Demon Blood (33 page)

Her breath caught. Another kiss—but she had to offer it. He didn’t intend to let her lie back and take what he gave. He’d still make her lose herself in the rush of every kiss, every touch.

He’d said it wouldn’t be easy. But his strength would be her safety net—only if she truly trusted him.

She would soon find out.

Though strong enough to lift her head to his, it was still awkward raising her torso with her hands pinned to the bed. Her nipples brushed his broad chest, and heat blossomed through her stomach, between her legs. She delighted in the sensation before fitting her lips to his.

This time, she took it slow. He wouldn’t reject her. She could explore the shape of his lips, firm and cool. She breathed in, found the fragrance of her soap.
Her scent.
With a possessive thrust of her tongue, she deepened the kiss. Deacon’s groan rumbled in the quiet chamber. She lifted herself higher, her breasts flattening against the solid wall of his chest, and shivered when he penetrated her lips in return. A give and take, each taste deeper, more vital than the last.

A new anticipation filled her, an urgent, expanding hunger. His weight was a solid pressure between her legs, no longer rocking, yet she was so aware of him, and so wet. This would lead to Deacon inside her. Making love with her. That would be . . . different. She didn’t yet know how. But she
would
know.

Releasing her hands, his callused palms slid from her wrists, up her arms. When his weight eased away from her, she threw her leg around his back, tried to lock him against her.

“Rosie . . .” He looked down at her, trailing off—and whatever he saw in her face brought him back for another kiss, then another, before finally breaking away.

She let him go this time, letting her arms fall back over her head. There was urgency in this, but also a wonderful decadence that needed to be savored. While he lifted away from her, she luxuriated in her body’s arousal, the liquid heat that her skin couldn’t seem to contain. Every sensation seemed like another caress: the linen wrapped around her thigh, her skirt hem flirting at her knees, the warm air rushing in where he’d been hard and cool against her only moments before.

His breathing ragged, Deacon sat back on his heels, his knees spread and the sheet pulled taut over the bulge of his erection. She watched him, the movements that seemed too fluid for such heavy musculature. His pale skin glistened from the heat of her body. Dark hair roughened his chest, and narrowed into a thin line from his navel to the edge of the sheet.

She reached out to follow that trail with her fingers. He caught her hand.

“Come up on your knees.”

The low rasp of his voice drew her gaze to his face. His jaw was clenched, the strain visible on his face. Need clouded his eyes like a summer storm. Though he’d taken control, he walked on the edge of his.

Her heart hammering, she rose up, folding her sheet-wrapped leg beneath her. The movement dislodged the cover from his groin, exposing his organ. Rosalia stared. Jutting downward, as if weighted by its heavy length, the wide tip rested against the sheets. She looked at his large fingers still holding her wrist, remembering how big they’d felt inside her—how she’d barely been able to stop herself from riding him, the curling tension that hadn’t wanted to let her go. Her hands began to shake.

Deacon nudged her chin up. “Eyes up, princess. On mine. Are you all right?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good.” He skimmed his fingers over her shoulder, catching on the halter strap of her dress. “Take this off for me.”

Holding his gaze, she reached behind her nape to untie the knotted silk. She knew he liked her breasts, but anxiety and arousal made her clumsy. The strap tore. The bodice skimmed over her nipples, falling to her waist.

She didn’t glance away from his face, and watched as his gaze drank her in. Need hardened his expression. She recalled the sweltering night in Greece, that same hungry look

She wanted to again. How she’d loved offering herself. Feeling bold, she cupped their soft weight.

“Look at you.” It tore from him. Not a command. Something out of his control. “You’re beautiful, Rosie.”

She’d known she was, but it hadn’t mattered. A Guardian could look like anyone. But she
felt
beautiful now, when he looked at her.

He rose up, his hands sliding around her waist and drawing her forward, chests almost touching, his erection a solid weight against her stomach. “Lean back.”

Still cupping her breasts, she arched back. Her hair brushed the mattress. His hands flattened along her spine, supporting her upper body almost parallel to the bed. A feast spread out before him, given by her hands.

With a soft growl, he lowered his head. His tongue traced the lower curve of her right breast, wetting the seam of her cupped fingers. Though untouched, her nipple contracted into a dark bead. The ache between her legs intensified. She squeezed her thighs together, feeling the moisture there, the dampness of her panties against her core.

The sweep of his tongue around her nipple made her tighten. The soft scrape of fangs made her gasp. His strong hands held her steady when his lips closed over her nipple. She felt his tongue flick, then soft suction that drew her deep into his mouth. Overwhelmed, she began trembling. Her hips pushed against his, seeking pressure where she needed it most. She imagined his mouth there, licking and sucking, and the need rushed over her in a hot wave, filled her voice when she moaned his name.

Without warning, he brought her up and claimed her mouth again. Lost, drowning, she wound her arms around his neck and held on. She loved this. Loved his urgent murmurs between hot, wet kisses. Loved the muscles that bunched in his shoulders, loved the feel of his erection straining against her belly, the incredible anticipation. His hands slid up her front, cupping, then pinching and pulling at her nipples, until the bedchamber echoed with her cries for more.

Deacon gave her more. His hand stroked down, pushed inside her panties. She moaned into his mouth as his fingers teased, circling her entrance but never penetrating.

He broke their kiss, his breaths labored across her moist lips. “When you come, Rosalia, hold your psychic shields. Hold them tight.”

She hadn’t even considered that danger. This hadn’t been her intention when she’d joined him in the bed. Yet he’d remembered, and hadn’t made it a request. She
would
hold them.

“Yes,” she said. No question.

He kissed her again, deep and quick. “Lie back.”

She sank into the pillows, her feet against the mattress, her knees bent. Deacon reached beneath her skirts, hooked the waist of her panties. He dragged the scrap of silk down, lifting her legs until her toes pointed at the ceiling as he pulled them off. Her skirt slipped up her thighs, bunching on her stomach and baring her sex to his gaze.

“Oh, Christ. Rosie, you’re so . . .” Staring, he turned his head and pressed his mouth to her ankle—to kiss or to bite, she wasn’t certain. Instead he closed his eyes, gathering his control. After a moment he swallowed and placed her heels on his shoulders. “Vanish your dress.”

She did, knowing he felt the tremor in her legs.

His gaze held hers. “I won’t bite you. I won’t risk the bloodlust taking over. Trust me on that.”

She didn’t need the reassurance—but perhaps he needed it as a reminder to hold on to his own control. “Yes,” she said.

He leaned forward, reaching for a pillow. Weight against her lower belly made her glance down.
Oh, God.
Between her thighs, his engorged shaft extended upward from the apex of her sex, a graphic representation of how deeply she’d take him into her body. Anticipation wound tight. Her fingers dug into the mattress, holding herself still.

Deacon reared back and pushed the pillow beneath her hips. With a soft kiss to each of her ankles, he lowered her feet from his shoulders. “Hands on your knees, Rosie. Hold yourself open to me.”

With trembling hands, she pulled her knees up and apart. She looked down at herself, her legs spread, her pink flesh flushed and wet.
Open
was too simple a word. She felt exposed. Displayed.

Until she saw his face. Then she was wanted. Worshipped.

She pulled her legs wider and was rewarded by a growl. Deacon bent, pressed his lips against the inside of her knee. The wet brush of his tongue shivered over her skin. His fangs grazed her inner thigh.

His bloodlust flared hot, an explosion against her psychic shields. Deacon froze. He gazed down at her exposed sex, his hunger burning hotter, his expression predatory. His mouth opened over her thigh.

Oh, God.
“Deacon?”

“You’re so wet, Rosie. So ready to be eaten. One lick, and I’d bury my fangs into you—” He broke off, closing his eyes.

The image of that gripped her mind, whipped along every nerve. She couldn’t breathe. She wanted that so much. She couldn’t have it yet.

“Soon,” he said, and she wasn’t certain whether he made the rough promise to her or himself. Rising up between her thighs, he wrapped his fist around his shaft. His tendons stood out in sharp relief beneath his skin, the effort of holding back. “We’re going to take it slow. I’ll take care of you, Rosie.”

She nodded, then stilled when she felt the first touch against her wet core. Her fingers bit into her knees. She couldn’t hold his gaze and looked down. The thick head of his penis parted her folds, teasing through her center, but not entering. Aching with need, she tried to lift toward him and push him inside. His free hand gripped her hip, held her down. Slowly, he rubbed the wide tip against her clitoris, already so sensitive. Rosalia’s muscles locked, a cry caught in her throat. She’d have begged him, she needed him inside, to
know
what it would be, but he was already pushing down through her sex, pushing
in
.

Her legs shook, her trembling hands on her knees unable to hold them still. She watched him sink inside. Oh, dear God, she had not taken even half his length and there was so much pressure. Her chest heaved as she tried to manage it, not even certain if what she felt was pleasure, only that she felt
so much
. Too much, and so overwhelming as he pushed more sensation through her, leaving no room inside. She closed her eyes, too late. Tears squeezed from beneath her lids.

Deacon stilled, but the pressure remained, so big and full inside her. “Rosalia?” Her name was agonized. “Do you want to stop?”

Never.
She shook her head.

“I’m hurting you. You’re so tight, I can barely—”

“No.” But more tears came, tears she couldn’t explain. She could only choke out, “More.”

He withdrew. Her eyes flew open and she sucked in a panicked breath, but then his abdomen flexed and he thrust back in. Rosalia’s back arched as her body stretched, yielding to him. Oh, God. This
was
pleasure. He gripped the tops of her thighs with both hands, screwing deeper with short, spiraling jerks of his hips.

Pressure continued to build, winding around ecstasy. Panting, she held her knees still, held herself open. By the time he was seated fully inside, she was desperate to move.

He stopped. Her gaze met his again. His lips had drawn back, exposing sharp fangs. His big body was taut with strain.

“Hold on, Rosie.”

He came forward between her legs, bracing his hands beside her shoulders. She cried out as the new position drove him deeper. He bent his head, his lips just above hers, his face washed in the glow of her eyes.

“Slow,” he said, the guttural word followed by a slow lift of his hips and the endless drive back in.

Rosalia pulled her legs open farther, almost sobbing. His penetration was slow, so slow—and relentless. Excruciating tension twisted inside her, the rush pushed her higher. But this time, with Deacon holding her, she didn’t fear falling. Overwhelmed, but not frightened. Ecstasy filled her instead, until everything within her overfilled. Tears ran a constant stream over her cheeks.

She tilted her head back, each thrust wringing another wordless cry from her lips. Deacon lifted her hand from her right knee. He sucked her fingers into his mouth, teasing his fangs over their wet tips before carrying her hand down between their bodies. With his hand over hers, he rubbed her middle finger over her clitoris. A dark ache bloomed through her body, centered on that tiny movement. She rubbed harder.

“No, Rosie.” He held her gaze. His fingers slowed hers. “Not fast. Stay with me.”

He withdrew his hand, braced his fist beside her shoulder again, and began another long thrust inside. Gasping, Rosalia forced her hand to match the wet slide of his shaft. Her inner muscles clenched around him with each slow circle of her fingers.

Deacon hissed his pleasure from between gritted teeth. “Christ, Rosie. I’d give anything to have my tongue where your fingers are. To suck on your clit while I fuck you.”

The crude image shocked her, wound her tighter. She’d have given anything, too. Her right leg wrapped around his back. She urged him deeper. He caught her knee, spread her wide again. Oh, God. He felt so big, invading, stretching, and yet she couldn’t get enough of him. Desperate for his taste, she lifted her head, searching for his mouth.

He gently drew her upper lip between his, circling his tongue over the sensitive flesh in the same rhythm as her finger, as the driving pressure within her.

“It would be soft like this,” he said, with another kiss to her bottom lip. “But this isn’t wet enough.”

He opened her mouth, closed his lips around the tip of her tongue. Rosalia cried out, trying to kiss him, but he only suckled, as if her tongue was the small, slippery bud beneath her fingers. Then Deacon pushed forward, so deep inside. The pressure within her contracted before exploding outward. Caught up in it, her back bowed. Her flesh pulsed beneath her fingertips, and now Deacon was kissing her, his tongue not mimicking her fingers but his turgid length, driving into her deep and hard.