How to Seduce an Angel in 10 Days (2 page)

Falcon shifted them so she was on her back, his weight pressing her down into the sea of pillows.

“Show me what you thought about most.”

“What if what I thought about most was you on your knees in front of me, your sweet mouth around my cock?”

His words were deliciously blunt, as hard as his cock jutting against her belly.

“Was it?” She imagined herself doing that very thing and licked her lips.

“I’ve thought about doing everything to you that one warlock could do to a witch.” He brought his lips down to the curve of her neck, his mouth hot on her skin. Falcon worked his way down to the bodice of her dress and bared her breasts—filling his hands with the firm globes. His tongue darted out across her nipple and she arched up into the caress with a small cry. “That, Tally. That’s what I think about.” His voice was a ragged whisper. “You wet and wanting beneath me, the taste of you on my tongue, and you making just that sound begging me for more.”

Oh, Circe!
His words sent bolts of desire straight to her clit, her channel slick and wet for him. This was finally happening. She’d wanted it for so long. He hadn’t kissed her yet, and she wanted his mouth on hers, to taste him and the whiskey on his breath, to tie her memory of this moment to something tangible, something real, so she’d know that, too, had been real.

“Kiss me, Falcon.”

“I plan on it.” He worked his way down her body and pushed his hands up under her dress to grasp her hips. “I’m going to kiss you until you’re begging, just like I imagined.” Falcon bent his head between her parted thighs and kissed her just as he’d promised—the first stroke of his tongue against her cleft had her shuddering and digging her fingers into his back.

“You taste so good.” Falcon licked her again, his tongue working her slick folds, until he paused, his breath warm on her mound. “Shit.”

Shit?
Shit?
That wasn’t what one wanted to hear with a warlock buried ears deep in one’s witchy bits. Especially Drusilla Tallow’s witchy bits. Shit? Cold panic seized her. She’d been possessed by a great and terrible evil, and that evil thing had transformed her body. Given her teeth where all things male would fear to tread, a symbol of her power. But . . . she was cured. Healed. Unless . . . Had the great and terrible evil come back? Why wasn’t he doing anything—saying anything?

Oh, Merlin, had she killed him?

Tally propped herself up on her elbows, the formerly arousing sensation of his weight pushing her down now terrifying. What if he’d had a heart attack? What if the great and terrible evil—? A loud rumble issued from between her thighs. It was like the thundering of an earthquake.

She tugged on her dress, the fabric impeding her from seeing what was happening down there. Falcon’s grip on her thighs had changed. No longer were his masterful hands spreading her wide for his access, but they clung to her like a favored pillow.

The rumble she’d heard was a snore.

And she realized the hastily uttered “shit” was because he was drunk and knew he was going to pass out.

In her quim.

Shit was absolutely, positively, unequivocally right.

Not only did Tally have a comatose warlock between her legs, but he’d left her with blue bean, and pinned under his dead weight. Her magick wouldn’t answer her call, being unruly as it was since she’d come back from the dark side. It couldn’t possibly get any worse.

She gazed heavenward, a retraction on the tip of her tongue. Tally knew it could be all kinds of worse and pleaded with the Powers That Be not to prove it to her.

So of course, they did. It was only a millisecond before she heard voices that could only belong to the rest of the Trifecta of Doom.

Why hadn’t she asked Falcon to at least charm the privacy curtains closed on the pergola? No, she’d had to have the damn lake view. And now, Raven and Hawk were going to have a
Tally view
. With their brother half-buried between her thighs.

Maybe they’d just keep walking? All this lounging lakeside amongst a mess of pillows was very Jane Austen and if neither of them were trying to get laid, Tom Clancy was more their speed.

No such luck. “Falcon, hey we need—shit.” Hawk froze at the entrance to the pergola, looking much like he was a deer and Tally was an oncoming semi.

Raven was still talking as he came to a stop behind Hawk. “I don’t even know why you’re worried about interrupting. He’s not with a witch he’d shag. He’s with Tally and—” Rather than freeze as his brother had done when he saw the tableau laid before him, he launched himself into action. “I’ll save you!”

Raven pounced on top of Falcon and hooked his arms underneath his brother’s shoulders and hauled him backwards, crying out, “I won’t let her get you like she did Tristan.” The atmosphere crackled around them as Raven used his magick to boost his strength and sent him and Falcon both flying into the lake with a splash that caused the water to burst high up into the sky and drew the attention of all the remaining guests.

Free of Falcon’s dead-drunk weight, she scrambled to pull her dress down and frantically sought out avenues of escape. She considered crawling under the linen curtains of the pergola, but that wasn’t actually a viable option. Every witch and warlock in attendance had come running to see the spectacle.

Especially with Raven sputtering lake water out of his nose and crowing that he’d saved his brother from a certain doom in between the thighs of Drusilla Tallow, Great and Terrible Evil, Esquire.

“Tally,” Hawk began, a look of pity on his face. “I can teleport you home.”

The pity was worse than the fear. Tally hated being pitied. She squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her full five-foot-six inches and reminded herself she was a lion, not a pussycat. Emphasis on pussy.

“No. I will leave the same way I came. Through the front gates so everyone can see my ass before they kiss it.”

Tally strode boldly through the filmy curtains out onto the green and the crowd took a collective step back from her. She lifted her chin and Raven shoved Falcon’s still comatose body behind him.

All manner of things were on the tip of her tongue, but she decided silence was probably her best friend. She spun on her heel and stomped toward the front gates of the estate, reminding herself to never again break her moratorium on weddings.

CHAPTER TWO

The Cherub Chore

F
alcon Cherrywood awoke with the most gods-awful sound echoing in his head with the force of the report of an AK-47. It sounded for all the world like Death singing in his ear.

Not the proximity of the end of all things, no, but the Angel of Death, Tristan Belledare. The one Tally had sent to his great reward not so long ago. The bastard was singing “Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow” by Sam Cooke and at an unreasonable volume. He wished Death would, himself, indeed go
silently
into that good night. Or at least shut the hell up. Tally had—Shit.

Tally. His whiskey-soaked, foggy brain latched on to that thread of a thought as he realized he’d failed as a warlock. He’d passed out like a boy at his first Beltane revel.

Between her thighs!

Falcon had to get up right now and go over to her house and prove to her he was 100 percent warlock. He had to follow through on all those promises of making her scream his name. Not only because he had to live up to his reputation, but because he wanted those things with her. He remembered the taste of her, the delicate sound she made when he thrust his tongue against her clit. . . .

“Cupid! Are you in there?” Cold fingers tapped on his forehead.

He cracked a crusty eye open. He hadn’t been imagining Death. Tristan’s smug face was only inches from his own.

“What the hell, man? And don’t call me Cupid.”

“Why not? That’s your name.”

“My name is Falcon.”

“It’s Mud if you don’t get your ass up and report for duty. The Powers That Be have been trying to get in touch with you for hours.”

“My sister got married yesterday.” He shrugged, but was then immediately regretting the action. There was a troupe of klutzy knife-throwing circus monkeys banging around in his head.

“Yes, you should have blessed it and gone on about your business rather than getting shit-faced. Do you know how sad it is that
I
have to be your moral compass?” Tristan rolled his eyes and then pushed Falcon so he rolled off the other side of the bed. “Move it, Cupid. I’ll be waiting downstairs.” Tristan disappeared.

Downstairs? Falcon lived in an apartment; he didn’t have a downstairs. He dragged himself up to sit on the bed and took another look at his surroundings and realized he was in his old room at his mother’s house. How had he gotten there?

His
Heaven’s Helper Manual
was perched obviously on the nightstand. Like it had been put there specifically for him to find. He had his own copy at home. He didn’t need this one.

Fucking Cupid.

It was amazing the things one would agree to when hovering near death. The actual act, not the guy in the flesh. Although, Tristan would argue he’d gotten some witches to do some crazy things.

Falcon Cherrywood hadn’t meant to smite the former Cupid in the ass with a fireball.

It had all been a grievous mistake. One he was certainly paying for now that he had to fly a mile in the other guy’s wings since the injury had caused Cupid to take an early retirement. Falcon had only been trying to save his sister from the great and terrible evil, not take over as Cupid.

The worst part of the job wasn’t the diaper. He could get over that with the right amount of whiskey. It was the wings themselves. He’d had been hoping for black ones or maybe a really dark blue; that would have been acceptable. Love was Hell after all, so he could’ve been happy with some demonic bat wings.

But no, not only was he forced to play the Diapered Archer; he had to do it in pink. By Merlin’s teeth,
pink
. If that wasn’t enough to make him reconsider his man card, they were glittery, like the inside of a thirteen-year-old witch’s locker at Academy. He was surprised his swaddling didn’t have a unicorn print.

Bastards.

He’d thumbed through his
Heaven’s Helper Manual
briefly. It had come with the wings and the Crown Prince of Heaven gig, but wasn’t impressed by anything he saw. Even in Eternity, one still had to watch the employee videos about how not to pick one’s nose in front of the customers. It was ridiculous. The manual actually referred to them as “customers.” Who were they kidding? If Cupid chose to shoot them, then they could damn well take what they got. This wasn’t Burger King; they didn’t get to have it their way.

There was another problem.

He couldn’t shoot a bow and arrow to save his life. Or anyone else’s. He’d been hoping to find the answer in the stupid manual, but no. There was nothing actually helpful in the thing. Cupid taking archery lessons: another side of ridiculous with an entrée of Are-You-Fucking-Kidding-Me?

Falcon couldn’t do much about the wings, but he was definitely changing his outfit. The diaper thing just didn’t do it for him, or for the thousands of women who were going to give it up to be shot with an arrow from his quiver. He might see what he could do about using bullets instead of arrows. Then he could ask them in all seriousness if they wanted to see his love gun.

Yes, these were the thoughts that occupied the new Cupid’s mind as he sat in his new uniform of pink wings and a toga with the hangover from Hell, debating whether he should even go down the stairs. Goddess help him if his brothers saw him this way.

Well, they were bound to sooner or later, so he put on his best swagger and strutted down the stairs.

The kitchen was blessedly empty, except for Tristan, who had helped himself to a cup of coffee.

Hey,
Cherry
wood.” Tristan snickered. “Finally get
it,
I mean,
yourself
up?”

Falcon rolled his eyes. He didn’t need this today. Or any day, really. He would much rather have been left alone with his thoughts and his devices. “Up longer and stronger than you, Belle of the Ball Sac.”

“I see angel status has done nothing for your humor, or your wit.” Tristan made it a point to stretch in an overdramatic manner, splaying his
black
wings behind him.

It was a small consolation to Falcon they glittered like his own. On Tristan, it looked like some lame allusion to stars, whereas Falcon’s were just pink. He was going to take that up with the Powers That Be, oh, yes.

“Black wings do not a badass make, Tristan,” Falcon said, feeling testy. So what if they were black? They looked like some emo kid had been turned loose with a Sharpie. They weren’t that cool.

“Neither does getting knocked off your broom by a girl.” Tristan flashed a toothy grin, obviously taking great joy in reminding Falcon about how, when possessed by the great and terrible evil, he had knocked Falcon right off his broom to certain death. Or Cupidity, as it had turned out. He still wasn’t sure which was worse.

But Tally had done a number on Tristan, too.

“Oh, would that be the same girl who lured you to Loudun and used your ribs for toothpicks after eating your kidneys like jelly beans?” Falcon raised a brow and gave Tristan the best holier-than-thou expression he could manage. Falcon had been honest when he’d said he didn’t hold anything that had happened with the great and terrible evil against Tally, but that didn’t mean he was above putting Tristan in his place.

“You’re awfully testy this morning. Not getting any?”

“No. You know how your mom is.” Falcon shrugged and reached for the coffeepot.

“Not really. I would say I empathize, but
your
mom has never kicked me out of bed.” Tristan smirked.

Falcon growled. “Are you ready for retirement so soon?”

“What? You’ll smite
me
in the ass with a fireball?”

“No, my love gun.”

“I didn’t know you’d come out of the closet.” Tristan shrugged. “Good for you.”

“You’ll think good for me when you’re puckered up to a donkey’s ass professing your ardent love.”

“Nah, remember? Your sister wouldn’t have me.”

Falcon scowled, but he couldn’t deny Tristan had indeed gotten the last word. “She knows better. So what is it that has your cape all in a bunch that you had to rouse me out of a perfectly good stupor?”

“Not
my
cape, buddy. The Powers. They have a job for you.”

Tristan plopped an envelope down on the counter. It was red.

More fucking glitter.

He needed a barrel of ibuprofen and a vat of whiskey. A sick feeling in his gut that was more than just the hangover told him whatever was in that envelope was going to be worse than the pink wings and the diaper.

Falcon didn’t want to look at it, let alone open it.

“Well?” Tristan demanded. “I don’t have all day. I have my own assignment to see to and I have to stay until you open it.”

Falcon opened the letter and couldn’t quite process what it said. He read the words, and he knew what each word meant on its own, but there, together, jumbled in that sentence, it just didn’t compute.

His assignment was to act in the capacity of a heavenly parole officer.

His parolee was none other than Drusilla Tallow.

Drusilla Tallow, who’d become a great and terrible evil. Who’d grown teeth in a scary place. Who’d knocked him off his broom, who’d killed Tristan (not that the bastard didn’t deserve it), who’d been the gateway to the destruction of the Warlockian world. But she hadn’t meant to do those things or to allow the lamia to possess her. So instead of punishing her, the Powers That Be had granted her a type of parole. Being possessed by the lamia was punishment enough, but only if she could prove herself. She needed a parole officer to guide her, to help her to rebuild her life, to make the right choices.

Falcon Cherrywood couldn’t be her parole officer. Hell, he couldn’t even be Cupid. He didn’t know how to keep someone on the straight and narrow, because he couldn’t do it himself. And he certainly didn’t believe in love.

Putting Tally’s future in his hands was a certain recipe for disaster for both of them.

What were they thinking?

“Shit.” He’d been saying that a lot lately, but it was just perfect to describe the flavor of absolutely everything that had landed on his plate. “I have to find Tally.”

“Whoa there, tiger.” Tristan put out his hands to stop his progress. “You are the last person she wants to see right now.”

“Why?”

“Falcon, do you remember nothing from the wedding?” Disbelief made Tristan’s eyes pop out of his head.

“How do you know about it?” That feeling in the pit of his stomach suddenly jumped up in his throat. But he wasn’t going to barf.
Don’t puke, don’t puke, Merlin, please don’t puke.

“
Everyone
knows about it. Hawk and Raven walked in on you two after you passed out. Raven thought Tally was possessed again and screamed he’d save you and flung you and himself into the lake. Worse, he used his magick to do it. So everyone saw the fireworks and came to investigate.”

Save him? The dots all suddenly connected to paint a horrible picture. He’d passed out between her thighs and Raven had thought the great and terrible evil had returned.

Fuck.

Part of the reason for Tally to put in an appearance at the wedding, Middy had said, was to show the warlockian community that she’d been forgiven, and most important, she was just a regular witch. And Falcon had screwed that up for her. He was officially an asshole.

Roses weren’t going to fix this. She’d probably never speak to him again, let alone allow him to finish what they’d started. It was just as well. This was the universe’s way of reminding him to keep his dick to himself when it came to Drusilla Tallow. Something always happened whenever things were about to change between them. If this wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what was.

“You’re right.” He nodded at Tristan. Falcon hated to admit that Tristan was right about anything, but he hated this truth in particular. Tally’d had enough pain and Falcon was under no illusions he’d treat her any better than any other warlock had. He knew himself. Out of his brothers, Falcon had always been the one most like his father. Falcon had their father’s sense of humor, his laugh, his swagger, the quirk to his left eyebrow, and that same wanderlust that led his father to abandon a witch who loved him more than her own breath and the four children they had together. “But that doesn’t matter. The Powers have spoken. I’m her new parole officer.”