Page 109 of Cruel Angel
Raoul is nearly sobbing, out of his mind with pleasure. He craves this more than anything else—the friction of Erik’s cock along the sensitive underside of his own, all while they’re both gliding inside me, welcomed in my heat.
Erik reaches for him, and they clasp hands. Raoul holds my hip, bracing me, and my hand twines in my angel’s black hair. We move together, silken skin and slick need and thundering hearts, until Erik’s cock thrums with a light vibration. At that extra stimulation, a golden burst of exquisite pleasure shatters inside me.
I’m beautifully, thoroughly whole, packed full, coming with exquisite intensity on the thick cocks of two beautiful men. My pussy quivers around them, and they come with me, Erik’s deepercries blending with Raoul’s lighter ones. The heat is intense, magnetic, dizzying. I can feel their cum pulsing into me, spilling warm around the edges of my stretched hole.
Raoul pulls out first, panting, and flings himself down beside Erik. Cum pours out of me, a creamy flood. I stay on top of Erik, my head resting on his chest, until we’ve recovered our breath and our sanity.
“I think we need another shower,” I murmur, running my hand along Erik’s side. Then I lift my head and look over at Raoul. “You need a run through the park later?”
He enjoys a night run in wolf form, and we’ve developed a system where one of us runs with him, carrying a leash in case we’re questioned. We’ve been stopped a couple times, and in both cases were able to convince the curious passerby that Wolf-Raoul was actually a large dog, some cross between a malamute and a black Lab. Raoul prefers it when I run with him, since my vampire speed makes me faster than Erik.
“I think I’ve had enough exercise for one night,” Raoul replies with a yawn. “But tomorrow night, for sure.”
“Get us a towel, won’t you, pet?” asks Erik. “The princess won’t sleep unless she’s clean.”
It’s true. I hate sticky, dried cum on my thighs.
Raoul fetches a damp towel, and we clean up before snuggling together among the sheets.
Our wolf boyfriend brings a tiny golden nightlight with him everywhere we go, even though he claims to “love the darkness.” Neither Erik nor I ever tease him about it. Nor do we mention it when one of our hotels has a smaller shower than usual and he refuses to enter the confined space with both of us.
We all have scars. Most of them are deeper and less noticeable than the white lines along the right side of Erik’s face.
He dreams sometimes, our recovering death god. He’ll wake up in a dark panic and start pacing the room with thunder in his eyes and shadows leaking from his body—shadows in the shape of leafy vines. When that happens, Raoul switches from our “Night Music” playlist to the “Dream Recovery” playlist, and I sing quietly until the frenzy fades from Erik’s gaze and we can lead him back to bed.
Music continues to be his passion. He listens to it, performs it, or composes it during nearly every waking hour of his life. And he can’t fall asleep without it softly playing in the room.
It’s one of the things I love best about him.
Music forged Raoul’s path away from his family. Dance helped me cope with the tragedies of my childhood, and singing gave me my freedom. The musical we created together enabled us to live the dream we’re enjoying right now.
And as for Erik…well, he has often said that music woke him from a living death, and Raoul’s poetry opened his heart.
But my voice made him an angel.
