Today's excerpt is a bit special. To mark my completion of The Prison of the Angels, here's a preview excerpt:
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| Jean Delville: L’Allégorie de l’Enfer, 1899 |
At that moment I heard Egan’s door thump open on the opposite side of the corridor. I caught my breath and braced myself for the crash of his fists on my own door.
Oh no. My dream. I was only dozing. I didn’t—did I?
But there was silence.
I sat hearing only the race of my own heartbeat. No accusations; not even the sound of his feet stomping away down the hall. Just silence.
What is he waiting for?
Me?
I pushed myself to my feet, pulled on a tank top shirt just long enough to afford me some decency, and went to the door. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down between my breasts. The handle felt slippery under my fingers.
Egan was standing on the other side of the door, one muscular arm braced against the frame, wearing nothing but the pair of gray briefs he’d presumably gone to bed in. The sight nearly sent me into meltdown then and there. His expression was grim, but not a word passed his lips. His pupils were still horribly dilated.
I searched his face for any sign of light, but saw none. It was the expression, I thought, of a man who had heroically fought the good fight against his inner demons—and lost. I took a step backward into my room and he followed me, pushing the door to behind him.
Are we going to fight? To kiss? To talk? I don’t want to talk. Not now. I want you to touch me.
We stood wordless in that dim yellow light, like we were stuck in amber.
Then I looked down. I wasn’t jiggling about naked in the snow now; just clad in a sleeveless top that was so tight my erect nipples drew a bar across the stretched cotton. Egan wore even less. And unless he had taken to smuggling a length of lead pipe sideways under his briefs, he was finding even that garment uncomfortably constricting. He loomed so close to me that I didn’t even have to step forward to put my hand on that imprisoned shaft and feel it kick against my palm.
Oh. He’s had enough of dreams and teasing. He needs sorting out. Now.
I looked up into his eyes, wondering if he would say anything, and wondering what I should say. But we’d run out of words, both of us.
Did he want me to carry on where I’d left off in the snow? To bend over the bed? He was hard and burning under my hand as I squeezed him through the soft cotton. Oh. Oh. Oh.
He stooped a little, just enough so that his cheek brushed mine, his breath on my ear and neck. I’m used to thinking of myself as tall and gangly, no delicate flower—but it suddenly came home to me how much bigger he was, so much muscle and bone. And that was before I recalled his history of extreme violence. It rather appalled me now to think how I’d had the gall to tease him; we’d shared rented rooms and a pup-tent and even a bed in our journeys together, and I’d never given him enough credit for his restraint, or his honor, or his kindliness.
He could have had me at any time.
Oh, that thought made me run wet.
I’d had my fill of taunting him, for the moment. Now I wanted to give him everything he needed. Keeping one hand on his Calvins and running the other down the glorious hard undulation of his torso, I sank to my knees until my hands could meet. My lips pressed the flat wall of his stomach. Then I slipped my fingers under the elastic of his briefs and pulled them down. His cock bounced free hard enough to give my face a hot, silky slap.
Oh you beauty…
I took him in my mouth, all the way, and I heard the quietest of sighs he uttered. That was all he did for a long moment; just stand there, almost motionless, as I sucked gratefully at his strong, beautiful length.
Then he touched my cheek. “Is that all you want?” he rasped.
No. Not all.
My mouth was too full to talk, so I shook my head. Only when I’d wrapped a hand firmly around his girth did I release him from my lips, and used my hand to pull him with me, step by step, as I crawled backward across the floor.
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