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His touch burned her with need.
On good days, what falls from the heavens may be a naked woman. As an ex-SAS soldier, now private contractor, Adam is used to the unexpected, but nothing in life has prepared him for a fallen angel with a craving for spanking, bondage, and punishment. When she remembers what she once was, can he make the right choice and let her go? |
EXCERPT FROM LUST ANGEL
She looked down through the wisps of clouds, past a mile or two of atmosphere, to where a man emerged from the depths of the bay, climbed onto the dock, and hauled off the top half of a wet suit, a mask, and his breathing gear, to reveal his nakedness. His dripping, well-muscled, and broad-shouldered nakedness. Nothing she’d not seen a hundred thousand times before, yet she was riveted. If eyes could eat someone, hers consumed. Something was different about this man.
“We go!” hailed Benenyon, raising his spear of light, his wings flailing the chilled air with their supreme whiteness. So white were they that a haloed afterimage would remain on any human’s vision, if a human could see this host of angels.
Her mission had been declared. They must go. Souls to save. Evil to do bad things to. Yet her gaze strayed earthward and she maneuvered past thicker cloud to improve the clarity. At the second sight of his flesh, a novel warmth blossomed at the juncture of her legs. A...pleasure evoked where none could exist.
“Benenyon!” hissed a nearby member of the host. “Benenyon! She trespasses upon forbidden emotions at a time of monumental significance.”
It was? And here she’d thought it was yet another battle against evil, same as those of the past few thousand years.
“Who spoke?” Stricken, she searched for them.
“Is this true?” Benenyon’s voice boomed, cloaking her in an awareness of him alone.
She shuddered and bowed her head. “Yes.”
A shouted vaunt overcame her. “We cast you down. Seek penance. Your wings, gone. Let us leave her to her contemplation. We go.”
Their absence was instantaneous yet marked by whispered words that evaporated anon: her sword of light?
What of her sword?
Through a mind blanked of all save a whirling maelstrom of thunderous black, she felt the tear of her inviolable skin at her shoulders and was left bereft and screaming, and plummeting to somewhere that had no discernible direction. Earthward, no doubt. There were few other options.
And then, there was naught.
*****
At the whistle from his upstairs owner, Gandalf, a scruffy, white terrier, galloped off toward the stairs. Adam smiled, watching him tear around the corner and disappear into the stairwell. The dog was a happy thing, considering some of the stupidity that occurred in the McDonald family apartment. Being rich seemed to have fed the ego of the bastard up there.
At least the dog did okay, if not the wife and kids, but you didn’t interfere in other people’s shit, no matter how good you were at killing. Well, apart from trying to get Mrs. McDonald to do something about it. They’d spoken, a little. Ridiculous that in a civilized nation like Australia, getting justice could be as difficult as in war-torn Iraq. Their boy, Jacob, reminded him of the little one in Pakistan, Abu, and that made it doubly bad. The memory of Abu running after their truck, then watching him disappear into the dust cloud churned up by the wheels, it never left him.
Life sucked in general, some days.
He straightened the cricks from his back and neck, feeling the burn of strained muscle. Above the scatter of silhouetted palm fronds, the full moon stared down at him.
This circular complex called Gabriel Towers had been built twenty years ago at the whim of a millionaire seeking a penthouse overlooking Brisbane River. Though once upon a time it had been terribly exclusive, now it was run down enough to allow in the likes of him – a mostly employed ex-SAS soldier doing clearance diving for private companies in between overseas contracts. A mercenary some might call him, except he wasn’t one, or anywhere near that glamorous or illegal. The latest government laws had come close to making what he did a criminal act, though. It had given him pause. Why was he still doing what he did?
Orneriness or habit? No, it wasn’t simply that. Drive and ambition plus a need to improve on what he’d done before. To never be beaten. He hated feeling he’d not done the best he could.
Which was why the McDonald situation bugged him. Beating up the neighbor because he gave his wife a bruised face wasn’t exactly legal either. Fuck though, it should be.
With his palm, Adam swept dog hair from the legs of his jeans then straightened. He stuck his hand in his pocket to grab his keys. A sound and flash of white light from off to the side alerted him.
A whimper? That had sounded female.
Wary, he ventured toward where the light had flashed. The central lawn, garden beds, and meandering paved pathway through this central miniature park was pretty enough in daylight, but sometimes lights failed unexpectedly. Like now. All three of the post-hung electric lanterns were out.
He checked the apartments above. Many of the windows and balconies glowed with light. Not a power problem then.
His vision adjusted quickly and he moved over lawn then silently hopped over a row of some sort of flower. Pink buds in daylight, he recalled. The chances were low that someone was out here in the dimness checking out the small moon above, or necking with their girl or boyfriend.
To get in here people had to enter via the gated car park or two side entrances that were also secure.
The fronds of a weeping willow brushed his shoulder, whispering against his black T shirt. A good color for this situation. If this was some kid staking out the apartments, he was getting a nasty, wake-up, clip on the ear.
He was sure this area had been illuminated when he’d come up in the lift from the carpark.
Perhaps the disturbance had indeed been the lights failing?
He halted, struck dumb.
Perhaps the disturbance had been caused by this naked woman, who kneeled, head down, in the center of this haven of flowers. He could see her well, as if she possessed some inner light.
Alabaster. The word sprang from nowhere. Her skin seemed perfection incarnate with moonlight whispering over her curves and the ripple of her pale-as-bone, blond hair.
Blood. Another stark word. There was red, below her shoulders, in two precise stripes or gouges. Thick trails wept sluggishly down her skin.
He paused to check their surrounds. Nothing. No one. And she was in the middle of a bank of tall flowers with no signs of footsteps leading in. Flew in? Hah. However she’d arrived there, she was hurt.
“Miss? You’re bleeding. You need to see a doctor.”
She turned her head until one eye showed, dark, inquiring, and as mysterious as a trail leading into a dark forest. “I do?”
Thank god. She could talk. Her head was ticking over on at least three cylinders. Compos mentis. Maybe not on drugs? “You do. I should stop that bleeding on your back. Is that okay?”
If she had other injuries, the slight blood loss could be a problem.
“Sure. You can stop it.”
Then she rose to her feet, slowly, revealing her breasts as full and tipped with that wonder of womanhood – plump, full nipples that shone, just a little. If aroused, they would scrunch up and stick out like buttons. The triangle of hair over her mons was light, delicate as the spark of sunlight through mist. He jerked up his head. And why was he even looking?
Bandaging, remember? An ambulance would take a while to get here.
“How do you do this?” Though her question must be about the bleeding, she studied him as carefully as he had studied her.
“How do I what? Stop bleeding? Pressure. Bandages.”
He found he’d paused again, just to stare.
Was she a siren, a lost and hurt woman, or just a junkie on a bad bender?
Nothing in his life, not the intensity of army training, not blowing holes in doors with shaped charges, not passing the many and constant tests to be on the TAG anti-terrorist team, had prepared him for this. Distilled magic. She. Him.
His awareness seemed concentrated to an infinite degree.
How quaint that he’d thought himself connected to other women in his life, before this.
He shook his head. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to him? Old age, man.
Bandages. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Here. Dial triple zero while I get you to my apartment. I have a first aid kit. And clothes. You need those.”
Swallowing was on his list of things to do, straight after breathing.
She swayed, stumbled. The flowers suffered as she trampled a few.
“Can you walk?”
“Walk?” She took another step and almost fell sideways.
Maybe not. “I have to pick you up. Okay?”
“Yes.” She blinked at him and he marveled at the silver reflected in her pupils, then she nodded. “Okay.”
Yeah, take her to his apartment and...clothes.
She had to be on drugs. He stayed away from that like the fucking plague. With the world the way it was, it was hard enough to navigate sober. Handicapping yourself with drugs was like saying to the sharks, come and get me. Hell no.
But he approached her and carefully lifted her, adjusted her weight for balance, and set out for his apartment, trying like mad to ignore the enticement of her female scent and her softness under his hands.
She was a siren. His mind whirled with possibilities he had to stomp on second by second. What was this? It wasn’t him.
His dick had problems too.
“You got a name, girl?”
“Girl? I am girl?” He refused to answer that. “Call me Ahn-gyel”
Ahn-yil? What nationality was that? “Are you Russian? How do you spell that?”
“No, not Russian.”
And yet that had sounded, almost, Russian. He’d met a few on his travels.
He reached his door and set her on her feet, steadied her with one hand on her shoulder, with her hair tickling his fingers while he unlocked the door. She hadn’t used his phone. Maybe for the best. He had things happening that the authorities might frown on, places to go in Africa. The police might find him suspicious if he turned up with a girl who looked assaulted.
“I won’t hurt you.” He ushered her in. She went, like some innocent doe. His cock was as hard as timber and that shamed him. He knew his fetishes.
Innocent girl rescued, taken home, tied up, and fucked? One of his main corruptions. If he got to do that, he was hooked, if they wanted him. It was how he met Katya, outside that nightclub with that sicko boyfriend that had needed shooing off. She’d never known how kinky she liked it until him. After a while, it had worn thin. Innocence was finite. His line of work turned off girls. He was too dedicated and away from home too often.
This time, he was the sicko one. He found his kit and wrapped a bandage over her wounds in a crisscross around her shoulders, trying to forget how it reminded him of shibari. Then he stripped off his shirt in one fast motion and gave it to her. When she did that doe-eyed blink at him, he shuffled it over her head and pulled it low, then lower, so it shifted over her breasts and butt and covered her pussy. Almost. The hint of what was there was killing him.
Fuck. Need pants. He found a drawstring pair of old gym shorts he’d chucked in a corner. He prayed he’d washed them.
The whole while, she clutched the phone and let him do whatever he wished to.
He needed her gone. “Will hospital emergency admittance do you?”
She blinked. Her blond hair shifted across one eye and she peeked out at him. Her eyes were blue with big gold flecks that seemed to drift. Such large pupils. The way she stared... He cursed.
“Yes? It will do me.”
Such confidence, not. She had to be foreign. Maybe an illegal immigrant.
He turned her and checked her back for bleeding. None was evident. Good. Her flesh gave under his hands but there was solid muscle there too. She seemed, at once, both small and formidable: a challenge.
He inhaled sharply at the sight of her butt. His gaze was drawn down that voluptuous slope from ass, to knees, and beyond. What was above and between those thighs tantalized his imagination too. Clothing her didn’t conceal enough. A tent might work, but he figured she’d protest him throwing one of those over her head.
“Did someone beat you? Hurt you? You have back wounds.”
“No. I. I did that.”
Self-inflicted? Was she lying?
Phoning the cops was bad for him. She was coherent, not pale, a little blood loss, a bit...dense, but otherwise perfectly fine, and innocent and, yes, another word arrived to go with alabaster and blood.
Fuckworthy. Oh she was that, by a zillion.
His drive to the hospital was fast and precise. No speeding, just get there and lose her. Trouble was probably following her. He let her out near the entrance and remembered to breathe. He was definitely saving on oxygen when around her.
“Go in there. Show them your wounds.” He pointed through the open car window and she smiled and obeyed, strolling away in his shorts and shirt. Amazing how tall she was. He’d thought her small. When he’d carried her, she’d seemed light. He watched as she entered and the double glass doors swallowed her.
If he’d taken her in, he’d be on CC TV. His clothes on her weren’t much of a risk unless they decided she’d been attacked and molested. He’d risk it.
When he looked across at the passenger seat, he found she’d drawn a word on the notepad he kept in the door. He squinted, holding it up to the light from outside the car.
Ahren? What was that? Her name? Wasn’t it Anyil or something? Maybe this was how she wrote it in her own language?
At least he knew she could write.
She’d be okay in there, right? They’d take care of her.
He managed to get home without crashing. A miracle considering he didn’t recall doing it.
Next morning there was a knock at his door.
It was her.
His silent curses were many.
Hair tussled and streaming in swirls of gold down her shoulders and over his T-shirt. Her nipples showing in muted but tempting bumps. Full lips. Sunlight shimmering through her pale hair like some damn halo. He looked down. Bare feet too.
Bare little female toes. His throat closed in. He was done for.
“We go!” hailed Benenyon, raising his spear of light, his wings flailing the chilled air with their supreme whiteness. So white were they that a haloed afterimage would remain on any human’s vision, if a human could see this host of angels.
Her mission had been declared. They must go. Souls to save. Evil to do bad things to. Yet her gaze strayed earthward and she maneuvered past thicker cloud to improve the clarity. At the second sight of his flesh, a novel warmth blossomed at the juncture of her legs. A...pleasure evoked where none could exist.
“Benenyon!” hissed a nearby member of the host. “Benenyon! She trespasses upon forbidden emotions at a time of monumental significance.”
It was? And here she’d thought it was yet another battle against evil, same as those of the past few thousand years.
“Who spoke?” Stricken, she searched for them.
“Is this true?” Benenyon’s voice boomed, cloaking her in an awareness of him alone.
She shuddered and bowed her head. “Yes.”
A shouted vaunt overcame her. “We cast you down. Seek penance. Your wings, gone. Let us leave her to her contemplation. We go.”
Their absence was instantaneous yet marked by whispered words that evaporated anon: her sword of light?
What of her sword?
Through a mind blanked of all save a whirling maelstrom of thunderous black, she felt the tear of her inviolable skin at her shoulders and was left bereft and screaming, and plummeting to somewhere that had no discernible direction. Earthward, no doubt. There were few other options.
And then, there was naught.
*****
At the whistle from his upstairs owner, Gandalf, a scruffy, white terrier, galloped off toward the stairs. Adam smiled, watching him tear around the corner and disappear into the stairwell. The dog was a happy thing, considering some of the stupidity that occurred in the McDonald family apartment. Being rich seemed to have fed the ego of the bastard up there.
At least the dog did okay, if not the wife and kids, but you didn’t interfere in other people’s shit, no matter how good you were at killing. Well, apart from trying to get Mrs. McDonald to do something about it. They’d spoken, a little. Ridiculous that in a civilized nation like Australia, getting justice could be as difficult as in war-torn Iraq. Their boy, Jacob, reminded him of the little one in Pakistan, Abu, and that made it doubly bad. The memory of Abu running after their truck, then watching him disappear into the dust cloud churned up by the wheels, it never left him.
Life sucked in general, some days.
He straightened the cricks from his back and neck, feeling the burn of strained muscle. Above the scatter of silhouetted palm fronds, the full moon stared down at him.
This circular complex called Gabriel Towers had been built twenty years ago at the whim of a millionaire seeking a penthouse overlooking Brisbane River. Though once upon a time it had been terribly exclusive, now it was run down enough to allow in the likes of him – a mostly employed ex-SAS soldier doing clearance diving for private companies in between overseas contracts. A mercenary some might call him, except he wasn’t one, or anywhere near that glamorous or illegal. The latest government laws had come close to making what he did a criminal act, though. It had given him pause. Why was he still doing what he did?
Orneriness or habit? No, it wasn’t simply that. Drive and ambition plus a need to improve on what he’d done before. To never be beaten. He hated feeling he’d not done the best he could.
Which was why the McDonald situation bugged him. Beating up the neighbor because he gave his wife a bruised face wasn’t exactly legal either. Fuck though, it should be.
With his palm, Adam swept dog hair from the legs of his jeans then straightened. He stuck his hand in his pocket to grab his keys. A sound and flash of white light from off to the side alerted him.
A whimper? That had sounded female.
Wary, he ventured toward where the light had flashed. The central lawn, garden beds, and meandering paved pathway through this central miniature park was pretty enough in daylight, but sometimes lights failed unexpectedly. Like now. All three of the post-hung electric lanterns were out.
He checked the apartments above. Many of the windows and balconies glowed with light. Not a power problem then.
His vision adjusted quickly and he moved over lawn then silently hopped over a row of some sort of flower. Pink buds in daylight, he recalled. The chances were low that someone was out here in the dimness checking out the small moon above, or necking with their girl or boyfriend.
To get in here people had to enter via the gated car park or two side entrances that were also secure.
The fronds of a weeping willow brushed his shoulder, whispering against his black T shirt. A good color for this situation. If this was some kid staking out the apartments, he was getting a nasty, wake-up, clip on the ear.
He was sure this area had been illuminated when he’d come up in the lift from the carpark.
Perhaps the disturbance had indeed been the lights failing?
He halted, struck dumb.
Perhaps the disturbance had been caused by this naked woman, who kneeled, head down, in the center of this haven of flowers. He could see her well, as if she possessed some inner light.
Alabaster. The word sprang from nowhere. Her skin seemed perfection incarnate with moonlight whispering over her curves and the ripple of her pale-as-bone, blond hair.
Blood. Another stark word. There was red, below her shoulders, in two precise stripes or gouges. Thick trails wept sluggishly down her skin.
He paused to check their surrounds. Nothing. No one. And she was in the middle of a bank of tall flowers with no signs of footsteps leading in. Flew in? Hah. However she’d arrived there, she was hurt.
“Miss? You’re bleeding. You need to see a doctor.”
She turned her head until one eye showed, dark, inquiring, and as mysterious as a trail leading into a dark forest. “I do?”
Thank god. She could talk. Her head was ticking over on at least three cylinders. Compos mentis. Maybe not on drugs? “You do. I should stop that bleeding on your back. Is that okay?”
If she had other injuries, the slight blood loss could be a problem.
“Sure. You can stop it.”
Then she rose to her feet, slowly, revealing her breasts as full and tipped with that wonder of womanhood – plump, full nipples that shone, just a little. If aroused, they would scrunch up and stick out like buttons. The triangle of hair over her mons was light, delicate as the spark of sunlight through mist. He jerked up his head. And why was he even looking?
Bandaging, remember? An ambulance would take a while to get here.
“How do you do this?” Though her question must be about the bleeding, she studied him as carefully as he had studied her.
“How do I what? Stop bleeding? Pressure. Bandages.”
He found he’d paused again, just to stare.
Was she a siren, a lost and hurt woman, or just a junkie on a bad bender?
Nothing in his life, not the intensity of army training, not blowing holes in doors with shaped charges, not passing the many and constant tests to be on the TAG anti-terrorist team, had prepared him for this. Distilled magic. She. Him.
His awareness seemed concentrated to an infinite degree.
How quaint that he’d thought himself connected to other women in his life, before this.
He shook his head. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to him? Old age, man.
Bandages. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Here. Dial triple zero while I get you to my apartment. I have a first aid kit. And clothes. You need those.”
Swallowing was on his list of things to do, straight after breathing.
She swayed, stumbled. The flowers suffered as she trampled a few.
“Can you walk?”
“Walk?” She took another step and almost fell sideways.
Maybe not. “I have to pick you up. Okay?”
“Yes.” She blinked at him and he marveled at the silver reflected in her pupils, then she nodded. “Okay.”
Yeah, take her to his apartment and...clothes.
She had to be on drugs. He stayed away from that like the fucking plague. With the world the way it was, it was hard enough to navigate sober. Handicapping yourself with drugs was like saying to the sharks, come and get me. Hell no.
But he approached her and carefully lifted her, adjusted her weight for balance, and set out for his apartment, trying like mad to ignore the enticement of her female scent and her softness under his hands.
She was a siren. His mind whirled with possibilities he had to stomp on second by second. What was this? It wasn’t him.
His dick had problems too.
“You got a name, girl?”
“Girl? I am girl?” He refused to answer that. “Call me Ahn-gyel”
Ahn-yil? What nationality was that? “Are you Russian? How do you spell that?”
“No, not Russian.”
And yet that had sounded, almost, Russian. He’d met a few on his travels.
He reached his door and set her on her feet, steadied her with one hand on her shoulder, with her hair tickling his fingers while he unlocked the door. She hadn’t used his phone. Maybe for the best. He had things happening that the authorities might frown on, places to go in Africa. The police might find him suspicious if he turned up with a girl who looked assaulted.
“I won’t hurt you.” He ushered her in. She went, like some innocent doe. His cock was as hard as timber and that shamed him. He knew his fetishes.
Innocent girl rescued, taken home, tied up, and fucked? One of his main corruptions. If he got to do that, he was hooked, if they wanted him. It was how he met Katya, outside that nightclub with that sicko boyfriend that had needed shooing off. She’d never known how kinky she liked it until him. After a while, it had worn thin. Innocence was finite. His line of work turned off girls. He was too dedicated and away from home too often.
This time, he was the sicko one. He found his kit and wrapped a bandage over her wounds in a crisscross around her shoulders, trying to forget how it reminded him of shibari. Then he stripped off his shirt in one fast motion and gave it to her. When she did that doe-eyed blink at him, he shuffled it over her head and pulled it low, then lower, so it shifted over her breasts and butt and covered her pussy. Almost. The hint of what was there was killing him.
Fuck. Need pants. He found a drawstring pair of old gym shorts he’d chucked in a corner. He prayed he’d washed them.
The whole while, she clutched the phone and let him do whatever he wished to.
He needed her gone. “Will hospital emergency admittance do you?”
She blinked. Her blond hair shifted across one eye and she peeked out at him. Her eyes were blue with big gold flecks that seemed to drift. Such large pupils. The way she stared... He cursed.
“Yes? It will do me.”
Such confidence, not. She had to be foreign. Maybe an illegal immigrant.
He turned her and checked her back for bleeding. None was evident. Good. Her flesh gave under his hands but there was solid muscle there too. She seemed, at once, both small and formidable: a challenge.
He inhaled sharply at the sight of her butt. His gaze was drawn down that voluptuous slope from ass, to knees, and beyond. What was above and between those thighs tantalized his imagination too. Clothing her didn’t conceal enough. A tent might work, but he figured she’d protest him throwing one of those over her head.
“Did someone beat you? Hurt you? You have back wounds.”
“No. I. I did that.”
Self-inflicted? Was she lying?
Phoning the cops was bad for him. She was coherent, not pale, a little blood loss, a bit...dense, but otherwise perfectly fine, and innocent and, yes, another word arrived to go with alabaster and blood.
Fuckworthy. Oh she was that, by a zillion.
His drive to the hospital was fast and precise. No speeding, just get there and lose her. Trouble was probably following her. He let her out near the entrance and remembered to breathe. He was definitely saving on oxygen when around her.
“Go in there. Show them your wounds.” He pointed through the open car window and she smiled and obeyed, strolling away in his shorts and shirt. Amazing how tall she was. He’d thought her small. When he’d carried her, she’d seemed light. He watched as she entered and the double glass doors swallowed her.
If he’d taken her in, he’d be on CC TV. His clothes on her weren’t much of a risk unless they decided she’d been attacked and molested. He’d risk it.
When he looked across at the passenger seat, he found she’d drawn a word on the notepad he kept in the door. He squinted, holding it up to the light from outside the car.
Ahren? What was that? Her name? Wasn’t it Anyil or something? Maybe this was how she wrote it in her own language?
At least he knew she could write.
She’d be okay in there, right? They’d take care of her.
He managed to get home without crashing. A miracle considering he didn’t recall doing it.
Next morning there was a knock at his door.
It was her.
His silent curses were many.
Hair tussled and streaming in swirls of gold down her shoulders and over his T-shirt. Her nipples showing in muted but tempting bumps. Full lips. Sunlight shimmering through her pale hair like some damn halo. He looked down. Bare feet too.
Bare little female toes. His throat closed in. He was done for.
Copyright Cari Silverwood 2015. All rights reserved. No part of these publications may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.