Angel Blood

13- Clipped Wings (18+)

I stiffen as he kicks open my legs and crouches between them, leaning so close his breath brushes over the sensitive skin of my cunt. "What are you doing?"

He blinks lazily at me. "Eating my fill." He leans forward and presses his mouth against the raw flesh of my pussy.

I squeak as he runs a tongue through the folds, lapping at the wetness like a starving man. My face flushes, the heat of embarrassment and arousal burning brightly inside of me.
"Sin." I gasp as he traces the sensitive skin with his tongue. "Wait, it's still—oh shit." I jolt as if I've touched a live wire as he runs the delicate touch of his tongue over the bud. How can something feel so good but ache at the same time?

When he gently pulls it between his teeth, something breaks inside of me. "I want you to fuck me."

He presses a kiss over the stinging touch and then glances up at me. "No."

My brow furrows. "No?"

"No," he says again. "You're not ready."

I scoff, batting away his head half-heartedly. He lets me push him away briefly before reclaiming the same spot with his mouth. "I say when I'm ready or not. Not you."

He hums a sound of lax acknowledgment, the vibration making me shudder against his lips. "You can barely take two fingers."

I make a noise of frustration as I grind against his tongue, showing how ready I already am for more. "I don't care."

Sinclair huffs out a wry breath. "Don't be a brat." His fingers find my cunt again, working the spot he knows will be my undoing. "Now shut up and cum."

When he leans forward and sucks me between his lips, I can't help but tip over the edge. I pull his hair, whimpering as my overstimulated clit aches under the flick of his tongue, my pussy pulsing greedily around his hand.

He waits until I still before withdrawing, readjusting my skirt before rising from the floor. His erection strains against his pants, looking hot and heavy and ready for my touch.

His hand catches mine as I reach out to run my fingers along its significant length. "No."

My brow furrows, rejection stinging inside my chest. "No?"

"No." He has the nerve to smooth down my hair and pull up my dress so it covers all the exposed parts of my body to make me look presentable again. For some reason, I don't slap his hands away.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

Fury ignites in my chest. "You're such a—" Asshole. Bigot. Fuck-wad, but for some reason I'd still let you bend me over and bang me. Nothing seems good enough to describe the itching feeling to plant my fist in his face, so instead I spin and push the stall door open. "Eat a bag of dicks, Black."

...

"So you're the angel with clipped wings."

I'd wandered back to the bar. Not to drink. I just don't feel like seeing Sinclair's annoying face and ironically enough, this seems like the best place for having time to myself.

I glance at the voice behind me, sighing as a set of hazel eyes meet mine. "Go away."

He smiles crookedly and slides into the stool next to me instead.

"Christ." I take a sip of soda in my glass, staring a hole into the bar counter as if not looking directly at him will convince him to go away. "It's the night of annoying fuckers."

"Trouble in paradise?"

I glance at him, brows raised. I hardly look rumpled enough for him to know about Sinclair.

"You smell like sex," he says, a charming smile pulling over his mouth. If I weren't transfixed with another set of lips, the action would undo me. "Not to mention Sinclair is staring at you like he wants to bend you over the bar."

I huff out a dry laugh.

His brow furrows. "Am I missing something?"

"Your balls if you keep talking to me."

He tilts his head back and laughs, the sound rich and deep. "I'll have a lot worse coming to me if I leave you alone. Sorry, Calli."

"You know my name," I murmur sullenly. His dimples flash at me. "I take it you're my new babysitter?"

"If you want to call it that, sure." He waves over the bartender and orders an orange juice. I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry: although his face and smile are gentle and he apparently prefers juice over alcohol, there's no doubt that a monster hides underneath it all. "You can call me Theo."

From the pleasant look that's settled over his face, I take it he expects me to respond. I look away, hoping the scowl that plasters over my own will be enough for him to take the hint to shut his mouth.

My dreams are quickly shot down as he leans in close to me. "So, is Calli short for anything or—?"

"Theo."

He blinks, looking too normal for his own good. Who knew I'd ever miss Oliver's permanent glower. "Yeah?"

"Please shut your mouth. I need time to myself."

"No can do, Calli-girl."

"Jesus. Don't call me that."

"Only if you tell me what it's short for." That trap of a smile stretches over his mouth again. Somehow it's even more dangerous than Sinclair—it's warm and inviting and beckons me to tell him all my darkest secrets as if he's someone I've known and trusted my entire life. "But anyway, there's a couple of Capponi's men looking at you like how a fat kid eyes a cookie jar across the bar. So you know, I'm here. As your personal guard dog to scare them off and all that."

It takes me a moment to find them. Both of them lounge in the portion sectioned off for the supernatural, looking particularly dark and dangerous. When my eyes meet theirs, twin sets of grins stretch over their faces.

"Damn," I mutter, quickly glancing away. Across from them sits a familiar head of dark hair, clearly rumpled from my fingers. "Is that Sinclair?"

"It is. Finishing up business, I presume."

"Business," I echo, brows drawing together. I straighten, forcing my voice to soften with what I hope sounds like nonchalance. "What kind of business does Sinclair conduct anyway?"