All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,45
orgy begin!”
He put both bare hands on the edge of the bed as he stood and let out a gunshot of a gasp.
“Holy mother of God.”
Angel was forced to stand and watch as Tucker, both hands clenched tightly around the brass rail, began to shake, sweat soaking through his shirt—and his jeans—as he stood.
An erection pushed hard against the placket of denim, and as Angel watched, Tucker yelped, the sound startling in the tense room. Before the sound faded away, a dark stain began to seep through his jeans, but it wasn’t over.
Tucker moaned, and his erection remained, straining, probably uncomfortable, as Tucker shook, lost in the tumbling of body after body, the satiation of lust after lust assailing the mortal conduit who had voluntarily channeled them all.
Angel pulled back from his consciousness, afraid of getting lost.
Tucker moaned loudly in the throes of his second climax and fell to his knees, his hands never leaving the bed. He fell forward, his head making contact with the metal, and he screamed, the extra touch probably charging through his body like sexual electricity.
This time, when he came, he whimpered.
Angel had had enough. “Tucker, let go,” she said clearly, and his only response was a moan. “Let go! Dammit, Tucker, let go!”
“No, no, no, no, no…,” he chanted, but much like with ordinarily powerful coitus, Angel couldn’t tell if this was “No, it feels too good!” or “No, I’m being violated or harmed!” In this case, it was probably both, and Tucker’s face was both blotchy and pale, swimming in sweat, and the veins in his forehead were popping with strain.
“Tucker, let go!” Angel roared, and this time he did, slumping to the ground in a puddle. The first thing he did as he slid to the floor was fumble with his fly and thrust his hand in.
Angel didn’t even have time to leave.
Or that’s what she told herself.
Because the truth was, if she’d had a body, it would have been in the same shape as Tucker’s. Swollen, sweating, aching, deep in her bones. Her sex felt swollen—but I don’t have genitals—and her breasts felt tender—but I don’t have breasts—and a place deep within her, in the core of her body, screamed for possession, for hard, sure, absolute touch.
I am neither male nor female, and this is impossible!
It was a scream in her head, a psychic cry for help, but nobody heard. Tucker let out a breathy prayer as climax hit him again, and Angel collapsed on the bed, trembling and locked in her imaginary body as she experienced a painful surge of arousal that should not have been possible, should not have affected her at all.
By the time she could concentrate, could relegate her body construct to the back of her mind, Tucker was sobbing, one last painful orgasm being squeezed out of his body by his overwrought brain.
For a moment there was silence, punctuated by Tucker’s dying sobs, his harsh breathing echoing off the walls, counterpoint to Angel’s own.
She should not have been breathing at all.
“Tucker?” she asked after a minute—or an hour.
“Nunh.”
“Can you move?”
“No.” Unequivocal.
“I’ll get you a pillow,” she said. And then, before she could ask herself if this was possible, she gathered Squishbeans in one hand and then….
It worked.
She picked up the pillow in her other hand and walked it to Tucker, bending to tuck it next to his ear before sitting, cross-legged, by his head.
Tucker groaned and grabbed the pillow with what looked like the last of his strength—and his one clean hand.
“Do you think we’ll have to do that with every bed?” he asked wearily, the sound of tears still in his voice.
“Not all of the beds are still in the rooms,” Angel told him kindly. “And as for the rest….” She blew out a breath. “I’ll… I’ll screen them carefully. We can plan for that next time.”
“Yeah, how about with Quaaludes?” Tucker asked dreamily. “Something to make it all slower. Less. Not as intense.”
Angel brushed fingers through his hair and wondered, since Squishbeans was in her lap, if he could feel it. “If you can get a prescription, that would be good.”
“Easier just to get someone to make me pot brownies.” He giggled, and the sound wasn’t quite sane. “God. Would that be better or worse on pot brownies?” With a choked sound in his throat, he rolled to his side and pulled his hand out of his pants. He wiped it on his T-shirt before tucking it under his cheek.