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And to have it back now, I wondered if things about me would change. Or if I’d still be who I always thought myself to be.
I didn’t have an answer. But I knew who I wanted to be. And that was a start.
Angel took a deep breath and opened his eyes, gaze finding me instinctively.
“Hi,” I said, giving him a wobbly smile.
“Hmm,” he grumbled. “Why are you over there?”
I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Just admiring my boyfriend.”
“Husband,” Angel complained. “Ghost married.”
“True. Though not a ghost anymore. Maybe we should do the real thing?”
Angel jolted, eyes widening.
“Lamest proposal on the planet, right?”
He sat up and snatched me into his arms, which made me laugh, a real laugh, bright and breathless, the kind I hadn’t been able to manage in weeks. He pulled me onto the bed, onto him, and I went willingly, sprawling across his chest like I belonged there.
Because I did.
“Lamest proposal on the planet,” he agreed, his voice rough with sleep, “and I’m still going to say yes.”
“Good. Because I wasn’t going to ask twice.”
He kissed me.
It started soft, morning-warm and lazy, the kind of kiss that said we have time. His hands slid up my back, fingers tracing the ridges of my spine like he was memorizing me, and I melted into him, into the heat of his skin, into the steady thrum of our bond.
Then his fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, and I groaned against his mouth as he deepened the kiss. Desperate. Hungry. Weeks of separation and death and resurrection and near-loss pouring into every point of contact. His other hand found my hip, gripping hard enough to bruise, and I didn’t care. I wanted the marks. I wanted everything.
I broke away just long enough to breathe—”Angel”—and he took the opportunity to flip us, rolling me onto my back, settling between my thighs like he’d been waiting for permission.
“I love you,” he said against my throat, teeth grazing skin. He kissed the hollow of my collarbone, then lower. “I love you. You’re mine. Ghost married. Real married. All mine.”
I arched into him, gasping. “Please,” I begged him.
He groaned. “I’m trying to be romantic here.”
“I don’t need romance. I need you in me. I need to know this is real.”
He kissed me silent. His hands slid over me, as though memorizing the details of my existence. I arched into him, greedy for his touch, desperate for his heat, and growled at him when he rose up to strip off his boxers.
“I’m coming, pretty boy.”
“Nah-ah. Not till you’re inside me, you aren’t,” I complained.
He laughed, reached for the night table drawer and tossed a bottle of lube down beside us. “Your wish is my command.”
“Oh, yes please,” I agreed, drinking in the sight of him, all bronze skin, hard muscular lines, and tattoos. That our weave intertwined left me breathless. There was no him and me, and I longed to feel connection just as physically as I could see the pattern in the design of the universe.
He crawled up on the bed, catching my left leg and kissing my foot, calf, knee and thigh, slowly working his way up in a tickle and a caress all at once.
“Tease,” I groused.
Angel laughed and caught my hips, lifting me effortlessly to slide me closer, my thighs spread wide, cock jutting up with the need to be touched. He snapped up the bottle of lube and squirted it over my cock, down my taint and over my hole. The chill made me shiver, but I couldn’t complain, since I could feel it.
