against-the-wall part. Everything was good, except for that nagging worry.

I needed to put it in perspective. It was sex, for God’s sake, no big whoop.

Though in truth it certainly had been a big whoop. This was a far cry from the pleasant little shimmers that Jason had been able to coax from me at his most creative. A far cry from the fast, efficient orgasms I’d managed on my own. This was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

I was wet, dripping between my legs, and I realized with a shock that he hadn’t used a condom. Well, why should he? There were no pregnancies in Sheol, and presumably no sex-borne illnesses. God, this was the first time I’d ever had sex without a condom.

That was it. That explained the whole multiple-orgasm, best-I-ever-had, oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-die reaction. Sex must be impressively better without a condom. It was the lack of a thin rubber sheath getting in the way. Nothing at all to do with Raziel, thank God.

I heard the shower stop, and for a moment I panicked, looking around me for escape. I hadn’t even realized the water was running—otherwise I would have been up and out of there. It was too late, and in truth, there was nowhere I could go. If I were a good virginal Victorian heroine, I could fling myself from the ramparts, though I would have to do so stark naked, somewhat ruining the effect.

But I was neither virginal nor a heroine. It had been fast and erotic and inexplicably wonderful. And for some reason I expected it was something he wasn’t going to want to repeat.

He walked out of the bathroom, and he was naked. Totally and comfortably naked. He had something in his hand, not that I was looking at his hand, and he tossed it to me.

I reached out and caught it automatically. It was a warm, wet washcloth, presumably to clean myself off. I didn’t move, holding it in my hand, slightly dazed.

He was exquisitely beautiful, even more so without clothes. I’d always found naked men to be sort of silly, with their drooping parts bouncing as they walked. Raziel wasn’t silly. He was magnificent, with white-gold skin stretched over a lithe, strong frame, and his sex didn’t bounce. I jerked my face away, refusing to think about it.

I felt the bed sink beneath his weight, and I turned and looked at him, startled. He was looking at me with a troubled expression, one I couldn’t read. He took the washcloth out of my hand and pressed me back against the bed, his hand gentle. I clutched the sheet that covered me, but he pulled it away effortlessly, and I let it go rather than get into an undignified tug of war I was bound to lose.

“Open your legs,” he said, putting one hand on my thigh.

I considered ignoring him. I didn’t want to face him, didn’t want to talk to him after that hot, urgent coupling that undoubtedly meant far more to me than it had to him. I closed my eyes, letting him pull my legs apart, and the wet warmth of the washcloth made me shudder in unexpected reaction. Those were his hands, washing me with an unlikely tenderness, and for some reason I wanted to cry.

I lay perfectly still beneath as he took care of me, my eyes closed, just wishing he’d go away and leave me. He was going to, sooner or later, and he might as well get it over with.

“I’m not going away,” he said.

“Stop reading my mind!” I cried, my voice catching on a sob. I didn’t tend to become emotional after sex, but this was an anomaly on every front.

He cursed under his breath. And then he simply moved over me, between my legs, and before I realized what he was doing he’d pushed inside me again, fully hard, and I let out a little yelp of shock as I shifted to accommodate him.

He held very still, and I opened my eyes to look at him, to see the expression on his face. He was staring down at me, his long fingers cupping my face, his gaze intent.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. He made a small gesture, and the lights dimmed, covering us with shadows. His head dropped, his mouth against my neck, his breath on my skin. “Am I hurting you?”

I tried to find my voice. It felt as if I were sinking into a dark place of pleasure and forgetfulness. The feel of him inside me was like nothing I’d ever known before, and now that the first, fevered rush was over I could let my body experience it fully. It felt like a blessing, a benediction, a powerful act of claiming that still somehow eluded me. I shook my head, unable to speak, and I knew he smiled against my skin.

“Good,” he said softly. He kissed my shoulder, and I could feel his tongue, his teeth, lightly graze the base of my neck, and I suddenly went into overdrive. My body reacted instinctively, tightening around him, and I could feel his smile again. “No,” he whispered. “You don’t want that.”

I wanted to tell him yes, I absolutely did want that, but my voice had disappeared. Just as well—I would probably have begged him.

“You don’t have to beg,” he said. “Just hold still and let me do this.” He slid his hands beneath my butt, pulling me up close against him, and I wrapped my legs around him. The faint ache disappeared in a second, almost before I felt it, and the shift of position brought him in deeper still, and I reacted once again with that instinctive tightening.

He lifted his head to look down at me, and I stared up into his strange eyes, mesmerized. I no longer wanted to hide, to look away. He was invading my soul again, just as he had earlier, only this time he was invading my body at the same time, and I wanted more.

“There’s a limit to what you can take, Allie,” he whispered in my ear, reading me again. “I don’t want to hurt you.” And he began to move, a slow, sweet slide, and I found I could make noise after all, a deep, longing moan, as I slid my arms around his back and held him close, feeling his muscles bunch and release against my hands, wanting the feel of him, the taste of him, all around me.