Page 23 of Sinful Pride
“Those words have overstayed their welcome,” I said, running my claws down his body. “I don’t want to see someone else’s writing on you ever again.” I bit Michael’s lip but he pulled back and opened his stupid mouth.
“Isn’t that your own fault?”
He found himself with my teeth at his throat.
“Ouch! Okay, okay. It was my fault! My fault!”
The bite mark I left when I pulled away was quite impressive. It would not be the last one tonight. Sure, others could have marked Michael with words, but the bruises, scratches, and bite marks belonged only to me. And tonight I was going to use this privilege thoroughly.
Michael was already stripped down to his underwear, so I was tempted to just haul him to the shower, but then my eyes caught on the mirror.
“Come here, darling,” I said sweetly.
The angel hesitated, knowing it was some kind of trap, but he still obeyed and let me position him with his back to the mirror. I pulled out my smartphone and held it so Michael could see the reflection of his back.
“I want you to see what you have been walking around with the whole evening,” I said, leaning close.
The script on his back was turned around in the reflection, but it took Michael only a few seconds to decipher it.
“Lucifer!” he exclaimed, his face turning red as a tomato. “How could you let everybody see me with that word on me?”
“What word? Say it, and I will scrub everything away.”
Michael huffed and crossed his arms but I waited him out. He threw his hands up in the air.
“Whore! Alright? You let Beelzebub brand me as a whore! You shouldn’t want that word associated with your angel!”
“Believe me, it hurts me more than you,” I joked, but there may have been a grain of truth in my words.
Sure, Michael was embarrassed and indignant, but I, on the other hand, felt a possessive rage that was barely contained. I should have gotten a gold star for not maiming Beelzebub like Abaddon did for what the demon dared to do. I behaved because I wanted to be a good role model for my little angel, and, after me riding his dick about him overworking himself, it would seem hypocritical if I didn’t control one of my own flaws that Michael often got worked up about.
Yeah, I wanted that word gone. Now.
Unceremoniously, I grabbed Michael by his shoulder and pushed him face forward into the tiles of the walk-in shower. Then, I took one of the provided loofahs and started scrubbing.
“Ouch, that hurts!” Michael complained as I washed his back vigorously, mixing soap and water to clean the angel’s back with vengeance. By the grace of fortune, the ink of the marker lost against the scrubbing, and soon the offending word was gone.
After that, I felt myself relax a bit. The hurried frenzy wasn’t needed anymore, so I could take care of the other writings methodically, slowly, and gently. I turned Michael this way and that, and he let himself be guided wherever I wanted. It was almost meditative, an act of service reminding me of how we helped each other when we were stranded on the island. How I would thread my fingers through Michael’s hair while I washed it, how I massaged his legs and feet when they hurt. It wasn’t a bad life. Maybe we were due for another solitary visit to our island after the wedding.
“This is quite nice,” Michael murmured, his eyes closed and head tilted back against the tiles. “You know what would make it even nicer? Sing to me. One of the songs you wrote for me.”
“Well, you don’t even know if I can sing it,” I mumbled.
Michael smiled down at me.
“Raphael said ‘song,’ not just lyrics or poem. A song has a melody, even if it’s not a full orchestral music. I’m sure you imagined some kind of melody in your mind. And if not, you remember the words, I’m sure. You can improvise.”
“You have a lot of trust in my skills.”
“I do!” Michael beamed.
“Do you remember emo music? It was popular on Earth for a while?” I started slowly.
Michael frowned. He wasn’t very interested in how music genres kinda exploded in the last millennia and still loved to listen to the Celtic harps, Kenyan drums, traditional Chinese opera… The new stuff like hip-hop just went over his head.
“Sad-looking teenagers with hair covering their eyes and black smudges pretending to be makeup?” I added.
“Oh, yes,” Michael brightened as the image I painted jogged his memory. Then his brows drew together. “Oh, no.”