He knelt before her as a supplicant before an altar, the fervent press of his lips more devout than any prayer, and above him, around him, she glowed bright as the sun itself, her soft lilting cries sacred as a prayer.

She was an angel, his angel, the answer to his every question, the locus of his devotion. Together they had come to this place, stumbled through his apartment shedding clothes and trading eager kisses until she tumbled to his bed, took up the position she now held, reclining on her elbows with her wings curling forward around her body, feathers brushing gently against the bare skin of his shoulders while he knelt at the foot of the bed between her supple thighs and covered her core with his mouth. There had been no time for this, before, no time for this kind of penitent exploration, but she had pledged herself to him, and him to her, and they had the rest of their lives, now; not all the time in the world, perhaps, but more time than he'd ever imagined they'd be lucky enough to enjoy, and he meant to make the most of every moment.

Every moment, beginning with this one, with the rasp of her coarse curls against his cheeks and the taste of her bursting on his tongue. She was all, everything, and he loved her, had loved her, always, world without end, amen, and he meant to show her. Meant to prove the truth of not just his desire for her, but his care for her, needed her to know, to feel, that he was hers, completely, and completely committed to protecting her, loving her, from now until his last breath, and after that, too, if God was willing, if grace was kind. With eager lips and determined tongue he drank deeply of her, followed the direction of her insistently rocking hips and her uninhibited moans until she was shaking from it, from his lips suckling at her clit, his tongue laving against it, driving her higher, and higher, until he had to feel for himself the heat of her, the wetness of her, the velvet clutch of her cunt, and his hand shot up, two fingers delving deep within her, curling until she screamed.

Her thighs were thrown over his shoulders, pressed hard to his ears and muffling the sound of her breathless cries, but it was not enough, not enough closeness, not enough touch, not for either of them, and she pulled herself up into a sitting position, blessed him with the gentle touch of her hands smoothing over his head, pressed her cunt so close to his face he could hardly breathe, and ground herself against him, hips rocking in time to the thrusting of his fingers, and close, he could tell she was close from the sound of her, from the way the inner walls of her sex clenched around him, and he did not falter for a second, sucking and licking at her, plunging his fingers into the warmth of her again and again, and as he moved her body seemed to draw in tighter, and tighter, her every muscle gone taut with longing, pulling him in, and in, and now, he thought, it had to be now, any second now she would come, and he wanted to feel it, to taste it, more than he wanted his next breath.

The way she held him, she was too tense to fall away from him, and so his free hand rose up; he meant to reach for her breast, but his palm fell against her belly instead, and he remembered, remembered what she'd told him, the miracle they had been giving, the miracle taking shape even now within her body, and while he fucked her with his mouth, with his right hand, his left hand remained there, hovering over the little spark of life that would one day be their child, and she seemed moved by this, affected by his devotion. Though her body continued to writhe with pleasure she reached down to cover his hand with her own, laced their fingers together and held on tightly to him as she fell apart, painting his chin a rush of wetness. As she came her wings wrapped suddenly around him, enveloped him in a soft and comforting darkness where nothing and no one else seemed to exist, just him, and her, two bodies, two hearts, twining themselves together, never again to be parted.

As she came down her wings fell away from him, and he missed it, just a little. It felt nice, the embrace of those wings, almost as nice as the embrace of her arms, but when he looked up at her, opened his eyes and stared in wonder into her beautiful face, there was no disappointment in him. She leaned down and he stretched up and they met in the middle in a tender, awe-struck kind of kiss, a kiss that began slow, and gentle, began as no more than a gentle brush of lips, but quickly grew into something else. Emboldened by her response to him and proud of the orgasm he'd given her Elliot felt a fierce desire to make her come again, and again, wondered to himself how many times he could make her come, wondered if he could make her come more than anyone else ever had. He didn't know the record, and now was not the moment to ask, but he meant to best it, if not tonight than one night soon. He meant to be the best, for her.

In a rush of growing need his tongue surged between her lips and her hands reached for him, tugged at him, and she slid backwards along the bed even as he rose up and covered her body with his own. For a second he wondered if maybe it would hurt her, lying on her back, wondered if her wings would make this position uncomfortable, but she wrapped them once more around him, held him with her wings even as she held him with her arms, fingertips and feathers both trailing along his back, lighting him up with desire for her.

The last time - the first time - she had straddled his lap, taken charge of their encounter, and he'd enjoyed that - Jesus, more than enjoyed, he'd fucking loved it - but what he'd loved most was being able to look into her eyes as he surged within her, and he wanted that again, and so long as she was comfortable on her back he was determined to keep her there, where he could see her, feel her, all of her.

Maybe he should have asked what she wanted, but she was kissing him, nipping at his lip one moment and then licking against the roof of his mouth the next, and her hips were rocking beneath him, grinding her soaking cunt against the rock-hard length of his cock, and there was, he figured, no real need for words; she was telling him already what he wanted, and all he had to do was listen.

So he did, listen; he reached down between them and ghosts his fingers once more over her silken folds, gathered up her wetness and then spread it along his cock before lining himself up at her tender center.

"Please," she breathed against his mouth when he hesitated a second too long; he'd been right, after all. He did know what she wanted. He wanted the same, and did not make her ask again.

"Shit," he swore fervently as the head of his cock dipped inside her; she was so fucking wet, slippery with her arousal, but tight, still, coming down from her orgasm, and she fit around him so snugly he feared for a moment he might come right there, less than an inch inside her and dying already, brought to the point of ruin by the glory of her.

"Please," she gasped again, clawing at his back, trying to draw him into her. "Fuck, please -"

Her curses cut off on a sharp cry; he drew his hips back while she begged for him so prettily, and surged forward, fast and hard and suddenly he was deep, so deep inside her he could have sworn he felt the beat of her heart through the fluttering walls of her cunt, and he had a little theory, decided to test it out, reached between them and strummed his thumb over her clit and just like that she was coming again, overwhelmed by the sudden stretch of him inside her, overwhelmed, he figured, the same way he was, by the sheer bliss of it, of them, coming together once more.

That's two, he thought. We can go for three. He wanted more, but his own need was almost more than he could bear; he wasn't sure how much longer he would last, caught within the inferno of his beloved, delirious with joy at finally having been given everything he'd ever dreamed of.

Still, despite his own shattering need, he meant to try. For her, he meant to try, to be good, to bring her pleasure, to make her feel the same joy, the same love, the same relief that sparked and shone within him like lightning.

"Look at me," he growled at her, holding himself steady over her with his hands planted on hte mattress by her shoulders, and he watched her eyes flutter open, saw the heat and the love and the power there, and shivered all over.

"I love you," he reminded her.

"I love you," she affirmed breathlessly. Beneath him she was not still; he could feel her body still thrumming in pleasure, her hips still lazily pressing up towards him, her wings still fluttering gently around his ribs, his back. Surrounded; he was utterly, completely surrounded by her, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

Slowly he withdrew, watched the play of emotions on her face, the way every piece of her responded to every piece of him, and when he thrust back into her he watched hungrily, watched the arch of her neck as her head tilted back, watched the rise of her breast, suddenly frozen as she forgot for a moment how to breathe, watched her, and thought to himself he had never, in all his days, seen anything so lovely as her.

He bowed his head, let his mouth settle at the curve of one glorious breast, and then began to fuck her in earnest. Desperately, eagerly, he rocked into her, again and again, and she welcomed him, held him, blessed him, accepted him, and beautiful, it was beautiful, and Jesus, it felt good. Too fucking good.

"Not gonna last," he gasped the words against her breast, and then caught her flesh between his teeth, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to bruise, maybe, he hoped, enough to leave a mark for them both to see later, and remember. He was not going to last; there was no way he could hold off his own release, not when she felt so perfect, when she held him so tight.

"Almost," she keened, that one word all she could manage, but it was enough, for him. She was almost there, but almost was not good enough for him. He wanted her to shatter when he did, wanted them to come together, if he could manage it.

"Touch yourself," he told her. He couldn't do it, needed his hands to stay where they were to keep from collapsing on top of her, but she could do it, and he wanted her to, wanted to know how she touched herself, wanted to make damn sure that she felt as good, as righteous, as fucking godlike as he felt in this moment.

She did not answer him with words but he felt it, felt her hands move, felt her fingers running over her clit, brushing against his cock, slipping through the mess they had made of her, and he felt the hold of her cunt around him tighten still further, and that's it, he thought. That's it.

They came together, the way he wanted them to, his grunts and her cries mingling together, her fingers and his cock pushing them both over the edge while her cunt contracted around him and he spilled himself inside her. Bliss; it was bliss, a breathless, timeless burst of light and sensation that left him so weak he was shaking with it. Their chests were pressed hard together, their hearts pounding against one another, and her wings were holding him, and he had never known a satisfaction so complete.

Beneath him she was limp, sated, now, relaxed and replete; he pressed a gentle kiss to her chin and then rolled away, gathered her up in his arms and did not even flinch as her legs wrapped around his thigh and painted his skin with their wetness. There would be time enough to clean up later; there would be time enough for everything, later. They had time now.

Some of that time they spent in silence, simply holding on to one another. It was a gift that had too long been denied them; he'd spent too many years unable to touch her, keeping record of where he could put his hands and where he couldn't, tucking those hands in his pockets instead of catching hold of her, and he didn't have to, anymore, didn't have to restrain himself, didn't have to keep himself apart from her, and he reveled in the closeness of her.

"So, you're happy, then?" she asked him when she finally remembered how to breathe, whispering the words into the crook of his shoulder where she'd buried her face. She was lying on her side, allowing him the opportunity to run his hand along the outline of her, from perfect tits to the dip of her waist to the rise of her hip and back again, and he indulged himself even as he laughed at her question.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm pretty fucking happy."

"I meant about the baby," she murmured. "I know you've already got-"

"I love my kids," he cut her off before she could start to spin herself up into worried and doubts and questions. "All my kids. That means McKenna and this baby, too. Happy…Christ, Liv, happy isn't a big enough word for what I feel right now. You…you're going to have a baby. My baby. Our baby. We're going to have a baby. It's…yeah, I'm happy. I'm really, really happy."

She'd always wanted that, a baby of her own to hold, to love. A family, a place to belong. And he had always, always wanted to be the one to give it to her, had been unable to stomach the thought of someone else touching her, loving her, sharing that joy with her, while he was trapped on the other side of the city, too far away from her to reach. But now her dreams were coming true, and he could walk this path beside her, sharing in her joy, and one day soon he would hold a child who was half him, half her, and all blessing; there was, he thought, no greater gift than that.

Happy; shit. This feeling, this moment, was more than simple happiness, more than joy, more than anything; it was everything, and they shared in it together, now and always.