When he pulls back, his amber veins are glowing so brightly they're casting golden light across the bed.
"I need to tend to your burns," he says.
"Okay."
"And then I need to worship every inch of your body until you understand exactly what you mean to me."
My breath catches.
"Okay."
He opens the medical kit.
His hands are steady as he applies fresh dermal-regeneration gel to my palms, his touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. He wraps new bandages around my forearms with methodical precision, his claws never once catching on the gauze.
When he's finished, he sets the kit aside.
And then he stands.
Towering over me.
His wings spread wide.
His amber eyes glowing.
"Lie back," he says.
I lie back.
He strips off my tactical gear with the same careful precision he used on the bandages—peeling away the reinforced fabric, the utility belt, the boots—until I'm naked on the bed, my bandaged hands resting on my stomach.
He stares at me.
His chest is rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he says.
"I'm covered in bruises and chemical burns."
"You are perfect."
He climbs onto the bed.
The mattress dips under his weight. His wings fold around us, blocking out the city lights, creating a private sanctuary lit only by the golden glow of his veins.
He starts at my ankles.
Kissing.
Licking.
Worshipping.
His mouth is hot and wet and reverent as he works his way up my calves, my thighs, the sensitive skin of my inner legs. His claws trace delicate patterns across my hips. His wings rustle with every breath.
When he reaches my pussy, he pauses.
Looks up at me.
