Christmas in Transylvania by Sandra Hill

letting him know she was not only primed but pumped and ready to go.
    He eased his jacket off, and she had her hands under his shirt helping him shove it over his head. He reciprocated with her T-­shirt and bra. For a moment, he just stared at her breasts, which were small but perfect for her thin frame. The nipples and areolas were pink. What else?
    He licked his lips.
    â€œI haven’t got much,” she said, as if bracing herself for some insult. “Leroy says—­“
    He put his fingertips to her mouth. “Don’t mention his name ever again. He’s gone. He never existed.”
    She nodded and kissed his fingertips.
    â€œWe should go to the bedroom,” he suggested, even as he palmed her breasts until he felt the nipples harden.
    She let out a blissful hiss, and said, “I can’t wait.”
    â€œThe floor’s too hard for you, sweetheart.”
    Showing a surprising strength, she shoved him over so that he was on his back again, and she was on top, kneeling astride his thighs. He watched with a pleasure bordering on pain as she undid the button on his jeans, then slowly unzipped him. His “enthusiasm” popped up, and she laughed, an innocent, playful sound that warmed his heart.
    He toed off his boots and socks, then shimmied out of his jeans and briefs, but only got as far as his knees before she grabbed his cock. Holding him in two hands, she caressed him a little, then smiled that little cat smile of hers when she noticed the bead that appeared on the tip. Clearly admiring his size, she said, “Wow!”
    That one word was like the “Gentleman, start your engines” signal at a NASCAR race. He was off and running. He had her jeans and panties off so fast, she might have brushburns. He left the pink socks on because . . . okay, sue me . . . they were as sexy as a Victoria’s Secret thong to this long-­deprived farm boy.
    Lifting her by the waist above his body, he smiled with pure joy, then lowered her inch by inch onto his pulsing erection. Once he could see beyond the haze of his overwhelming arousal, he realized something. “Dammit. I don’t have any condoms.”
    He was about to lift her off him, but she shook her head. “This is a safe time.”
    It was probably unsafe to take chances, despite her assurances, but then he recalled that vangels were sterile. Other than not being sent to hell when he died, he finally had a reason to be thankful that he was a vangel.
    â€œOkay. Hold on, baby. This is going to be short and sweet.”
    And it was. Short. Using his big hands to guide her hips into a lift-­and-­thrust pattern, it was three, four, five strokes, and her inner muscles were rippling around him. The stunned expression on her face was priceless, one that would be embedded in his memory forever. And it was all it took for him to arch up, lifting her with his hips, as he roared out his own climax. Sweet! Better than sweet.
    For several long minutes, she lay with her face against his chest, as if listening to his thundering heartbeat. His hands were caressing her back. He could count each precious rib. He was still inside her, soft but growing again. He couldn’t have that, not so soon.
    He lifted her face with both hands, kissed her lips, and said, “Next time will be in bed. But first, we have a mess to clean up.”
    They both rose carefully and looked around them before bursting out with laughter. In the process of their frenetic mating, they must have knocked the bucket over. There was soapy water everywhere, including on themselves. Faith’s braid was soppy and half-­undone, her socks dripping wet. His feet squished in the water.
    â€œOkay, in the tub with you. I’ll mop up the floor with some towels.”
    To his surprise, she didn’t argue. She was still staring at him, as if stunned. He wasn’t sure if she was surprised at her own amazing orgasm or the fact that