His blood raced, steamed, coursed, boiled, frothed to the point he thought for sure it would burst from his skin and paint the concrete floor crimson. Angel told himself it was the heat of her skin, human like he’d never felt it, that burned him. It was a physical response to the remnants of Catholic intonations that hung in the air and rosaries buried beneath their feet when the convent was cemented over to make room for water towers that helped keep the California deserts green.
The pain within his chest had nothing to do with her kisses or hands kneading at his biceps as though the very action could mold him into the man she wanted him to be. Nothing to do with the demon that begged to be set free, clawed from within as Darla clawed from without, a war raging around him. Angel, the one in the middle, keeping the ex-wife from her conjugal visit with his caged prisoner.
She goads him, grinds her thighs against him, giddy at his response. The demon renews his efforts, uses the only power he has left to reach out and touch her, stone hard dagger pulsating beneath his jeans, inching ever closer until the only choice left is to release her. Angel fights off her advances, the urge to scream as she reaches for him again and again burbles up from his gut. He wants to bellow, beg, fuck.
Her words burn him fresh. The definition of Bliss. Being at her side for lifetimes, watching the world catch up with the human mind. Memories of newfound technologies, fascinating and devastating all at the same time, twisting in her hands, in their bed.
He breaks from her again. Mesmerized even from a distance as she runs her fingers over her body as it obviously crawls in time with his. Friction between them as painful as days spent making love in front of half closed shades, sun bursting through at random intervals, igniting passion with pain. He feels their rays again as the dawn rises outside and pools down the stairs.
She steps into the light, burning him with a cross as she walks away. Escaping the touch he is finally unable to stop himself from grasping for.
“God doesn’t want you,” she mocks, “but I still do.”
And then she’s gone.
So little she knows after four centuries of living. He’s never wanted her more, if only to save her he doesn’t know. Slipping to the concrete steps to wait out the day, he calms the demon the only way he knows how, with slow painful sense memory and clenched eyes.
And still he feels her eyes on him as the fire builds in his blood again.