LIMBO by Clare London (NC17 excerpt)

Yoshiel pulled back slightly, to peel his vest up over his head. Labal stared at him, watching the care he took over the tips of the unfamiliar horns. Yoshiel turned his dark, blood-red eyes on the demon, his chest heaving with every breath and a drop of eager spittle glinting at the side of his mouth.

“Labal,” he said, neither question nor statement. It was more like a plea.

Labal tightened his hold, sliding his arms around the slim torso, latching his lips onto the junction of skin between Yoshiel’s neck and shoulder. The shudder through the angel’s body ran through his own like answering quicksilver.

“Make me warm,” Yoshiel moaned. “Make me forget the pain, remember the joy.” He turned so that his mouth met the demon’s thick, hungry lips, breathing his need into Labal’s mouth.

Labal sucked on the angel’s tongue, savoring the delicate taste, remembering the exquisite pleasure of the soft, cushioned lips against his sharp teeth. “Do it for me, too,” he growled. “Make me feel the passion again. Make me burn.”

Yoshiel gasped aloud and swift aggression burned in his eyes. He pushed at Labal, forcing him back down onto the wooden floor. As the demon struggled awkwardly to settle the wings underneath him, Yoshiel slid his hands into Labal’s pants and tugged them down his thighs. Labal’s cock sprang out into the cold air, bouncing toward his belly, already damp with pre-come.

Yoshiel hissed with pleasure. Labal stared into the angel’s eyes and saw the reflection of his own demonic greed. He wanted it back. He wanted to share it. He wanted...

Then Yoshiel’s head dipped away from him, down to his groin, and the angel’s mouth took him in, down to the hilt.

Labal cried out. He could hear the soft, liquid noises of Yoshiel’s mouth as he sucked, and the pattering of the rain outside against the cantina window. When he came, his hips bucked upwards, his back arching to its utmost limit, his dark hands gripping at Yoshiel’s tangled hair. He spewed come into the angel’s mouth, unable to ask or warn or even care. All he knew was the incredible delight of it, the consuming need in his bowels, the astonishing complexity of his feeling for this creature and the way Yoshiel reached into Labal’s very depths.

Labal fell back, moaning, panting, his hands releasing Yoshiel’s hair and his arms feeling boneless with sensory overload.

Clare London, Author
Writing… Man to Man 

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