Demon (16 page)

I reached out and put a tentative hand on his chest, and almost yanked it back again. His skin was warm. For some reason I expected him to feel cool beneath my hand. I let my fingers slide up tentatively to his shoulder. “Shouldn’t angels have wings?” I whispered.

“I have them when I need them.”

“Magic?”

“Miracle,” he said, not moving beneath the gentle explorations. His nipples were dark circles against his pale skin, and I wanted to put my mouth on them. The thought was so random and unexpected that I ignored it, moving my fingers
across his collarbone to the other shoulder.

“You know,” he said in a conversational tone, “you’d be better off moving your hand lower down. All the interesting parts are below the waist.”

I yanked my hand back, suddenly embarrassed. I was doing this wrong. Why the hell hadn’t I ever learned to come on to a man?

The answer was simple. I had never wanted to. Sex had been the price I paid for companionship, something men wanted, not me. It was about bringing pleasure to a man, not about my pleasure. But this time was different.

I wanted this man, despite the fear and coercion. I wanted to feel his warm skin against my breasts, feel him inside me. I wanted his mouth all over me, kissing me, tasting me.
Good luck with that,
I thought, disgruntled.

“What do you want?” I said, suddenly angry at his lack of interest.

“What do you mean?”

“Clearly you’re expecting to be serviced, and despite your insistence that I’m a whore, I don’t have any idea how to go about it. Is there anything special you require?”

His eyes narrowed as he watched me. “What are you offering?”

“Do you want me to perform oral sex?” I didn’t
stumble over the words. I’d tried it once with Rolf, in an effort to stimulate him, but neither of us had liked it very much. “I gather it can be effective in getting someone aroused.”

“I’m aroused.”

I blinked. “Then what do you want?”

“It’s up to you.”

Crap. If it was up to me, I’d run my tongue up his chest and—no, I couldn’t do that. Instead I leaned over and pressed my lips against his, briefly, then drew back. No reaction. Just those vivid blue eyes, watching me. Okay. I was going to have to do a better job of it. I got up on my knees, placed my hands on the smooth, hard skin of his shoulders, and kissed him again, softening my lips against his firm, unyielding ones, then pulled back. What was the problem? He’d kissed me yesterday, kissed me more thoroughly than I’d ever been kissed before.

His eyes narrowed, and he suddenly touched my face, pushing my hair away from the narrow cut. “How did that happen?”

“Your friend Enoch,” I said, trying to sound offhand.

“Not my friend.” There was a look on his face, one that I might have thought was dangerous. “Does it hurt?”

I shrugged, clinging to the towel. “It’s okay. It
bled a bit, but I think it’s stopped. It’s just lucky I ducked.”

“Lucky for Enoch,” he said in a grim voice. His hand felt almost gentle on my face, like the whisper of a caress. And then he dropped it. “Take off the towel.”

Okay, I could do that. I would have to sooner or later. I reached for the knot between my breasts and hesitated.

He caught my hand, pulled it away, and yanked the towel off before I realized what he was doing. I was kneeling stark naked on the bed, feeling horribly exposed. I wasn’t used to this. I fought the temptation to try to cover myself, but I felt my skin heat with embarrassment.

He wasn’t looking at my body, he was looking at my face. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” I mumbled. I dipped my head, not wanting to meet his gaze. I would have pushed the hair away from my face, but that would have required movement, and I figured if I stayed very still—

The feel of his hand on my face once again was a shock. It was surprisingly gentle, sliding against my cheek and into my hair, his thumb brushing across my lips, and I shot a tentative glance at him. Slowly, very slowly, he pulled me toward him, bringing my mouth against his, kissing me with
great sweetness, such sweetness that I wanted to cry. If only I could.

He pulled me closer so that my breasts pressed against his firmly muscled chest, and I felt my nipples harden, suddenly pinched and sensitive. His hands slid up my naked back, drawing me closer still as his lips moved down my jaw, the side of my neck, and he breathed in deeply, as if he were inhaling the scent of my skin. His mouth opened against the vein throbbing at the base of my neck, his tongue tasting me, and I heard a distant groan that must have come from me.

I felt his teeth then, a small bite against my skin, barely painful, and my muffled arousal was suddenly full-force, sweeping over my body. I put my hands on him, on his damp, silky hair, pressing him against me. The room wasn’t dark the way I wanted, but it didn’t matter. It was all right to want him, all right to feel overwhelming desire. There were no witnesses, and he didn’t care what I was feeling. We were doing this, it was out of my control, and his mouth was wonderful against me.

I had a sudden, strange fantasy: I wanted his teeth to break the skin, to lick the blood from me like some old-school vampire. But he moved his mouth downward, his hands encircling my waist,
and with seemingly no effort he pulled me over him, lifting me up, and his tongue touched my breast.

“Oh, God,” I whispered as he licked me gently, carefully, teasing me until I wanted to scream at him. And then his mouth fastened on me with such deep, drawing hunger that I felt a hot spasm between my legs and, straddling him, pressed my naked body against his. He hadn’t lied. He was most definitely aroused, and I rocked against him instinctively, feeling him against my sensitive flesh.

I was overwhelmed by sensation. At first everything seemed centered on the slow, deliberate pull of his mouth at my breast as his long fingers cupped the other one, teasing the nipple as he sucked. But the hardness between my legs as I straddled him was equally astonishing, and I wanted more. I wanted complete possession, and I felt helpless, unsure what to do about it.

I slid my hands down to the fastening of his jeans, wanting to tear them off him, but he let out a little hiss of pain as I inadvertently hurt him. I yanked my hands away. He caught them and put them back again, and I couldn’t believe how iron hard he was. I was wet between my legs and self-conscious all over again, wanting to pull away, but then he put his hand there
and I stopped thinking. I needed him to touch me, stroke me, slide against the dampness, and I struggled to get closer to him. When he pushed his fingers inside me I groaned in frustrated need, trying to get more. Suddenly desperate, I reached down to find the tab to his zipper, when he jerked and cursed again as I hurt him once more.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I whispered brokenly. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry …” He slid one hand behind my head, under my hair, and pulled my mouth to his, silencing me. He released himself with the other hand, the hard, hot flesh springing free, but I didn’t dare touch him, afraid of my clumsiness. I trembled, helpless, unsure, so swamped with crazy desire that I could barely speak.

He didn’t need words. He caught my hips in his hands, lifting me up, holding me poised over his straining erection. He’d just shoved his jeans down a bit—I could still feel the denim against my bare legs—but I didn’t care.

I felt him against me, the head of his cock just resting against the emptiness that was tormenting me, and yet I was afraid to finish it, to join us, afraid I’d hurt him again. I heard his sigh of frustrated exasperation, and he took my hand and carefully wrapped it around his erection. And with
his other hand at the small of my back, he started to push me down onto him.

He was so big. A huge, hard invasion that even my sleek flesh fought; but he simply moved me, teasing our bodies until the desire flowed slick and sweet between us, and I moved my hand and finally sank down onto the full length of him, my body shuddering in response.

I looked down between us, at the joining. I could see my nipples, tight and hard. See him buried inside me as I felt my body grow accustomed to his. He hadn’t moved, and slowly I raised my eyes to look at him.

For a moment we simply stared at each other, frozen in time, his eyes and mine, more powerfully intimate than the joining between our legs. “Move,” he said, his voice raw.

I moved, rising up on my knees, just a bit, then sinking down on him again, feeling him fill me. It only took me a moment to find a rhythm, and I closed my eyes, flinging my head back as I soared, in and out, empty and full, a ride like no other, like riding a dragon through a moon-bright sky. My hands were on his shoulders, clutching them for balance, and he was slick with sweat, and his hands were on my hips, not forcing, just touching me, and I could have gone on forever, sailing on a tide of crystal-bright pleasure, when something dark
erupted, something heavy and frightening. I could feel my body slipping away from me, and it terrified me. I froze, making a choked sound in my throat.

His hands tightened on my hips then, moving me, continuing the rhythm that I had lost, as I myself was lost, and he thrust up into me, hard, again and again. I dug my fingers into his shoulders, wanting to get away, but he wouldn’t let me. “Do not fight it,” he whispered. “Embrace it.” He slid his hand down my stomach, touching where we joined, and a jolt of reaction swept through me.

I heard my own muffled cry, and he surged up into me again, and again, and he touched me once more, hard, and his voice was a growl.

“Come,” he said. And I did.

I shattered into a thousand pieces, splintered darkness all around me, as I felt him climax inside me. I was gone, there was nothing left of me as I went into that dark place, drinking it in, my body frozen. And then I collapsed against him, wanting to weep, and his arms came around me with heartbreaking tenderness, holding me as I slowly returned to my body, to the bed, to the man I was straddling.

I wanted to stay like that forever. I wanted him to kiss me, to tell me he loved me; I wanted all the fairy tales people wove. But instead his arms slid back, his hands caught my body and
lifted me off him, setting me down on the bed beside him.

I turned my back on him, curling up in a tight ball, hugging myself. I didn’t want to see his emotionless expression, his wintry blue eyes. I was slowly coming back—if I looked at things calmly, I could admit he’d been kind. He’d held me, stroked me, guided me when I lost my way.

And I hated him for it. He was my enemy, he’d made that clear, and what we’d just done was simple biology to him. What had shattered my soul was simply instinct on his part, and I hated that it didn’t matter. Hated him.

I was acutely aware of him beside me, still propped against the pillows, his jeans shoved down his hips, not moving. Not doing anything. Not reaching out to touch me, hold me. Not saying a word.

I wished I could cry. If I’d been able to burst into tears, maybe some of the conflict would have lessened, the sorrow and power of the last half hour reduced to manageable levels. But my eyes were dry, and I stared into the room, sightless, empty. And then I closed my eyes and slept.

H
E DIDN’T MOVE, COULDN’T MOVE.
He’d done what he was supposed to do, and he’d survived quite well, thank you. He wasn’t going to turn
into a demon simply because he’d fucked one. He wasn’t going to lose his soul, forget about Sarah, fall in love.

It was sex. What astonished him was how honestly bad she was at it. No, that wasn’t quite true. What they’d just shared—no, he didn’t want to think of it that way. They hadn’t shared anything. What they’d just done had had a disturbing erotic power, despite her nervousness. Even the Lilith couldn’t simulate her deep blush when he’d stripped that damned towel off her; even the Lilith couldn’t have made her desire-slick flesh resist his entrance like that. She really didn’t know what she was doing.

Which meant her memory loss was real, and his treatment of her had been beyond cruel. He turned his head to look down at her, curled up in a tight ball. Her eyes were closed and there was no sign of tears, but that was no surprise. Demons couldn’t cry.

He should say something to her, something kind. For all he knew, that might have been the very first orgasm she’d experienced, and he knew that was shattering for a woman. But he couldn’t touch her.

It would be too dangerous if he pulled her into his arms. Too dangerous to murmur soothing words against her tangled hair, to kiss her creamy
skin, her breasts, the hot beat of her vein against his mouth. He’d wanted her, wanted everything from her, heat and sex and blood in his mouth, and she wasn’t the one. She would never be the one.

Even if she didn’t remember her power, it didn’t mean she didn’t still wield it. Then again, he’d been celibate for seven years. It was little wonder he was feeling equally … shaken.

He waited until he was certain she was asleep, then slid off the bed, shoving his jeans off as he headed for the bathroom. He cleaned himself, annoyed that he grew hard again as he remembered how her body had felt; when he came back into the room, she hadn’t moved. The sun was just beginning to rise on the Dark City, and he turned off the light as he slipped back into bed beside her. She made a soft sound in her sleep, almost like a muffled sob, and it felt like a blow.

He pulled the covers up around her, settling them over her gently so as not to disturb her. He slid down on the mattress and closed his eyes. He could smell the scent of her skin, the tang of sex, the scent of the ocean that always clung to him. Familiar, comfortable smells. Why should the scent of her skin be familiar?

It didn’t matter. He slept.

W
HEN AZAZEL AWOKE HE
was lying on his side, his body curled protectively around hers but not quite touching her. She still slept. If she’d known he was so close, his face almost buried in her hair, she would have moved.