Page 117 of A House of Gold
"Please what?" His mouth is on my breast, his teeth grazing sensitive flesh. His eyes closed. "Tell me what you want."
"More. Everything. Stop being so..." My words cut off in a gasp as his hand slides down my stomach, fingers playing with the button of my jeans. "Stop being so methodical."
He pulls back, and even though he can't see me, I feel the weight of his attention. "I want to memorize you. Every sound. Every response. Every way I can make you fall apart." His hand presses against me through denim. "Because in a few months, when you're gone, this is all I'll have. Memories of how you felt under my hands."
The words are devastating. A reminder that this is temporary. That we're both on borrowed time.
"Then stop wasting time," I tell him, reaching for his shirt.
He lets me unbutton it, his gaze fixed close, as if he’s watching my face as I work. My hands are shaking but I manage to get it open, push it off his shoulders. And God, he's beautiful. All lean muscle and golden skin, unmarked except?—.
I pause. There are scars on his chest. Faint, old, even.
"Holy weapons," he says, following my attention even though he can't see where I'm looking. "Angels can scar if the wound is deep enough. Inflicted with the right power."
I trace one with my finger, a long line across his ribs. "Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore. They're thousands of years old." He catches my hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses my palm. "But the pain was... instructive. A reminder of what I lost when I fell."
I lean forward and press my lips to the scar. He goes rigid under my mouth.
"Raven," and I practically preen under the feral growl as he says my name.
"Shut up." I kiss another scar. And another. Mapping his damage the way he mapped my desire. "Your turn to let me learn you."
His breath comes faster as my mouth moves across his chest, his stomach. My hands work his belt, the button of his pants. He's hard against my palm when I touch him and the sound he makes is gratifying.
"You're going to kill me," he says roughly.
"Good."
But before I can go further, he's pulling me up, kissing me again. Desperate now, the control starting to slip. His hands are on the button of my jeans again, and this time he doesn't pause. Doesn't ask. Just opens them and slides his hand inside.
I gasp against his mouth as his fingers find me, slick and ready and so desperate for him I could scream.
"So wet," he breathes. "Is this all for me?"
"Do not fucking tease me."
"I want to hear you say it." His fingers move in slow circles, deliberate torture. "Say you want me."
"I hate yo-" The words cut off as he finds the perfect spot, the perfect pressure. "God, I hate that I want you."
"I know." His mouth finds my ear. "I hate it too. Hate that I need this. Need you." His fingers slip inside me and I make a sound that's embarrassingly desperate. "But I do. I need you like I've never needed anything."
He works me with his hand, learning this too, what rhythm makes me clench around him, what angle makes my knees weak. I'm clutching his shoulders, barely able to stand, when he withdraws.
I actually whimper at the loss.
"Not yet," he says. "When you come, I want to be inside you."
He pulls my jeans down, and I step out of them, kicking them aside. Now we're both in just our underwear, pressed against each other, skin on heated skin.
"The desk," I manage. "Or the floor. Or anywhere. I don't care. Just, don’t leave me like this."
He lifts me. Just picks me up like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist automatically. He carries me to the desk, golden surface gleaming in the firelight, and sets me on the edge. The papers go flying, fluttering, flinging through the room as he clears everything off the surface.
His hands hook in my underwear. "Last chance," he says, even as his body is pressed between my thighs, even as I can feel how much he wants this. "Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me this isn't what you want."
