Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3) by Marie Johnston (best authors to read .txt) 📗

wiggling. He couldn’t sport an erection while they were on the run. She was pregnant. And a fallen angel.

Could there be any more issues between them?

A soft sigh left her as soon as she was ensconced in the cocoon of his body. “I always hated how short I was compared to other warriors, but it’s coming in handy right now. You’re a furnace.”

“Glad I could help.” Her breathing was even, but she wasn’t asleep. “Why did you become a warrior? Can you pick what you do?”

“Somewhat. Some jobs you have to be accepted for. Warrior’s one of them. But my birth left the realm with two fewer warriors. I felt it was my obligation.”

She blamed herself. It weighed down every word. “What would you have done if you’d had any other choice?”

“I never had another choice.” She shifted and her ass nudged him again. His abs tightened and he tried to think of anything other than the beautiful woman in his arms.

“Why not?”

“I had to do something where I could contribute the most.”

“Your birth is not your fault.”

“But here I am. Harlowe’s mom is gone. Marta, my father’s teammate, is gone. My father might go back to being a warrior. And I still fucked it all up.”

She’d made up her mind. Had her father instilled this special form of stubbornness? Had he encouraged her to make up for how others acted? Words wouldn’t get through to her. It would be like telling him that he wasn’t responsible for his son’s death. Like fighting off a broadsword with a blade of grass.

So he held her. He tightened his embrace, pretending for at least tonight that nothing could get to her. Pretending that he was a normal guy and she was a normal girl and clinging to each other was all they needed.

A hard, unmistakable bulge was pinned between her ass and Boone’s stomach. She didn’t bother pretending she was still asleep. He would know. Instead, she continued her game of make-believe. The one where she fooled herself into thinking that Boone could be into a pregnant, homeless fallen angel.

The first part of the night had been fitful. The room was chilly and the blankets were lacking. But since she’d been tucked into Boone, she couldn’t remember a time she’d been more comfortable.

“You’re awake.” His morning voice was always gruffer. Harsher. Today was like being in the cabin. Just them. The rest of the world wasn’t invited in.

“I don’t want to move. You’re a good blanket.”

His chuckle reverberated through her body. She clenched her thighs together. Her hormones had picked a bad time to wake up.

“We should plan what we’re going to do today.” His hand rested on her side. She was afraid to twitch. Would he move it?

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moved. His hard length didn’t diminish and her desire didn’t dwindle. Was he feeling it too or was it his body’s normal reaction to waking up? Would he be erect for any female he held in his arms?

Would she get hot and bothered if she was entwined in anyone else’s arms? Definitely not. Before, sex had been an itch that needed to be scratched. She liked how it felt if her partner knew what he was doing. Jameson had known what he was doing, but the self-loathing that had filled her before, during, and after had reduced those experiences to nothing more than animal rutting.

His hand splayed on her side. “What are you thinking?”

“A lot of things I shouldn’t,” she answered honestly.

His hand brushed down to her belly. “Sierra . . . we shouldn’t.”

She rolled in his embrace. “I know.” Aside from all the obvious stuff of what she was, her mouth tasted like she’d brushed her teeth with garlic, but Boone would be in the same position. “I don’t want to stop.”

He kicked his hips forward at the same time as she lifted her leg over his. Their lips met, tentative at first and then deepening. Boone didn’t rush. He held her to him for several heartbeats, then his thumb brushed her bare skin once, twice. The rest of his hand followed and his rough palm stroked her back.

She groaned and arched into his touch.

It was the encouragement he seemed to need. Her shirt was lifted as he rolled her onto her back. He kissed a slow sensual path down her neck to her exposed breasts. She didn’t care how ugly the bra was. The way he touched her made her feel like she was wearing sexy French lingerie.

She tunneled her hands into his hair, enjoying the silky strands flowing through her fingers. His hot mouth on her skin made her forget her existence was in danger, that she was on the run, and that they were holed up in a shitty motel room that smelled of stale smoke.

He took his time at each breast, popping a nipple free, sucking the peak into his mouth and cherishing it with his tongue.

She arched into him. “Boone.” His name was a plea.

“I thought it was my imagination,” he said as he kissed his way down her belly, shoving the bedding out of the way. “I thought I couldn’t want you as bad as I did. I thought that once I got to touch you, I’d realize it was all in my head.”

He reached her waistband and kept going, rolling her leggings and underwear down as he went. And because he was ever considerate, he kept them off the floor and dropped them on the nightstand by the TV they’d learned didn’t work the night before. His dark gaze anchored her in place.

Her shirt was bunched above her exposed breasts. Was he going to stop? Was it all in his head? Had seeing her in the dusty, dim light of the room trashed his libido?

“Boone?”

“I just want to look at you. I’ve been trying not to for months.”

A smile played over her lips. Fast hookups and self-hate sex didn’t compare to making out with Boone. “You want this too? Despite everything.”

He blew a breath