Demon

by Kristina Douglas

  He put his hand behind my neck, drawing my mouth to his as he slid down beside me, and his tongue silenced all my useless words of protest. He was wrong. Afterward I would remember the difference. But right now the burgeoning sensations were so powerful that I couldn’t fight them. Pride had gone out the window. I was starving, ravenous for him. I would take what I could get.

  The wet cloth that separated his deft fingers from me was maddening. I felt him push inside me, but the fabric prevented him from all but the slightest penetration, and I made a low, moaning sound of frustration against his mouth, arching my hips in mute supplication. He lifted his mouth, and his eyes were bright blue in a room that now seemed full of shadows. “Ask me,” he whispered.

  I clamped my mouth shut, determined not to say the words, and he let his tongue play along the seam of my closed lips, teasing, tasting, until I wanted nothing more than to open to him. Stubbornness and frustration were warring with one another until I wanted to scream. I slid down farther on the bed, arching my hips against his hand. “Ask me,” he said again, a finger brushing against me, sending sparks of desire shooting through my body.

  I was panting now, and the friction of the damp cloth against the most sensitive part of my body was exquisite, almost to the point of pain. I needed so much more, I needed release, I needed it now. I closed my eyes as he leaned over me, his lips teasing mine; but as the arousal built to an almost unbearable point, I opened them to stare into his, not bothering to hide the rage and hurt that were filtering through the heat.

  His own eyes had been slumberous, half-closed, but they opened and met mine, and in a different creature I might have seen regret. His hand moved from between my legs, and he hunched forward, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my lips before he leaned forward and kissed them. “All right,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  I’d never thought to hear those words from him. I thought of my ruined voice, the scars on my body, and then I let go. Hating and loving him was tearing me apart. I could no more stop loving him than I could stop breathing. So I had to stop hating him.

  His mouth moved along the line of my jaw, kissing, nipping lightly, gliding down my throat till he tasted my pulse, and I knew a moment’s wonder whether he would take my blood now, but he moved past, down, and my breasts were tingling, waiting for his touch, waiting for his mouth. His hands slid down, covering them, and I cried out with the sensation, a raw, rough sound, and then I made no sound at all as his mouth closed over one taut nipple, drawing it in tightly, his tongue dancing across the beaded top as he sucked, and I wondered if I could come simply from his mouth at my breast. And then I remembered his hoarse, one-word command, “Come,” and my body went rigid as a small climax caught me.

  I fell back against the pillows, panting, shocked by the intensity of my response, but he’d already moved to my other breast, the climax this time almost immediate.

  I tried to catch my breath as he slid the loose pants down my legs, and then his hands slid up them, up the insides of my calves, my thighs, strong hands. He was going to take me now, I thought, part of me rebelling. I didn’t want him on top, controlling me; I didn’t want to be mastered. His hands touched me, and I knew I was wet and ready for him, and I told myself I could do this, I could lie still for him. I waited for the sound of his zipper, the rough rustle of jeans pushed down, but he leaned down and put his mouth against me.

  I knew people did this, of course I did. I had inspired men to do this to their wives, in my demon life. But no one, absolutely no one, had ever done this to me, put his mouth between my legs and licked me, tasted me, sucked at me, until a muffled sob broke from my throat and my hands came up to his head, wanting to push him away. It was too much, I couldn’t bear it; but his long hair flowed onto my hips and instead I threaded my fingers through the silky strands.

  The touch of his tongue was more subtle than that of his strong fingers, luring me into a dark, strange place where such delight existed that I hovered, frightened, as his tongue circled and flicked. He slid a finger inside me, and I arched off the bed, but before I could sink back he’d withdrawn it and pushed two inside, and I could feel my toes begin to curl. And then three fingers, and I was done, a silent scream coming from deep inside me as my entire body convulsed into darkness.

  He was inside me before I had even begun to come down, pushing, his cock deep inside me, and I panicked, bucking, fighting him, trying to throw him off me.

  He caught my wrists easily, slamming them down on the bed, his hips pinioning me. My struggles were useless, yet I couldn’t stop, terrified.

  He lay on top of me, holding me down. “Stop it,” he panted in my ear. “Stop fighting it. I’m sorry, but it has to be this way. There’s no other choice.”

  His words were barely making sense. All I knew was that I had to stop him, had to reverse him, had to be on top, not beneath him; but he was too strong, and I couldn’t dislodge him. He wasn’t trying to continue, merely holding me there like someone trying to break a skittish mare, I thought with sudden, almost hysterical amusement.

  “No,” I pleaded, my pride vanished. “Please, no.”

  He put his face next to mine, rubbing gently, an almost animal gesture of reassurance. “We have to, Rachel,” he whispered. “Just this once, I have to take you this way, so that I can take your blood.”

  I kicked, trying to throw him off, but he was too strong, his possession too deep, deep inside me, filling me. “You can reach my neck if I’m on top,” I managed to choke out.

  “No.”

  “Standing up.” I couldn’t believe I was suggesting such a thing, after the last, devastating time that had turned into such a betrayal.

  “No,” he said between gritted teeth, and his body, his naked body, was slick with sweat, and for a moment I was distracted from my mindless terror, wondering when he’d taken his clothes off, wondering what he felt like, naked against me.

  I tried to get my elbows between us, but his strength was unbelievable. It was like beating at a brick wall—nothing could break his hold, his possession—and slowly, slowly, I stopped struggling. I lay still, panting, my body covered with sweat, covered with Azazel. I raised my eyes to meet his, and I could see real regret in his eyes.

  The shadows had leached all color from the room, the only exception being the deep blue of his eyes, and I was remembering the trap of the Dark City once more, the trap of his betrayal. He was sorry, I thought, miserable. He regretted this. He didn’t want this. He was being forced—

  “Shut up,” he said, releasing my arms to cup my face. I had worn myself out fighting him, and I could do nothing but lie beneath him. He kissed my mouth, my eyelids, my nose. “I’m sorry that I must force you to lie beneath me. How many times do I have to tell you? My need for you is so powerful I’d agree to anything you want. But it has to be this way. Do you understand?”

  To punctuate his words, he withdrew partway, the thick penetration releasing me, and then thrust back in again, hard, hard enough to push me back into the mattress, and I shivered, trying to still the panic that swamped me.

  I could feel his skin against mine, warm, damp, his muscled arms around me, his mouth pressed against the side of my face. His long legs against mine, the shallow penetration, his cock inside me that wasn’t enough.

  Slowly, slowly, I lifted my legs to wrap them around his narrow hips. Slowly, slowly, I put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer as I let go, let go of the ancient need born out of stubbornness and transformed into a vicious curse, let go of the memory of the thousand demons who had taken me this way, night after night, tearing me, hurting me, destroying me. Gone, it was all gone, and there was only Azazel, the smell of his skin, the cool ocean scent of him, the warm flesh, the taste of him in my mouth as I licked his shoulder, the steady thrust of him, touching someplace inside me that made me wild. And I was the one who kissed him, arching up to meet him, joining him in this mad dance of lust and love; and it wasn’t about him controlling me, conqueri
ng me, it wasn’t about who was on top and who was on the bottom, it was just the two of us, the joining, thick and hot and wonderful; and my climax, more powerful than ever, was coming closer, and even though I wanted to hold back to prolong it, the feelings were too shattering, and I let go of the need to control, let go and simply existed in a sea of pleasure.

  I could feel his own need rise, his cock swelling inside me when I would have thought that was impossible, the slamming speed of his thrusts that shook me, shook the bed, and I cried out for more, for what I wanted, needed; and as I hovered on the crest, as I felt him begin to spurt inside me, his teeth clamped down on my neck, his teeth piercing my skin, and I shattered. The pull of his mouth at my neck, sucking, drinking, lost in my taste, the sweet hot rush as he filled me were too much. I was dying, and I didn’t care. We would die together, destroyed by a desire that was elementally wrong; they had warned us, and neither of us had cared. I was dying, and I was in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

  There were feathers, feathers closing around me, soft and blessed, drawing in the darkness, and as I tumbled back to earth I let myself rest in their gentleness, at peace.

  C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE

  I OPENED MY EYES SLOWLY, NOT AT all certain what I expected to see. The flames of hell? Beloch’s—no, Uriel’s triumphant face? The total darkness of nothing at all? What did one see in the afterlife? I was afraid to look.

  He was lying beside me on the white sheet, his black hair obscuring his face, though I didn’t have any doubt as to who he was. He slept like the dead, lying on his stomach, but I could see the rise and fall of his breathing, and I knew he’d survived.

  I touched my neck gingerly. There was nothing there, no mark or pain, yet a frisson of remembered reaction washed over me as I let my fingers trail against my flesh. I seemed to have developed a new and entirely unexpected erogenous zone at the base of my neck, and as I remembered the pull of his mouth, I let out a quiet moan of remembered pleasure.

  I sat up, very carefully so as not to wake him. The room was filled with the odd half-light that I knew was dawn, and I stared out the French doors into the private garden with astonishment. It had been late afternoon when I entered this room. Late afternoon when Azazel and I had made love, if that’s what you could call it. I doubted that was the operative word on his part, but I wasn’t going to go searching for others. Yet now it was morning, and I remembered nothing after the blackness had closed around me. Except hadn’t there been feathers?

  He was watching me. I should have known he’d sleep like a cat, instantly alert. He rolled over onto his back, before I remembered that I’d wanted to look for signs of the wings I knew he must have. His gaze was heavy-lidded, and I looked for signs of my blood on his mouth, wondering if it would disgust me. Would he taste like blood?

  “We’re alive,” I said, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “Did you have any doubts?”

  “Of course I did.”

  Surprise flickered in his eyes. “And you agreed anyway?”

  “Yes.” I could be monosyllabic as well. I wasn’t going to explain myself. Explain that wanting him was a fever in my blood, driving through me, and I would have faced the Truth Breakers once more just for the chance of sharing a bed with him.

  He pushed himself to a sitting position beside me, for all the world like a husband about to read the Sunday paper, and stretched, a slow, sinuous movement that made my mouth go dry. I had the top sheet pulled up to primly cover my breasts, though as far as I could remember we’d started on top of the silk coverlet that was now on the floor. The sheet was draped loosely around his hips as well, for all the world like a PG-rated romantic comedy. I wondered what would happen if I jumped him.

  “We slept,” I said. Another scintillating bit of conversation.

  “It is to be expected. The first bonding is a powerful experience for both partners. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  There it was again, another apology. But never for the right thing, for the real betrayal. “You didn’t frighten me.”

  He gave me a disbelieving glance, but then, he’d felt my panic when he’d pushed inside me, face-to-face. I could deny it all I wanted, but my fear had been real. It was gone now, another part of my curse broken. A part I hadn’t even known remained.

  But he’d known, and been prepared for my reaction. He knew too much about me.

  He was still watching me, and I was suddenly unwilling to meet his gaze. I slid down in the bed once more, turning my back to him. I was unwilling to get up and go in search of clothing, but his steady gaze made me desperately uncomfortable. “I’m going to sleep some more,” I mumbled.

  I hoped he’d take the hint and leave the bed, leave me; for a minute he didn’t move. And then he did, sliding down, turning and curving his body around mine in a gesture I might have thought was protective if it weren’t for the hard ridge of flesh at my back.

  His arms went around me, pulling me back against him, his hands sliding up to cover my breasts. I made a hissing noise, only squirming for an instant, and then settling back against his protective warmth. I don’t know why I felt I needed protection—he had proven to be my greatest danger. But for some reason he felt like my greatest safety, and I closed my eyes and slept.

  LYING IN BED WITH RACHEL wrapped in his arms was pure hell, and it was only the beginning of his penance. If he could bring her at least a small portion of peace, then he would, no matter what the price. A raging hard-on was minor torment, right?

  How had he come to such a place in his limitless existence? He’d prided himself on being cold and controlled with everyone but Sarah, and her loss had scoured away the last bit of gentleness he owned. It had taken too long to realize he’d become a monster, what he despised most. He might not have been Uriel’s bitch, but he’d come close enough, and it had taken Rachel’s near death to make him realize it.

  He could still taste her—the sweetness of her desire, the richness of her blood—and he wanted to groan. He didn’t dare fall asleep; he’d probably end up with a wet dream, thoroughly horrifying her.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about it: how she’d finally accepted him, wrapping her legs around him and drawing him in tighter; the soft sounds of need that came from her throat when he thrust; the way she’d thrown her head back and arched her neck into the pulling of his mouth as he’d sucked the nourishing, strengthening blood from her.

  Hell, who was he kidding? The taking of blood was ritual, deliberate, a holy act and one of healing and strength. It was also the most erotic thing the Fallen were capable of doing, and it had sealed him to her.

  God, he thought, shaken. And yet he’d known. Known that it would come to this, that they were bound together whether she hated him or not. She knew it too, even if she refused to admit it. He expected she’d keep fighting it. And he would let her, up to a point. He would have given her more time if he’d had the option, but Uriel was getting too close. Azazel had had no choice but to throw his own doubts and hesitation to the wind. He’d allow her to keep hers for as long as feasible. One more thing he owed her.

  His face was in her hair, and it should have tickled. Instead it felt like silk against his skin. He remembered what it was like to feel this way about a woman, the physical connection that never left. And he knew the guilt that had ridden him hard. Guilt that had nothing to do with Sarah and everything to do with him and his own anger. Sarah had let him go, long ago. Now it was time for him to finish releasing her.

  Rachel settled deeper into sleep, clearly exhausted. He hadn’t taken enough of her blood to make a difference—in fact, he’d deliberately denied himself as much as he wanted, all that would have been acceptable, in his urgency to protect her. But the power of the first real mating was bone-shattering, and she might sleep all day.

  It didn’t matter. They had a war to plan. She could sleep, and he would come back to her.

  She could sleep.

  IT LOOKED LIKE LATE AFTERNOON when I finally woke, a
lone in the big bed. I was suffused with the strangest feelings: delight and dread, luxurious lassitude and the certainty that I needed to be rushing around, intense physical satisfaction and deep sexual longing. I wanted him again. I wanted him between my legs, leaning over me, sweating, pushing. I wanted his mouth on my neck, drinking what only I could give him.

  I forced myself out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. I was in such a fog I could barely appreciate its elegance; but after a few minutes under a shower that felt like a gentle rainfall, I felt much more alive.

  I found my discarded clothes neatly folded on a chair, and I wondered who had done it. The thought of Azazel tending to me was too bizarre to contemplate, yet I thought I would have known if someone else had come into the room. It had to have been him.

  I dressed quickly, trying not to think about how those clothes had come off me. The one thing I couldn’t find was the camisole, and I remembered his disapproval and found a brief smile curving my mouth.

  I went through the living room, not even bothering to look for something as civilized as a note, and opened the door to the hall. I could hear the arguments from there. Men’s voices, furious and demanding, behind the closed door of the council room. Immediately I turned around and went back in, closing the door behind me. I wasn’t interested in their curious eyes. They would know exactly what Azazel and I had done, and how we had done it, and right then it felt agonizingly personal. I didn’t want anyone else intruding.

  So I was starving to death. Big deal—I’d survive.

  The sun was already beginning to set. I opened the French doors and stepped out onto the secluded patio, letting the soft breeze dance around me. The smell of the ocean on the air was soothing, which was odd, considering that the sight of it terrified me. And thank the gods and goddesses, there was a tray on the low table, with fresh fruit and croissants and iced tea, the ice still fresh.