Inked by an Angel: Book I of the Cupid Chronicles

Most people thought her boring. She let them think it; encouraged it even. Her boyish name, Kyle, was the only slightly cool thing about her. She'd squeaked quietly through life, no muss, no fuss, and it'd always worked for her.

But, for the life of her, she could not figure out how her stable, predictable world had altered so terribly off-kilter. She pondered this and stared up through heavy, blurred eyes at the man with sweat pouring down his beautifully sculpted face as he threw back his freshly shaven head with a warrior's moan and thrust into her body.

"Oh, God," she heard herself cry in a voice too deep and sensual to be her own.

It was like a wanton, pornographic out-of-body experience.

And she liked it.

Who was he, really?

For that matter, who was she?

In that moment, it made no difference. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she enjoyed the ride. She moved her hands and they tangled into the mess of her hair. Sex kitten's hair, she realized. Mussed and rumpled, not in a sensible ponytail or bun. This out-of-body experience was getting more liberating by the minute. Perfect.

"Open your eyes," he gritted out in a deep, gruff voice that rolled over her skin like butter.

She obeyed and focused solely on him. He had the most memorable shade of blue eyes she'd ever seen. The exact opposite of her own. And he was watching her as if he were waiting for something.

He speared her with a particularly deep and thick thrust. "Does that feel good?"

She nodded, too stunned to answer.

He did it again and she moaned her thanks. Her eyes slid down to take in his features. His nose, which would've once been aquiline and perfect, now stood slightly skewed to one side, probably from a break. Dark brown stubble covered divots, too manly to be called dimples, bracketing either side of his mouth.

His lips. Oh, man, his lips. Now, they were perfect. Kyle reached up to trace them with the tip of her nail and his tongue darted out to taste her fingertip. She stifled a surprised breath when he drew it into his hot mouth for a teasing suckle.

When he released her finger, she touched his firm chin and found herself fascinated by the small black stud pierced beneath his lower lip. He was so not her type. And yet, as his body continued the magic, he was apparently so her type after all.

He reached down and hiked her knee up to his shoulder to allow the deepest penetration possible and she nearly broke. She raked him with her fingernails as she cried out, "Holy . . ."

"I know, baby." He quieted her with his lips.

He rocked his hips. He thrust. He shook her world.

She choked in air, her lips at his neck where she tasted the salt on his skin. She felt, more than saw, the earrings that lined his ear. So not her type.

He thrust again.

And again.

He pulled back and pushed up onto his hands so he could gaze down into her face. Something about all of this tugged at her memory--her heart. But what . . .?

Her heavy-lidded eyes slid down his chest. Just as she was about to succumb to what he was doing to her, and within her, her blurry vision cleared enough for her to focus and her mind froze.

There, on his smooth left pec, her face, in black and white repose, stared back, her name boldly inked below.

Her eyes flew back to his.

He searched her face. Something in the way his eyes blazed begged for understanding. "The Angel made me do it."