She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I kissed you then, without love or promise,” he continued. “I could not do so again.”
“Stop,” she said, but the tightness of her throat made it a wordless sigh.
He pressed a kiss into her hair. Against her temple, where obsidian horn met crimson scales. He lifted her breasts; her nipples rasped against the wood grain. She should have laughed, it seemed so absurd, but had to bite her lip as the vibration quivered through the sharp, crystalline flesh. He must have felt her response, for he did it again.
Even that defense, he found a way around. And as if her pleasure fed his, he rocked against her, his shaft slowly hardening again. “How many times have I kissed you since? But I have never touched you thus, though you would have bargained for it, or tricked me into it.” His left hand trailed down the line of her belly, circled her navel. “And I would have, but for the bargains and tricks. In Paris, you stood before me with auburn hair and a courtesan’s body, and I would have traded the secrecy of our kind for a night in your arms.” His voice roughened. “But it was not secrets I wanted, and so I declined, and kept my desires hidden.”
She did not breathe, held herself still as his fingers drifted further down, traced the crease between torso and thigh. If she could have stopped the tell-tale pounding of her heart, she would have.
“Open for me, Lily.”
She did not, clenching her thighs so tightly she shook with the exertion. No need for that much effort, except that she did not trust herself, did not trust her body to respond to her will. And despite her resistance, he slid the tip of his finger into the part of her with no defense at all—just enough to reach the small, erect organ at its peak.
As if to distract her, he swept her hair to the side, bit the curve of her neck. Followed it with a lick of his tongue. Then he gently rubbed her clit.
Her knees buckled, but he caught her, held her up with his arm around her waist. His erection was thick and hard behind her now, insistent, yet he did not remove that last article of clothing.
She should not want him, naked and hot against her. Should not desire him within her.
“Open for me, Lily.”
He worked his hand deeper between her thighs, her arousal easing his way. Wet, slick—she should not be. Her body did not need its breath, and yet she was panting with each stroke of his fingers. His scent surrounded her, and she took him in with each inhalation; he was inside her, had been for centuries.
This body should not be soft, should not be yielding.
And yet she was.
The constriction in Hugh’s chest, the thick ache in his throat began to lessen as she slowly parted her legs, let him in. He tightened his arm around her waist, forcing himself to ignore the painful rise of his erection, the exquisite torture of feeling her against him, but knowing he could not have her. Not like this.
She made no sound but for her rapid breathing, did not move but for the shaking that had taken over her upon his first command to open.
This was gluttony, to move his fingers inside her, and take more. She was hot, her inner muscles welcoming him. He did not need to invade her like this, could bring her release just by stroking her clit, but still he marauded, claimed. And it must be vanity, to swell unbearably when the first mew of pleasure broke from between her clenched teeth, when she began to writhe back against him, as if the thrust of his hand was not enough. Theft, to take what was not his, and call it his own.
He set his jaw, leaned his forehead against her nape. God, but she was soft; he’d never imagined her so. Made his hardness doubly profane.
I will not, he swore—it was selfishness that had brought him to this, but he would not take his own pleasure now.
Yet he had to acknowledge it for a lie; there was pleasure in this, ecstasy in the slick glide of his fingers, her weight against his arm—even in the frustration of denying his own release. And he sought hers, more quickly now, because he felt himself weakening.
He had never been good at resisting temptation.
“Lily,” he urged, “come for me now.”
She made a sound, and he could have wept when he recognized the denial. Please, please. He did not voice it, but his thumb, strumming over her clitoris in quick firm strokes, took up the same refrain: please, please. His fingers, thrusting within her: please, please.
She reached back between them; it was an awkward angle, but she reached and her palm ran the length of his cock.
“No, Lilith—” He broke off, sweat beading over his forehead, dotting his lip with the effort it took to hold his hips still. She supported herself now, did not need his arm, but he kept it around her for fear that did he have an idle hand, he would unbutton and unzip and force himself inside her.
Her strong fingers tore the button free, ripped the zipper down. The sudden release of pressure against his shaft was both relief and torment. Cotton shredded beneath her sharp talons, and then there was bare skin, and wet slick heat.
“Please, Hugh.” And that seemed torn from her as well, but he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, focused on the feel of her beneath his hand instead of the delicious, tortuous rasp of smooth scales and burning softness against his cock. “Please,” she moaned as he plucked at her clit, as the first tremors shuddered through her. “Please,” as her back arched, as her inner muscles clenched around his fingers, as her wings stretched wide and fluttered, vibrated.
His chest heaved, his skin drawn tight and hot as she relaxed against his forearm. Then she moved, rising and arching with another shuddering gasp, and the movement lodged him between her thighs, the head of his shaft pressing against his fingers, still buried within her. He tensed, shaking. Just one more moment of selfishness, he wouldn’t . . .
He wouldn’t.
But he withdrew his hand, slid forward with a groan. Heat, hot, hellfire, and only around the very tip of him, but it clasped him, drew him in. Only an inch, now two, but it was the most exquisite burning. “Lilith,” he said, his eyes closing, his voice pleading. “Deny me.” For I can not deny myself.
She could; their wager was done, he had gained what he’d wanted—her release, and it had torn him apart, that façade of kindness, of right; no good man would do this. Yet she didn’t push him away, held herself still as he worked slowly deeper, deeper.
He felt huge within that tight silken grip, powerful as she yielded and stretched around him. Bowing his head, he thrust all the way in, trembling. He’d used the devil’s tools, and they’d worked on him in turn, made him this. Or he had always been this. Tears stung, and he opened his eyes, blinked them away. “Lily—”
“Again. Do it again.” A sobbing breath. “If you are going to destroy me, then don’t make me settle for half.”
He hesitated, and she gripped the top of the door with both hands, lifted herself. The dragging slide of her withdrawal ripped a moan from his throat, and he pushed her back down; unbearable to be outside her. Another long stroke. And again—deep, hard. Her scales rippled, smooth pale skin fading in and out. She cried out her triumph, her pleasure, and he gave himself over to his own, whatever it meant he was.
Only certain that he was hers.
CHAPTER 22
He wore the robe.
There was nothing left of his clothing but shreds on her apartment floor; he left them behind—the wool was better suited for flying through rain, anyway.
She held him securely against her, cradling him as if he were an overgrown child. He’d carried her thus once, when a nosferatu had torn her throat out and left her too weak to fight or fly on her own. Panicked, he’d clutched her to his chest until he’d found a Healer—Colin’s friend—one of the Guardians Hugh had been mentoring. If that Guardian had refused to heal her, Hugh might have killed him—but it had not come to that, and he’d never been tested in that way again. Perhaps he should have been; it had only taken two hundred years to forget that panic, to shove it deep inside himself, and forget how it had tortured him to see
her hurt. “I should drop you.”
“Aye,” he agreed. He would have agreed to anything she said, so long as she spoke to him. After her last, shuddering cry, everything she’d said had been a threat. But they’d been without force or anger, as if her vulnerability was a surprise—as if she were as frightened by her loss of control as he was his.
It was a fear he welcomed.
Below, the streetlamps along Haight Street guided them through the city toward Colin’s house; they had to fly below the cloud cover to see them—risky, though the chance of detection was slim. “It was a good tactic, the diversion you created at Beaumont Court to save Colin’s sister.”
“It wasn’t to save her,” she said. “I enjoyed skewering you. I should do it again.”
He rubbed his chest, remembering. “The nosferatu didn’t expect it.”
“Nor did you.”
“No.” He smiled. “Your letter from Polidori was not so successful a diversion.”
“I should drop you,” she said again, but her arms tightened.
Colin looked at Hugh and grimaced. “Good God, the horror. I’m too ashamed to invite you in.”
Lilith pushed past them both, striding through the door and into the foyer. “Be ashamed then. And find him something to wear; something warm, as he’s probably freezing. He’s always freezing,” she said on a mutter. Hugh began laughing, and she hastily added, “That thing doesn’t fit him anymore. It looks ridiculous.” The sleeves too short, the hem above his ankles. Though still lean and strong, as he’d been when a Guardian, his shoulders were broader; she’d clutched at them as he’d driven within her. He was taller, only an inch or two, but it had given him the height to find exactly the right angle, thrusting so deep . . .
She took a breath, released it slowly. It was best, she decided, not to think about why he wasn’t in his clothes. Best not to look at him at all; it was too strange, a mature Hugh, the one who had drawn more from her than she’d felt in two thousand years—ever—in that brown monk’s robe.
A familiar scent hung in the air. She paused, glanced back at Colin, then gestured to the ceiling. “Oh. Is she still up there?”
His eyes wide, Colin nodded.
Grinning, Lilith looked at Hugh. “He tied Selah up in his bedroom and has been feeding from her for two days.”
“Is that so?” His gaze lit on her, and she warmed to it before she could remind herself to be distant, to be cold. “I don’t suppose he was the one who caught her, though.”
“She trespassed,” Colin said with an arch of his brow, clearly thinking that he needed to defend Lilith’s actions—not realizing she needed no defense with Hugh. Not in this, at least.
Hugh’s lips twitched, but his eyes were quiet, solemn. “As we all do.”
He did not have to apologize; she knew what it had done to him to take her that way. Her throat tightened.
Colin sniffed the air, grimaced. “You smell like a human. And I wish you’d let me know you’d been one; perhaps then I wouldn’t have been so frightened of you.”
She turned, her eyes glowing bright. “Did you know about that ridiculous book? And didn’t tell me?”
“Yes.” He grinned unrepentantly. “I didn’t want you to steal it from me.”
She bit back her laugh, turned away, and walked toward the stairs. In less than an hour, she had to be through the Gate, and she couldn’t go like this; she needed to wash, though she could not erase him from her skin. She needed to find disdain, anger and hate. But she searched within herself and could not. Not for Hugh, anyway.
Sir Pup bounded toward her when she opened the bedroom door, and she lauded compliments upon him for his fine Guardian-watching. Selah was awake, and her face suffused with color when she saw Hugh.
“Well done,” he said dryly, nodding. His gaze ran over the chains, the manacles holding her to the bed. “It is a fine thing, to see a student excel.”
The Guardian’s blush deepened, but her eyes were bright with anger and disbelief. “You would align yourself with this demon?”
Mentor and student stared at each other; Lilith buried her face in the hellhound’s fur. There was an undercurrent, a knowledge between the two she could feel but not penetrate.
“With this one, aye,” he finally said. He accepted the pile of clothes Colin brought from the dressing room. He began pulling on the pants beneath the robe, casually, as if unaware how his declaration tore through Lilith, sharper than a sword.
Sir Pup whimpered and licked her face with multiple tongues. “Come on,” she said, and stood. She could not look at Hugh, not at that moment—so she looked at Colin and saw his wonder; damn him, he studied faces, and he would see too much in hers. “I’ll feed him now, but I’m leaving him with you again. Take care of him or I’ll kill you.”
She didn’t wait for his nod or his argument, but left the room quickly, the hellhound at her heels. Colin’s self-portraits lined the hallway, and she ignored his knowing stare, just as she had in the bedroom. Bare feet sounded behind her; she could have outrun him. Could have, but still turned at the sound of his voice.
“Lily.” Hugh stood, pulling up his zipper, the robe hiked over his hip. The sweater Colin had given him trailed from his other hand. His hair was damp again, wild from the flight; his dark lashes spiked, intensifying the blue of his eyes.
She should not see Caelum in them. Not heaven.
“You look like an imbecile.” He looked beautiful. She stalked toward him, and he did not flinch, even when Sir Pup growled and slavered beside her. As given to dramatics as she was, her hellhound. She gripped the neckline of the robe, ripped it down the center of his torso. “I hate this fucking thing.”
“I do, too,” he said, laughing. “Take it, throw it into the Lake of Fire.” Catching her hand, he brought it to his mouth and pressed his lips to center of her palm. Still smiling, but his eyes were dark now. “And come back to me. I’ll find a way to free you again, Lilith, I swear it. Just come back.”
She yanked her hand away, and rose up, slanting her mouth over his before he could move. Delved deep, capturing the flavor of him. Holding it tight and pushing it down within herself; then, abruptly, she pulled away. “I do not promise,” she said, breathing hard.
He touched his lips, where the moisture from their kiss lingered. “This is enough.”
It is nothing. Her hand clenched, but she did not speak; he would know her denial for a lie. She walked away, her heart thudding painfully.
She could not love him. Would not love him.
Should not love him.
She did not turn around, or look back. Of course she didn’t. Hugh let out the breath he’d been holding, then shrugged out of the remains of his robe. Slipped into the sweater, smiling to himself.
“Lilith left a satchel for you in the room,” Colin said from behind him, then strode past him toward the stairs. “Green canvas. Ugly.”
Hugh’s smile faded. Without a word, he returned to the bedroom and shut the door behind him.
He watched as Selah looked up at him and disappeared from the bed; the chains that had been holding her fell back against the coverlet. Hugh waited, and she reappeared a few moments later beside him.
Why? He gestured with one hand. A modified version of British Sign Language—one of the changes the Guardian Corps had been willing to incorporate over the years to allow silent communication amidst creatures with preternatural hearing.
The Doyen said to protect them, she signed back, her mouth twisting. The vampire would have let me stay if I had flattered him, but you know Lilith would have soon as killed me as accept my help. She shrugged, and pointed to her neck with a grin. “It hasn’t been all bad, but his vanity knows no bounds.”
He’s neither as shallow nor as useless as he appears, Hugh warned. Nor harmless. Where is Michael now? Why protection? Is there a specific threat against them?
Looking for the nosferatu; he’s been tracking them, trying to determine the demons’ and nosferatu’s movements,
make some sense of them. And not a specific threat—just that they have tried to attack the vampire several times, only to be chased off or killed by the hellhound. Michael believes the nosferatu are aware of your relationship to the vampire, will use it against you or her in some way, or else there is no reason to focus on him. Her head tilted, as if she listened to a conversation Hugh couldn’t hear. “Are they truly friends? They are squabbling like children over the cost of keeping the dog.”
“Yes.” Hugh rubbed the back of his neck and kneeled beside the bag. The files were in the white envelope at the bottom. He reached in past the swords, and his fingers brushed cold, thick metal. The gun she’d offered at her apartment, and he’d refused. “She shows her affection in unusual ways,” he murmured.
He pulled it out, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and stuck it into the back of his waistband. He’d have to give it to Colin before he went home; should the police ever decide to search his house, he didn’t want it among his things.
Selah sat on the floor next to him, again in his line of sight. A frown marred her brow. You didn’t tell her I could have ’ported out of the chains at any time.
Hugh paused with the envelope half-opened, raising both brows in an expression of disbelief. Do you want a demon—on her way to Hell—to have fresh memories of you and your Gift? You and Michael are the only two to move between realms without the use of the Gates; Lucifer would not dare attack Michael to gain use of that power, but a young Guardian?
Do you not trust her?
I think that Lilith will do whatever it takes to return to Earth. I trust her to act in her own interest, and perhaps in mine; I don’t expect her to extend the same courtesy to you.
Demon Angel Page 28
