Archangel's Storm

fine tremors traveling over her skin. Were he a better man, he would stop this—Mahiya didn’t respond like a woman who’d had lovers enough to lose her shyness.
    “. . . who doesn’t court me with lies, is honest in his desire.”
    His desire held no deceit, was a fist in his gut.
    Not forcing her to release the front of the tunic, he put his hands on the curve of her hips and pressed up against her again, his wings spread wide behind them. She shuddered at the intimate contact, because while she’d been busy with her tunic, he’d peeled off his T-shirt.
    The softness of her feathers against his naked skin rushed sensory information through his mind, a molten river that held him captive. Bending to the sleek slope of her neck once more, he used a finger to brush aside an errant strand of hair, felt her responding shiver through the place where their bodies connected. Even as he pressed his lips to her sensitive skin, he stroked one hand down her arm to close his fingers over the ones she had fisted on her front, holding the tunic in place.
    He didn’t force, just gave a gentle tug.
    The tiniest hesitation before she uncurled her fingers and allowed him to take one hand, stretch it out to press against the door. When he traced his return journey down the slender warmth of her arm, she kept her hand where he’d put it. Switching sides, he swept her hair over to the other side with luxuriant slowness . . . because now that he was touching her, the fever in him had transformed into a dark sexual patience that promised crushing pleasure.
    She knew what was coming this time when he stroked down her arm to her remaining fist, her breathing fast, shallow. Leaving his fingers over her own, he smoothed his free hand over the curve of her waist as he laved her neck with his lips before kissing the slope of one graceful shoulder, his face brushing the upper arch of her wings.
    Trembling, she uncurled her fingers from her tunic and allowed him to ease that hand to press flat on the door, too. He caressed his way back down her arm just as slowly, kissing the temptation of her skin the entire time. Then he put both hands to where the tunic bunched at her hips and tugged.
    It slipped down to pool at her feet. She stepped out of the fabric, let him kick it away. “The pants have”—a swallow, as if her throat was dry—“hooks at the ankles.”
    “They’ll keep,” he said, rising to take in the picture she made, her wings slightly spread, her body naked to the waist, the lush curls of her hair falling over one shoulder. “No need to rush.” Reaching out, he ran his knuckles down the naked center of her back again, this time with deeper pressure, her soft cry a fist around his cock. “Close your wings.”
    The second she did, he pressed close and shifted his hand around the waistband of her tapered cotton pants to undo the string-tie that held them up. Only allowing the garment to slide down to her hips, he redid the tie. Her abdomen quivered against the hand he spread on her satiny skin, his ring finger brushing the top edge of her pants . . . which just barely concealed the slick tightness of her.
    His body pulsed, thick and hot.
    Sensing it, she shivered but didn’t attempt to pull away as he slid his free hand up from her hip to just below her breasts. He didn’t cup the small, ripe mounds, just brushed his fingers along the underside before plucking at one taut nipple.
    The sweet need in her responding cry whispered over his skin like a tactile caress. Rewarding her with another teasing brush, another tug that made her tremble, he insinuated his other hand just under the top of her waistband. Her navel tensed, relaxed with a shudder as he caressed her breasts once more.
    Kissing her neck, so very sensitive, he moved his hand lower, under the silky roughness of fine lace to touch the delicate curls between her thighs, the damp heat of her the most exquisite temptation.
    “Jason.”
Dropping one hand from the door, she reached behind her to touch his hair. “Kiss me.” It was a whispered request.
    He halted his erotic exploration and spun her around, her wings spread out in magnificent display behind her as she faced him, a woman with a blush of red over her cheekbones and taut breasts topped with dark nipples he knew he’d soon taste.
    “You,” he murmured, closing his fingers over one breast, “are lovely.” Bracing his free arm beside her head, while her own arms wrapped around him as she