Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,67

clutched at his shoulders, legs locking tight around his waist on instinct. Then her back was against a cool, hard section of wall, and Beck was fucking her relentlessly, hammering into her hard.

His mouth broke from hers and he trailed wet, uncoordinated kisses down her jaw and throat, and fastened his mouth there. She gasped, and clung to him, and her eyes slitted open – to see that they were against the wall, yes, but about five feet off the ground. He was hovering, his wings thrusting as viciously as his hips, his whole body one tangle of flexing muscles.

“Oh, God,” she murmured, because they were the only words she could find, overwhelmed, overheated, her climax coming on like a freight train.

He sank his fangs into her throat, two bright sharp points of pain, and that tipped her over. She gripped tight to one of his horns, closed her eyes, and let the pleasure drown her.

It was devastating in all the best ways. Her head thunked back against the wall because she couldn’t hold it up any longer, all of her weak, and shaking, and awash in glorious sensation. She was aware of his ragged breath on her throat, the sweep of his tongue – lapping at her blood – and the final sharp thrusts that finally left him coming with a ragged growl, cock kicking inside her, head flooding her insides.

He held them there a long moment, catching his breath, and then, still inside her, he let them drift slowly down to the floor, until his feet touched, and his wings stopped beating; swept forward to close them in together, instead, blotting out all light save the vivid, golden glow of his eyes.

~*~

By the time the call finally came from Rose, even Bedlam was in an uproar about the disappearance.

“She’s with Beck,” Gallo tried to reason. “He won’t let anything happen to her.”

But, if he was honest with himself, and his team, Beck was the thing that worried Lance the most.

But, just as Bedlam was screaming about a rescue mission, Rose radioed in. Left them coordinates – and an address to meet. A place to rendezvous.

Lance hadn’t seen Anthony Castor’s mansion since he’d last served in it as an employee. It was no less unsettling now, even gutted and crumbling, its windows dark save the glow of moonlight reflecting off the glass. Fleeting moonlight, at that; more clouds threatened on the horizon, a dark, fluffed-up bank of them ready to cover the night.

“Why here? This place is a dump,” Gavin said.

Lance pushed the gate with his fingertips, and it swung inward with an ugly squeal of unoiled hinges. “It didn’t use to be. And it’s the place where he went to hell.”

Some things thrived, even in this bleak landscape; weeds would always find a way, he supposed, as they waded through them up the front walk, and climbed the lichen-crusted, palatial stairs that led up to the grand front doors. They were locked – but, worse, swollen shut from moisture coupled with disuse. Lance shot off the lock, and Tris kicked them open.

The great hall stretched before them, just beyond the entryway: black and white checked tiles, as he remembered, still grand, despite a scattering of leaves, and mold, and even a few pigeons who winged up through the holes in the ceiling. A fine mist had started to fall, covering what furniture remained in a crystal glaze. The sconces on the wall were gas – always had been, because Castor had spared no expense when it came to making sure his electrical comforts had backups – and usually those had backups, too. A flickering glow warmed the walls, danced across the floor. Illuminated the ridiculous throne upon which Castor had once sat – and upon the man, the creature, who occupied it now.

The torchlight illuminated the stained-glass portrait of St. Michael behind the throne, his wings and sword and his putting-down of the devil. A devil whose dark, leathery wings matched those of Arthur Becket, slumped down with spread legs, chin propped negligently on his fist, more a king than Castor had ever hoped to be. His hair was wild, and his shirt rumpled. Rose sat on his thigh, fully dressed, her hair braided – but there was something languid about her eyes and mouth, and Beck smirked as they approached, a small but malicious twitch of his mouth that flashed a single fang.

You idiot, Lance scolded himself. He’d been an idiot to ever agree to the scheme