Aim nods once, expression grim. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
“Good.”
The first part of my plan is completed.
39
SIMONE
It's been a few weeks since Leander was born, and I'm starting to get frustrated with the lack of sensual attention I'm getting from Az. He's been a wonderful father—constantly holding our son, talking to him in soft tones full of love, changing diapers without complaint. But every time I so much as brush against him, he treats me like I'm made of glass. As if I’ll shatter if he does more than just hold me in bed.
I'm long healed. Between my Cambion ancestry, the power Az gave me through our soul bargain, and the angelic healing I received when giving birth, my body feels better than it did before pregnancy. But Az won't budge, too afraid to hurt me.
So I devise a plan. If he won’t touch me of his own volition, I’ll force his hand.
After putting Leander down for his afternoon nap, I slip into the dressing room and change into something I designed specifically for this moment. The lingerie is midnight blue silk that matches his wings, with intricate lace panels that conceal nothing. The bra pushes my breasts together, creating cleavage that borders onobscene. The matching panties are little more than scraps of silk held together by ribbons.
I check my reflection once more, satisfied with the way the silk brushes my skin, then make my way back to the salon where Az is waiting.
He's sprawled on the sofa, reading a book on medieval interrogation devices, his long legs stretched out in front of him. When I enter the room, his eyes lift from the pages and widen at the sight of me.
The book slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his gaze traveling over every inch of exposed skin. “Simone, what are you?—”
“You've been avoiding me,” I interrupt, moving closer. His eyes darken as I approach, tracking the sway of my hips. “Treating me like I might break.”
“You just gave birth,” he says, though his voice is rougher than usual. “You need time to heal.”
“I'm healed.” I straddle his lap before he can protest further, settling my weight against the growing hardness under the thin barrier of his pants. “Completely. One hundred percent.”
His hands come up to my waist automatically, then freeze as if he's remembered he's not supposed to touch me. The internal war playing out on his face would be amusing if I weren't so damn desperate for his touch.
“Little fairy?—”
I silence him with my mouth, pouring weeks of pent-up frustration into the kiss. His resolve lasts exactly three seconds before he's kissing me back, his hands tightening on my waist.
When I pull back, his pupils are dilated, his breathing harsh.
“I've missed you,” I whisper against his lips. “Missed this.”
“I've missed you too,” he admits. “But?—”
“No buts.” I roll my hips against him, and he hisses. “Make love to me, Az. Now.”
Finally, I break through his restraint. His hands slide up to cupmy face, and he kisses me like a drowning man looking for air. I melt against him, at last getting what I've been craving.
“Are you sure?” he asks when we break apart.
“Oui.” I nip at his lower lip. “Very sure.”
He needs no further encouragement. His hands trace my body like he's reacquainting himself with every curve. When his thumb brushes over my nipple through the silk, I gasp.
“So responsive,” he murmurs appreciatively. “My beautiful little fairy.”
I work at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. When I finally push the fabric aside, I press my palms flat against his chest, marveling at the familiar warmth and strength.
“I want to taste you,” I tell him, already sliding down his body.
