Hell's Angel

His hands moved away from her shoulders and down her back, until he was holding her close. Her breasts pressed against his stomach. The silky material of his toga whispered against her own thin garment, and despite the softness of the clothing, the peaks of her breasts were suddenly hard, and surprisingly tender. Her nipples ached, and deep within her a fire kindled. She rubbed against him, and the heat grew until a flush of warmth rippled through her.

How could something as simple as the feeling of him, swathed in that silk, make her react so strongly? Flustered, she squirmed in his embrace.

If he noticed her embarrassment, he chose to ignore it. “Have you ever been kissed, pretty cherub?”

Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.

“A kiss is a wondrous thing, with many a meaning. It can be quick and precise, perfunctory and cold. It can be loving, as a parent to a child. Or,” he said, his voice low and knowing, “it can be passionate. May I kiss you now, Angel?”

Still unwilling to speak, she nodded.

“Thank you,” he murmured. And with those words, he bowed his head to hers, his lips suddenly on her mouth.

In that initial moment, the angel’s eyes widened in surprise. She’d known what a kiss actually was, but there had been no way to imagine the sensations it would bring with it. First an indescribable joy, one that sang of connection, of commitment, of sharing each other’s very essence. On the heels of that, overwhelming arousal filled every part of her.

The angel’s eyelids slipped closed, and she let out a sound of pleasure. His lips were so very warm on hers, almost burning in the intensity of that kiss—his lips pressed against hers, heating her, sending licks of fire through her.

His mouth opened wider, and his tongue darted between her lips. She let out a startled sound, one that melted away as his tongue rolled against hers. He kissed her more deeply, and now she kissed him in return, pouring herself into that kiss, telling him without words just how much she was enjoying what he was doing to her.

And then his lips left hers, and for that long, long moment she felt a crushing need for him to return to her, to kiss her again until her mouth was swollen, bruised with his passion. Too soon, she wanted to cry. It had ended far too soon. She opened her eyes to see him gazing at her with naked longing.

His voice soft, he said, “I wish to do more than hold you as I kiss you.”

“More?” Oh yes. She wanted more.

“I wish to move my hands over your body. May I, pretty Angel?”

“Please,” she said—either an approval or a plea, she could not say which.