Page 23 of Coached By the Grumpy Gargoyle

Rory

Bram lifts me off the floor without breaking our kiss.

I hook an arm around his neck, still clutching his hoodie with my other hand. This is a much better height for kissing him. I don't have to balance on my toes, and he doesn't have to bend nearly in half, and I can feel his smile against my mouth when I take full advantage.

"This is a terrible idea," I inform his mouth.

"It really is," he agrees, his voice so low I feel it through my hand on his chest. Then he kisses me again, and I tighten my arm around his neck.

He carries me toward the bedroom, ducking through the doorway while I keep myself occupied with his lips. My bed is covered in pillows, which seemed like a good idea when I bought them. Bram sweeps half of them to the floor with one forearm and lays me down. The frame gives a scandalized creak under his knee.

"Be nice to my bed," I tell him. "I like that bed."

His mouth finds my throat, and I lose interest in defending my furniture.

We get his hoodie off between us, working it carefully around his wings. My dress has a zipper he handles with a delicacy that makes me want to wriggle out of it myself. Then it joins the pillows, along with my bra and underwear.

Bram draws back to look at me, and I resist the urge to smooth my hair. His gaze moves down my body, slow enough to make me squirm.

"There you are," he says, quiet.

He kisses my collarbone, then the freckles on my shoulder. I tip my head back, expecting his mouth to travel lower, but he takes my arm and kisses the inside of my elbow. I laugh, startled, and he looks up at me with his lips still against my skin.

"That tickles."

"Does it?" He kisses the same spot again, and I catch his shoulder, laughing harder.

His mouth curves before he moves on. He kisses my ribs, the dip of my waist, the point of my hip. His stone warms beneath my palms, and by the time he reaches my stomach, I'm no longer laughing. I want his mouth lower. I also don't want him to skip a single inch.

He's taking his time with me. Every time I open my eyes, he's looking at my face, waiting for my response before he kisses me again. My cheeks burn, but I leave my hands on him. I want him to know how good this feels.

"Bram, you're going to kill me if you keep going this slowly."

He lifts his head from my stomach. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

"That's beside the point." I tug at his shoulders, and he kisses my hip again, the smug bastard.

Then he slides off the end of the bed onto his knees. His hands close around my hips and draw me to the edge of the bed. Behind him, his wings rise close to the string lights along the sloping ceiling.

I reach over his shoulders and run my fingers along the tops of his wings, where the thin membrane meets the hard ridge. He shudders beneath my hands and presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh. I do it again, slower.

"Careful, brat." His breath is against the inside of my thigh, his voice wrecked already.

"Or what?"

He answers by lowering his mouth to me. My fingers curl around the ridges of his wings, and I forget whatever smart remark I was about to make. He's slow and thorough, holding my hips steady while I try to move against him. My heel presses into his back.

He doesn't hurry.

Every time my hands tighten, a low sound comes out of him. I can feel it against my skin, and it makes me want to touch him more. The string lights blur above his shoulders. I'm barely managing to keep my eyes open when he lifts his head.

"You're my addiction." His lips brush my thigh as he speaks. "I could never have enough of you."

My fingers loosen on his wings. He looks up at me, and I can't make a joke out of it. Nobody has ever said anything like that to me. I've been useful, reliable, a great help. This enormous, gorgeous man is kneeling between my legs, telling me he can't get enough of me.

I stroke his wing, and his mouth comes back to me. This time, when I move, he lets me, his hands warm and firm on my hips. I come with his name spilling out of me, holding on to him while he stays with me through the last of it.

When I can breathe again, I pull at his shoulders. He lifts his head, and I sit up to kiss him, both palms against his chest. I want him on the bed. He works his trousers down while I push the remaining pillows out of our way, then he lets me urge him backward onto the mattress.