Frustrated heat swept Margrit’s cheeks. "Other parts of you must be." She let her grip loosen, sliding down Alban’s body a few inches, trusting him to hold her, and all but losing her grasp entirely when it was the hand between her thighs that caught her weight. Pleasure shot through her, whiting out the moonlight and briefly overriding any vestiges of cold she might have felt. Alban’s breath hitched at the hard pulse against his fingers, then again as raging desire brought Margrit’s hungry mouth to his chest, her tongue and teeth seeking out a nipple. She breathed, "Don’t let me fall," against his skin, then flattened her hand against his belly and slid it beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Her own skin hadn’t felt cold to her until she wrapped her fingers around the silken heat of Alban’s length. He rumbled, a deep aching sound of desire, then suddenly surged upward, no longer content to glide in ever-sinking circles. Margrit gasped in shy delight as the very beat of his wings helped her find a rhythm to stroke him with, until impatience brought her hand free so she could tug open his jeans and explore him more fully. Alabaster skin, unmarred by curls, glowed in contrast to the denim, in contrast to the darkness of Margrit’s skin in the moonlight. She blurted, "Look," in a high voice, garnering a rough laugh from the gargoyle.

"We may fall from the sky if I do. Your hands are…"

"Cold," Margrit offered. "Dark. Small."

"Extraordinary," Alban groaned. "Margrit, it has been…a very long time since anyone has touched me so." A shudder ran over him, extending to his wing tips, and he leveled out again, beginning the circling a new.

Possessiveness surged through Margrit, bearing hunger with it. She tightened her fingers around him, making a demand of the touch. "Good," she said irrationally. "That makes you mine." Her heart ached at the pronouncement, and unexpected gladness took her breath away. There was a world below that she’d moved away from, leaving little in the way of regret: things she might have done differently, perhaps, but no results she would change, not now, not sharing the sky with a gargoyle. "Your world," she whispered. "Your world is the one I want to belong to, Alban. Your world, with you. Can I be a part of it?" She drew herself up his body again, seeking his wide mouth, hoping he could taste the desire and hope in her kiss.

"You already are. Whether you choose to remain…" Loss sounded in his voice, sparking ferocious in Margrit’s resolve.

"I do." With her dark gaze fixed on Alban’s, she shifted her weight, curling her legs around his waist.

"Margrit." Her name was a hoarse whisper. "Margrit." The same emotions she’d felt, hope and desire, conflicted in his voice. "Margrit, this form, your size-" It was her own once-voiced laughing objection that he tried to remind her of, but she stopped his objections with a kiss.

"I know." Her own voice was low, intense. "I know what I said. But tall men fit with small women all the time, and I want you. I want you. My Alban. My gargoyle." She nuzzled his throat, shivering, and whispered, "Don’t let me fall."

"Never." Alban’s reply was torn away by the wind, but his hands were certain, encompassing her waist as they guided one another in joining. Rough denim scraped Margrit’s inner thighs, a delicious counterpart to the silken strength within her. Then there were only soft whispers of focused astonishment as Margrit clung to her lover in the night sky, circling, circling, always circling, toward the earth.

"Leave me on my balcony." Margrit pushed at Alban, moving him not an inch.

Gradual descent had taken them to rooftops, their bodies entwined in lovemaking until Alban lifted his head toward the east, his expression dismayed. Margrit had demanded his tuxedo jacket and shirt from his other form, and wore them now, hugging the oversize clothes to her body. The shirt fell halfway to her knees, almost a dress in itself, though she’d given her gold strapped shoes a rueful look for not matching Alban’s silver-threaded suit. "Alban, dawn is coming. You need to go home."

"I don’t want to leave you."

Margrit nudged him again. "You’ll turn to stone with daylight whether you want to or not. I’d rather be home safe-because I am not walking through New York in this outfit-and I’d rather you didn’t stay out so long you turned to stone in midflight. I’ll still want you tonight," she promised more softly, then stepped closer to him, curling her fingers against the stony smoothness of his chest. "You could come to dinner. I could cook."

Teasing danced in Alban’s pale gaze. "Is that incentive or reason to stay away?"

She laughed. "It’s not too bad. Not as good as Cole cooking, but not too bad. A late dinner, maybe, around nine? That would give you plenty of time to get there."

"What about your housemates?"

"They’ll be polite, at least. They were all right last night. Yesterday. Whenever that was."

"All right." Alban stole a kiss before murmuring, "Though I don’t see what’s wrong with your outfit." He chortled over Margrit’s splutter of protest and scooped her up, springing skyward. Winging across the Manhattan skyline seemed to take no time at all, Margrit stepping out of Alban’s arms onto her balcony only minutes later.

"Nine o’clock, okay?"

"I’ll be here." Alban bowed his head to linger in a kiss. "Thank you, Margrit."

She crooked a smile, wanting to brush off his thanks, and at the same time feeling she understood the impulse that prompted it. "Good night, Alban."

He shared her smile, then turned and cast himself off the balcony into the lightening sky. Margrit watched him go, then tipped her head up, smiling at the few stars left in the night, before tugging on the balcony door.

It stuck, making her grimace in dismay. A second pull verified that it was locked. She spun around, knowing it was too late to call Alban back, hoping it might not be. Not even his shadow was visible in the burgeoning light. She smacked her palms against the balcony railing in a nonverbal curse. The street below was comparatively quiet, but climbing down the fire escape ladders in her current clothing…Margrit gnashed her teeth, seeing nothing to be done for it.

She’d stepped up to the railing, about to swing her leg over it, when the balcony door’s lock clicked, resounding in the morning stillness. Margrit froze as the door slid open, then forced herself to turn her head and look back.

Cole stood framed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He looked Margrit up and down, then, blandly, said, "Nice shoes."

CHAPTER 29

Sickness churned in Margrit’s stomach, bringing a cold sweat to her skin. Cole’s expression was accusing as he moved out of the doorway. She hugged herself, trying not to touch her housemate as she brushed by. Cool air followed her in, then was shut away again with the sliding of the door. "Lock yourself out?"

Margrit took a breath to answer, realized the futility of trying, and released it again unburdened by words. Cole’s voice followed her to the kitchen door, stopping her. "’Course, you don’t have your purse. And I was in the kitchen anyway, so you’d have had to come past me to get onto the balcony. Or, oh, did you come down the fire escape? In that?"

Margrit turned her head toward him, trying a second time to find words. Cole leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. Tension radiated across the room, making the air hard to breathe. "What was that thing, Margrit?"

Horror plummeted through Margrit like a dead weight, cutting strength from her legs. "Who-"

"Don’t. Whatever you’re going to tell me, whatever bullshit story you’re about to make up, don’t even fucking bother with it, Grit. I saw that thing. Alban?" he asked incredulously, unfolding one arm to gesture sharply at her borrowed clothes. "Is that what that thing was? I saw it land on the balcony with you. I saw you kiss it and I saw it fly away again. What the fuck is it?"