Or maybe there weren’t. She was kneeling over him, and it was easy enough to pull her against him. He wanted his mouth on her, tasting her as she sucked at him; but she resisted, clearly not wanting the distraction, so he had to content himself with sliding his fingers between her legs, finding the tangled damp, pushing in as she tightened around him.

She slid her mouth down, trying to take all of him, and he found her clitoris, using his thumb as he thrust his fingers into her. She responded, her mouth moving up and down on him with such hungry urgency that he knew in a moment he’d be lost.

With a strangled roar he reached down and pulled her up, over him, ready to let her straddle him. He placed his cock against her, and she sank down eagerly, a perfect precision of their two needs, and she laughed low in her throat as she took him. And then, to his astonishment, she rolled over onto her back, tugging him with her so that their connection didn’t break, and he was covering her, her knees up high around him.

He looked down at her, cupping her face, and kissed her with all the force and power he’d been holding back; and she met him fully, a kiss of rampant desire and demand. He moved then, pulling out and then pushing in again, the eternal rhythm that somehow always felt new, and he could feel the shimmering convulsions tightening around him. He wouldn’t last long, couldn’t last long, and he sank his head next to hers, concentrating only on their joining, when her soft voice suddenly penetrated his haze of lust, and he froze in an agony of need.

“I want …” she whispered in that lost, broken voice that filled him with shame and sorrow, “… I want to change positions.”

He managed a crooked smile. “Of course,” he said, starting to turn and pull her on top; but she resisted, pushing at him.

“No,” she said. “There’s another way.”

He held very still. “There are many other ways,” he said finally, his own voice sounding as damaged as hers.

“I … I …” Embarrassment colored her voice, and he knew she couldn’t find the words.

“You want me to guess?” he said with strangled amusement. “We could just try it different ways until we hit the one you had in mind.” And then he caught the image from her mind. “Ah, that one. One of my absolute favorites. If you’re sure.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled.

He pulled out, moving back, and she turned over, lying flat on her stomach. He slid his arm under her waist, pulling her up. “No, love,” he said. “It won’t work that way.” He reached between her legs, finding her, and began to push in slowly, the unaccustomed angle slightly tighter.

He didn’t mistake her moan for displeasure, and her first shimmer of climax almost pushed him back out again, but he held still; when the convulsion lessened he pushed in farther, a slow, easy invasion that was going to kill him, he was certain of it.

When he finally came up against her he held still, letting her get accustomed to the feel of him, deeper than ever, and she lowered her head onto the sheet. He was too close and he knew it, but he wanted her with him. He thrust, hard, his hips flexing, and she braced herself, welcoming him, and he gave in to it, pumping into her, no longer able to control himself. He felt her begin to climax and put his hand between her legs to touch her, driving her as he spilled into her; and his wings unfurled, wrapping around them both, encasing them in a cocoon of safety and desire.

It felt endless, delicious, closer to heaven than anything he’d known since the beginning of time. He felt her shudder and weaken beneath him, and he held her, cradling her, as the last stray tremors faded away, and his wings folded back in, releasing them.

He rolled over onto his back, taking her with him, letting her collapse on top of him, an exhausted, pleasured little heap of a girl. He didn’t need to ask why she’d wanted it that way. Accepting his weight on top of her yesterday had been an act of faith, of letting go of the stubborn need to control that had brought about disaster, just as his own questioning had done for him. By deliberately choosing a highly erotic but symbolically subservient position today, she’d banished the last of her fears. She could take him any way she wanted, as long as it gave her pleasure.

Her lips were at his throat, and she nuzzled him there. “Why didn’t you bite me?” she whispered.

He hesitated before giving her the truthful answer. “It doesn’t have to be every time. If you don’t like it, we don’t have to—”

She was stronger than he expected. She rolled over, and he was once more on top of her, cradled in her thighs. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, brushing a kiss across his mouth, reading his hunger, and he knew that it matched her own. She arched her neck, pushing his face down, and his fangs were already extended for the bite when he touched skin, the taste of her blood incredibly sweet on his tongue.

He had to be careful. She’d lost blood today; and while he’d taken the bare minimum last night, she was still operating on less than usual. He pulled away, licking at the twin wounds, closing them, and sank down beside her, holding her in his arms, totally spent. If Uriel won, if all their efforts came to nothing, he would at least fade from existence knowing that the end of his life had been the very best part of it. And holding her close against him, he slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TWO DAYS LATER, AZAZEL TOOK one last, reluctant glance at the woman lying curled up in bed. The time had come. If he’d been able to, he would have put the Grace of sleep on her, so that she didn’t have to experience the next twenty-four hours. Either they would survive or they wouldn’t, and he would have spared her if he could. But once mated, he had no power over her, no ability to control her, and no Grace to give her.

Preparations were already being made. They were making ready for battle. Michael, ever the warrior, was all ruthless efficiency as he marshaled his forces. The Fallen and their wives were arming; the house was buttoned up tight. There was no hint as to how the assault would come, but come it would. Today. While Sheol had no sages or oracles, enough of the inhabitants were given a sense of presentiment. Even he had enough of the gift to have sensed their enemies’ approach, pulling himself from Rachel’s arms to prepare for battle.

“Do we know how it will begin?” he asked Michael as he watched him strap on his leather armor. Azazel was one of the strongest fighters among them, fierce, unblinking, with a power that went far beyond normal limits. But he knew he was the second-best, making up in speed and cunning what he lacked in Michael’s finely honed strength.

Raziel was possessed of extraordinary skill with the sword, Tamlel with a spear. Gabriel’s wife was an archer of considerable ability, and Azazel had been assured that Allie was lethal with a dagger. Each and every one was gifted in self-defense. They would fight to the death; and rather than let Uriel torment her, Azazel would take Rachel in his arms and kill her himself before taking the death stroke. He would take that pain upon himself to spare her. If it came to that.

“Don’t look so gloomy,” Michael chided, in his usual high spirits when anticipating a fight. “We will prevail. We have right on our side.”

“And just how long have you been on this earth, that you think rightness has anything to do with victory?” Azazel said bitterly, reaching for his own leather armor. A sharp sword could slice through the thickness of the cured hides, but they had used it since the beginning of time. They would use it until the end of time, should it come to that.

But it wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to let Uriel win.

Michael must have read his thoughts. “That’s better. Where’s Rachel?”