celiabreslin

Luke was cannon-balled out of slumber by the sudden presence of one hundred-and-fifty pounds of hound landing on his back.

Facedown atop a supremely soft mattress with his arms stretched wide and his head hanging off the foot of the bed, it took him a second to rally his speech center. “What the actual bloody hell, Bolt?”

Bolt ignored him, bouncing around Luke’s body, pitching him side to side, up, down, up, down.

“For feck’s sake.” What the double bloody hell was Bolt on about with all the yapping and yipping and bashing of Luke’s kidneys with his big paws? Couldn’t he see Luke was busy sleeping off one too many bottles of Irish cream? And Charon’s cocktails. And tequila. There had definitely been pitchers of margaritas.

Luke rolled onto his back. “Enough, Bolt. Sit.”

Eyes closed, he batted a hand at his hound, warding off the canine’s attempts to lick his face. “Go chase a squirrel, will you? Crikey.”

Bolt whined and smacked one large paw down upon Luke’s bare chest. Ouch. “Duuude,” he drawled. “Chill.”

Fingers snapped, silencing his dog lickety-split. Bolt plopped down next to him, tail thwacking against Luke’s leg right where his board shorts ended above the knee.

He elbowed his dog in the side. “Cut it out, cur.” Hold on. Snapping fingers… Who possessed the ability to boss his animal around and convince the stubborn bugger to obey?

Only one person in any dimension wielded this kind of puppy power. But no, it can’t be her. She’d made it clear he remained persona non grata in her life with her recent no-show in the Underworld.

With his heartbeat jackhammering in his chest, he sucked in a deep breath, soaking in the unique floral scent of the woman who broke his rarely used heart, hoping this was no mere post-party hallucination.

“Gabrielle,” he whispered. God’s messenger and elite warrior, the angel he’d admired and cherished. “Elle.” The woman he’d let down, and who ultimately walked away.

Droplets of cold water dripped on his cheeks, and a sharp inhalation from above assured him he’d not created an imaginary friend. A grin spread over his face and happy chills frolicked down his body.

“Angel baby. You’re here.” He cranked open his eyelids to gaze up at her in wonder.

Lightning crackled in the depths of her glittering green eyes as she loomed over him, her unhappy expression promising pain. Yep, his angel was clearly not as thrilled as he was about this unexpected reunion.

Years of yearning crashed to the forefront. He ached to caress her smooth, cloud-pale skin, to bury his fingers in the long fire-red hair she always kept swept up in a high ponytail. Memories surged, of her curves pressed against him while they kissed under the stars in Faerie, of her wicked strong legs wrapped around his torso while they made love against his castle wall, on the spiral staircase, in the sky–

A snarl escaped his angel’s throat, and her arm shot downward, her fingers of steel snagging him by the throat and squeezing his windpipe.

“Luke.” She uttered his name as if it were the vilest curse word in any dimension, then lifted him with little effort and slammed him up against the wall between the palatial bathroom and sleeping area.

Plaster cracked under his back, not that he cared. She could destroy any of his homes, and he’d laugh the entire time.

Because it meant she was here. With him.

“Missed you, Hot Stuff,” he croaked.

She yanked him forward then smacked him against the wall again. Plaster splintered and fell, covering him in a fine white dust and somehow completely missing the perfect vision that was his lovely angel. Her luscious mouth moved, her full, red lips shimmering with sparkles. He bet she wore berry lip gloss, her favorite. He used to love licking it off her lips then tracing a path with his tongue down her neck, over the swells of her breasts to her–

“Did you hear me, fairy man?” His mighty woman dug one powerful knee into his groin.

He grunted at the jolt of pain. Apparently, she’d been talking while he daydreamed about her delicious body parts. “Uh…yes?”

Wrong answer. She heard the lie, of course, and punished him by tossing him through the open double doors and into the bathroom. He skidded across the marble floor until his head made the painful acquaintance of the bidet. Stars and comets blanketed his vision while dizziness took his head for a nausea-inducing spin, as if he were plastered to the side of a human carnival ride, what was it called? The one where the floor fell away, gravi-something or other.

“Gravitron.” Elle grabbed him by an ankle.

Ah, he’d spoken aloud, had he?

An exasperated huff escaped her. “Yes, you did. You are. Ugh.”
She dragged him across the slick stone surface, and he swore a bone or two cracked in his lower leg under her viselike grip before she dumped him without ceremony into the massive sunken bathtub.

Hands fisted on her hips, she scowled down at him, her posture oozing power and confidence. “Turn it off, Luke. Right the heck now.” Her emerald gaze burned.
He grinned. Couldn’t help it. “You’re so cute with your eyes aglow, and when you say things like heck and darn and–”

Otherworldly quick she snagged the handheld shower head from its hook, flipped it on, and sprayed him with Antarctic-cold water.

He released a decidedly ungodly shriek and all he could do was raise his hands in front of his bloody freezing face and beg for her to cease and desist. Okay, fine, he could teleport away anytime he pleased, but where was the fun in that? He wasn’t letting her out of his sight, not after so many empty years without her.

“I surrender, I surrender,” he spat out around a mouthful of water.

“Last time, you drunk idiot. Turn off the waterworks.”

“You’re the one doin’ the wet work, darlin’.” He shot her a cheeky grin.

She aimed the frigid flow at his crotch, wiping the smirk off his face, then turned off and tossed the torture device aside before jumping down into the tub, and caging him in with a sexy leg on either side of his hips. She cocked one arm, her fist sparking with her power. “Kill. The. Storm. Fairy.”

The blow came for his face on her last word, but he caught her fist in his hand. “Not a fairy, baby.”

All traces of green abandoned her eyes, and the supernova white of her celestial might blazed at him. Then he was airborne, shot like a ball from a cannon, soaring from the bathroom, through the bedroom suite, out the doors and over the balcony. Not bothering to summon his wings, gravity took over, and he plunged into the pool. His feet touched the bottom in the deep end. Hovering there, he blinked up at the surface and grinned. Elle is here.

Now, he merely had to devise a plan, pronto, one leading to her forgiving him and agreeing to come back into his life. For good.

Step one—convince her to stick around for the next few minutes.