Portia Costa - A Touch of Heaven

Thrust in to the hilt, he groans, and I experience a moment of fear.

Believe. Believe. Trust.

With happiness, I do, and I start to soar, rejoicing anew. Patrick’s body is still real, alive and full of magical substance as he presses against me, in deep, and then starts to thrust again. He moves smoothly, rhythmically, perfect in this as in all things. Is he still an angel? Is he human? Is he both, yet neither, maybe the sum of many parts?

But as we rock and writhe against each other, our bodies moving in a sweet, synchronized dance, such philosophical questions become irrelevant. We’re just a man and woman in love, joining our bodies in pleasure.

I try to hold out, to save my climax to match his, but he has the better of me. When he kisses my neck and then angles his body anew, going in deep, he works my clitoris with his swiving plunge, and I’m lost, lost, lost.

Pleasure is incandescent, and I rise through layer after layer of it, floating up as if I were the angel, as if I had wings. “Patrick. Oh, Patrick,” I cry, holding onto him, and even in the midst of sublime sensation, I experience more wonder.

I’m holding onto him, one hand clasping at his bottom, the other hooked around his shoulder. My pussy is clenching again and again on his cock, but even so, I feel a strange glowing, effervescing sensation in my hand and I’m compelled to slide it down from his upper back towards his waist.

I hear a familiar sound, like billowing sails, and my eyes snap open.

Spread out from my angel’s back, and curving round us both, are his great white wings. And as his body arches and he beats them once, twice, and three times, he cries aloud and comes in glory, along with me.

When I wake again it is morning. The sun’s rising in the sky and my bedroom is warm. My body feels well rested and well pleasured, with no arthritic twinges other than a slight one in my left hip, but much less than usual.

Patrick.

I fly straight up in bed, and then moan inarticulately.

He’s gone.

But he can’t be. He said to trust and to believe. The unthinkable can’t have happened. There must be an explanation.

I refuse to accept that I might have lost him.

Clambering out of bed whilst fishing around for my nightgown, I refuse to give up hope, even though Patrick’s clothes are nowhere to be seen. My faith starts to waver, but just as I grit my teeth and start to get angry with myself, I hear a familiar sound coming closer, approaching up the stairs.

Someone’s singing. They’re singing in a sweet way that’s both tuneless and tuneful at the same time. My heart leaps as Patrick appears in the doorway with a smile on his face and a cup and saucer in his hand.

“Good morning, Miranda,” he says. He sounds both happy and somehow a bit uncertain, as if he’s not quite sure of the sound of his own voice. With his shirt and waistcoat hanging open, he looks both innocent and effortlessly macho.

“Good morning to you too. You’re still here then?”

He pads forward barefoot and sets the cup down. A bit of its contents slop over the side into the saucer, and he makes a little sound of mild exasperation. The way he frowns and stares at the spilt tea is perfectly adorable.

But Patrick himself isn’t perfect any more. My face cracks into a Cheshire Cat-like grin, and I want to leap up into the air and whoop for joy.

My beloved isn’t precisely perfect because he’s human, like me, and he’s alive.

“Yes, I’m here.” The little mishap forgotten, he sits on the bed beside me, his face wreathed in smiles as he reaches for my hand. “Did you ever doubt that I would be?”

Did I? I’m not sure. Maybe for a moment here and there, but not when it mattered.

“Perhaps a little bit.” I squeeze his hand. It still feels warm and reassuring and deliciously powerful and sexy. “I’m only human, you know.”

We both laugh. “So am I now, I’m afraid.” He gives a little shrug, looking that little bit uncertain of himself again. “I hope that’s going to be enough for you, my love.” With his free hand, he reaches behind himself and rubs the back of his neck and his shoulder. “No wings, no special healing powers, no mindreading. We might find that I’ve magically acquired a fully formed life history from somewhere, as I understand it, but other than that, I’m just an average guy from now on. That’s all.”

I stare at him, drinking him in. He looks far more than average to me. Okay, so he does have a few lines on his forehead and those laughter crinkles at the corner of his eyes. He’s far closer to my age than he was when I very first set eyes on him, but he’s still the most handsome creature I’ve ever seen. And his blue eyes are bright and intelligent and full of love.

I can believe in him. I can trust him never to leave me. I love him, and I love what he did for me.

“You’ll be just fine for me, my love.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m not perfect either, so we’ll make a pretty good partnership, I think. Don’t you?”

He drags me into his arms and kisses me soundly as an answer, and his clever mouth and his demanding tongue are just as angelically sexy and provocative as ever. His touch, when he starts to explore me, is still heavenly too.

Pretty soon, my nightdress is off again, and so are Patrick’s clothes. Arching back against the pillows, I claw at his shoulders, his strong, muscular non-winged shoulders as he strokes me in rapid flicks and dabs and circles to my first orgasm.

“Still as good as ever,” I gasp, fighting to get my breath back as I descend. “Even without special powers.”

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, kissing my brow.

“Perfectly.”

“I’m not so sure of my tea-making skills though. That’s a very special art indeed and doesn’t come as naturally as making love.” He laughs against my skin and then nods lightly to the forgotten cup on the bedside table.

“Let me be the judge.” I sit up. Having a delicious climax before my morning cuppa has left me parched. Even if it’s cold and stewed, a sip of the tea will fortify me for the pleasures yet to come.

He hands me the cup. I sample the brew. It’s a bit on the weak side, but it’s still warm and it tastes like the most divine of nectars as far as I’m concerned.

“Needs work,” I tease. “But don’t worry, I’ll soon train you up.”

“I look forward to it,” he replies, taking the cup from my hand and setting it aside so I can concentrate on him again. “Let’s make love. I have a lot of catching up to do.”

As he starts to move against me, I suddenly have a question to ask. “How come you know how to do this so well, when you were a virgin until last night? Are there escapades in your angel past that you’re not telling me about?”

Curving his hand around my breast, he stares at me solemnly. “I’ll never lie to you, Miranda. There have been no others. But I was given a certain amount of human genetic memory to help me interact, and luckily it contained knowledge of sex and lovemaking.” He gives a little shrug. “Something I’ve been allowed to keep, although a lot of my other memories I’ve had to jettison.”

Part of the deal, I suppose. I scan his face for regret, but see none. “What did you have to give up, Patrick?”

He kisses my cheek, then my throat, before replying. “The millennia I’ve spent as what I was, precise details of where I came from.” Cupping my cheek, he looks into my eyes, his gleaming clear and blue. “But don’t worry, that’s for my benefit and yours. It would be difficult to live as a normal human man, the same age as you, when I had the thoughts and recollections and acquired knowledge of an uncountable number of years inside my brain.” He gives me a soft, reassuring kiss at the corner of my mouth. “As it is, we’ve been placed on what you might call an even playing field, my love, and from now on we can live together as equals.”