"Implying there’s another reason to be concerned." Margrit tilted back, her eyes closed and her hair flattening as the wind pressed it against her cheeks and shoulders. Alban’s grip tightened as she loosened one arm from around his neck, then the other, bringing them up straight above her head, as if she was diving through the air.
"I don’t want to talk about Malik or the others anymore," she whispered, trusting the wind to bring the words to Alban’s ears. Cold cut through her gown, heightening her awareness of its thinness. She’d felt the same erotic charge when flying with him before, arching in his arms in just such a way, but now her clothing hid nothing of her desire, the fabric fitted to her skin by wind as much as by design. "Do gargoyles make love in the sky, Alban?"
"Only if we’ve flown very high first." Alban’s voice had gone deep. "We’re not made for hovering."
"So you fall together." Dizzy laughter swept Margrit, blooming into body-weakening desire. "My God. I thought running in the park was a rush. I don’t have wings." She drew her arms back down, folding them behind herself as if seeking them. Instead, she found the zipper of her dress and slid it open until Alban’s arms, secure around her waist, stopped it. She pressed one hand to her breasts, keeping the dress in place, watching Alban’s gaze darken. "Will I be able to catch you when you fall?"
"Far too late," he murmured. "I’ve long since fallen."
"Take me higher," Margrit whispered. "As high as we can go."
Alban said, "Look," very softly.
She tipped her head back and gasped. The city lay impossibly far below, glittering silently in the darkness. "How high are we?"
"High enough. You’re not dressed to go higher."
"I’m not dressed to go this high!"
"But I’ve thought of a way to keep you warm." Alban drew her closer, creating more points of heated contact where their bodies met. He loosened an arm from her waist, confident in his own strength, and slipped his hand over her ribs, smoothing the fabric with his palm. Margrit caught her breath, slowly unfolding to allow Alban to draw the gown away from her breasts. She trilled laughter, half in dismay at the increased cold, half heady with excitement. Alban murmured something senseless and lowered his head, finding her nipple with his mouth and tasting her with absurd delicacy, given his size. Margrit wound her fingers into his hair, arching beneath his mouth, the gown’s satin touch nothing compared to the exploring heat of his tongue.
His flight pattern changed, muscles no longer working to lift them higher into the sky. Instead his wings stretched wide, a faint cant coming into his gliding so they could sink in slow circles rather than in a dangerous plummet. Margrit made a soft dizzy sound expressing both relief and disappointment.
Alban lifted his head, pale eyes bright in the moonlight. "Forgive me. Was the fall the only rush you were looking for?"
Margrit shrieked in laughter and batted at the grinning gargoyle, tangling her fingers in his hair. "This will do. Stop talking. I need you close to keep warm." Giggles ran through her, boundless delight that increased with every sting of hair in her eyes and every shift of Alban’s strong hands against her body. Loving was meant to be shared in laughter, but the outpouring of joy that flooded her went beyond that, a heart-pounding acknowledgment of danger and power, things outside ordinary human scope. Her cheeks ached from smiling, an expression so broad it seemed embarrassing.
Rather than try to trust words, she shifted downward until she could kiss him, her ardency rising as she learned the shape and softness of his mouth. Wide mouth, far wider than hers, but fitting better than any lover she could remember. He tasted of champagne and stone, a mix of ordinary and impossible ricocheting through Margrit’s body like a call to battle, a delicious, irresistible challenge. He was so nearly human, so clearly not, as evidenced by the shifting moonlight above them, blocked and dimmed by Alban’s wings, then bright again, even through the tangle of her closed lashes. That they soared so near the stars gave truth to both what he was and what he was not, a creature beyond her scope and yet possible within the compass of her arms. He was the dream she hadn’t known she’d wanted, couldn’t have imagined existed, until he came into her life in an erotic offering, fear superceded and drowned by excitement.
She could feel caution in his kisses-not a lack of passion, but borne out by gentleness, as if he knew how easily his size, his alien form, might overwhelm her. For all that they sailed amongst thin clouds and cool moonlight at Alban’s whim, Margrit felt heart-pounding power, as if he offered her control by knowing how easy it would be to deny it.
She was sure her eyes stung from the cold wind, not a shocking rise of sentimentality and trust so profound she had to smile to avoid tears. Margrit slid one of Alban’s hands to her lower back, finding the gown’s half-fastened zipper and guiding it down, making the gesture as much his as hers. His chuckle, warm and low, came through the wind with a warning: "If I pull it any farther, someone will find a very expensive and beautiful dress strung over a flagpole or telephone wire tomorrow morning."
"You’re only half-dressed." Margrit caught her lower lip in her teeth, smiling foolishly at Alban’s intent expression. "Seems only fair I should be, too."
He stroked his thumb along her spine, creating a shiver that had nothing to do with gusting wind. "Are you certain?" His voice, like his touch, was gentle.
A pulse of desire ran through her, spiking in her groin and breasts, even making her hands ache with need. "I’m sure."
An instant later the gown slid down, tangling briefly in Margrit’s shoes. She laughed, kicking at the fabric but unable to loosen the straps that held her shoes in place. For a moment the garment fluttered beside them, a living thing of twisting, pale gold in the blue light, before it began its descent to the city below. Margrit reached toward it, half envying its freedom to fall, but then brought herself back to Alban’s warmth without regret. Only with him could she come close to having that very freedom, and the desire to do so grew within her, aching and demanding. She hitched her thigh over his hip again, pressing liquid heat against the waistband of his jeans and drawing a rumble from him. "You’re considerably less than half-dressed now."
His fingers bumped over her hip, where the narrow line of a thong bikini was all that marred the skin. He tangled his hand in the elastic, turning his head to meet Margrit’s gaze. She nodded, tiny breathless motion, and he snapped the band, easily, possessively. Margrit, half expecting it, still gasped with a thrill of pleasure as her heartbeat surged, a primal response to Alban’s show of strength.
He murmured, "Hold on to me," and Margrit, as if she hadn’t been, knotted her arms around his neck and sought his throat with her lips. His warmth against her was the comfort of heated stone, profound enough that even with wind rushing by, its chill seemed to pass over her unnoticed. Alban shifted her up his body again, moving her small mass rather than duck his head and endanger the pattern of their flight as he covered her nipples with his mouth. Margrit swallowed a cry, then let it go, amused at the idea that someone might be close enough to hear. Trusting Alban’s grip on her, she loosened her hands from around his neck, but he made a sound of discouragement. "Hold on."
"But-"
"Later." Soft humor tinged the word. "There will be time for me later." He shifted his grip on her bottom, drawing her leg farther over his hip before he took advantage of the changed position and slipped a knuckled finger between her thighs from behind. Margrit went rigid, hands knotted in his hair as she keened, opening herself farther to his touch. His exploration was gentle, parting folds and seeking heat until she buried her face in his shoulder, trying to catch her breath. Alban murmured in delight, encouraging her response by finding her center of pleasure and covering it with a delicacy that belied the danger of taloned hands. The whimpered pleas that erupted from Margrit’s throat were incoherent with need, earning a sound of pleasure from her lover. He folded a second knuckle inward, offering sweet teasing to a body aching to be touched, and then a whispered apology. "No more. These hands aren’t made for a body as fragile as yours."