And damn, but it could be so, so good.
But you hardly know him.
There was that pesky voice again. She knew enough. She didn’t need to know his secrets to have sex with him. In fact it would probably be best if she didn’t know anything beyond the fact that he was totally, one hundred percent lickable, and she was pretty damn sure she’d never again meet another man like him.
Besides, when all was said and done, she’d either be Mallick’s whore, or if she managed to win this war, she was pretty sure Azaiel would be gone before the dust settled. Men like him didn’t stay in small towns like this. Hell, she was pretty sure they didn’t stay anywhere for long.
Rowan stared at herself in the mirror as she towel dried her hair. Mason had called every day, and she’d finally answered him the day before. He’d wanted to know when she was coming back and as she’d held the phone to her ear, and looked out the window at the odd assortment of otherworld—at her family . . . Frank. At the damn cat. As she listened to her mother moving about in Nana’s rooms. As Cedric gathered the vegetables from the garden out back, she knew . . .
She was never going back. She suddenly realized she’d been running for years only to find out that the end of her journey was here. Right where she had started.
She’d politely told Mason as much and while he’d protested loudly . . . he’d not protested loudly enough. In the end, he’d agreed to keep her gerbil, and she promised to stop by for a coffee when she made it back to clean out her apartment.
Her large blue eyes stared back at her as she wiped the steam off the mirror. If she survived Samhain.
All the fight seemed to go out of Rowan at once. She dropped the towel and bit her lip as she stared at the bathroom door. Her feet propelled her forward, and before she could stop herself she unlocked it. Blood rushed through her veins, exhilarating tired cells and filling her brain with all sorts of erotic images.
Her fingers grazed her nipples. They were hard, her breasts full and sensitive. An ache erupted between her legs, the throb relentless as she visualized Azaiel in front of her. As she remembered what he felt like. What he smelled like. What he sounded like as she’d taken him into her hands and mouth.
She’d been aching for days. It had been more subtle, riding beneath the surface but there nonet
heless. She bit her lip, hand hovering over the door handle.
Screw it. She wanted him. The whole world was going to shit, and her future wasn’t written in the stars. She had no way of knowing if she was going to survive Mallick’s coming assault. This might be the only time she’d have to take something for herself. To be selfish and not worry about the consequence.
Was it a smart thing to do? Probably not, but at the moment the airhead brain cells were talking, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass about consequence. She turned off the bathroom light and pushed open the door to her bedroom.
Goose bumps erupted across her flesh, and she shivered—her skin was still damp, and water dripped from the ends of her hair. Her chest constricted, the muscles tight and nervous, and the ache between her legs intensified at the thought of Azaiel—of his hands and mouth.
Her heart beat hard and fast, the sound echoing in the rush of white noise that filled her ears. She took a step forward and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the muted lighting. Azaiel had flipped the switch, and it was only the gray dawn that broke through the window to touch him.
He was facedown on the bed, arms pillowed for his head, long legs hanging off the edge. His feet were bare, and for a moment she stared at them. They were big and, like everything else about him, rough and male.
She took a moment to study him, and a smile touched her mouth as she realized how ridiculous he looked. He was a warrior, made of hard lines, raw masculinity, and strength. To see him floating amongst pink and white was wrong, and yet, somehow so right.
If anything, it made him all the more dangerous. And sexy.
Rowan crept toward the bed, her tongue peeking out from between wet, trembling lips. He didn’t move as she approached, and it wasn’t until she was inches from him that she realized he was sound asleep. His long, even breaths indicated he was well under the spell of Sandman.
A small “meow” sounded, and she saw the orange tabby curled into a ball on the other side of Azaiel’s head. The cat blinked slowly, its amber eyes wide and clear. It meowed again, stretched, and settled back into a purring ball of fur.
“Traitor cat,” Rowan whispered. “How did you get in here?”
The tabby didn’t answer of course, and long moments passed as Rowan stood there, naked as the day she was born, staring at a man who wasn’t really a man. Not on this planet anyway. However, he was more perfect in form and in spirit than anyone she’d ever met before.
And she knew nothing about him.
Rowan bent over him and studied the wings that had been etched into his flesh. They were hauntingly beautiful and painful to look at. Who had done that to him? And why?
He murmured something under his breath and turned—Rowan’s heart nearly beat right out of her chest, and she covered her breasts, a reflex action of course, but it didn’t matter. Azaiel was still out cold.
His face was younger in repose, and she saw the young, adorable boy he must have been . . . however many thousands of years ago. Or longer. It was in that moment that Rowan knew she was going to learn everything she could about Azaiel. Priest hadn’t given anything up—he’d said it was the Seraphim’s story to tell, and maybe it was time for her to ask.
She brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead and pulled the coverlet from the bottom of her bed over his still form. The urge to kiss him, to touch his mouth was so strong that she actually bent forward. She was inches away when reality hit, and she stepped back suddenly.
A shudder wracked her body, and she hugged herself, not liking the loss of control or the wild notions filling her head. She was in the middle of a freaking war, for God’s sake. Her ass was on the line, and here she was mooning over Azaiel as if he mattered or something.
Nothing should matter except Mallick. She needed to live and breathe the bastard because if she wasn’t careful, her future would never happen.