The Uprising: A Companion Novel (The Hunt Book 5)

by Liz Meldon

  Her fangs nicked his tongue, his lips, as she matched the ferocity of his mouth, toe to toe, tit for tat, and blood trickled down her throat. But it wasn’t about the blood—not anymore. It was about the way he consumed her, the way the darkness swelled between them, and the way she drank it all down like a woman starved. Her hands slid into his golden halo as he scooped her onto his lap, her thighs spread wide, a steel rod of desire stabbing between them. Another one of her desperate moans coaxed a growl from him, and he ground her down against his cock, straining against his slacks.

  Could he feel the wet heat pooling at her center? Not blood, like her tears. Arousal, desire, the same slickness as before, a welcome relic of her humanity. Could he feel it just as surely as she did? Given her thin little shorts were practically painted on the generous swell of her thighs, her ass, there was no room for panties—not even her skimpiest pair. In fact, it was like she was wearing nothing at this point, each rock of her hips brushing her clit just right against his shaft, bolts of pleasure firing on impact.

  While Malachi fought for breath, she needed none. Ella could kiss him like this, tangled in a hurricane with no end in sight, for the rest of her immortal days. She soon rolled her hips without his guidance, riding him fully clothed, shorts hiking higher, pleasure soaring right alongside them. Malachi’s hands were—oh, here, there, and fucking everywhere. In her hair. On her neck. Down her sides and cupped over her breasts. She paid him back in kind, memorizing the dips and grooves of his body with her greedy hands, this demonic Adonis, masculine perfection. When she reached the break in his collar, she ripped one hand straight down, tearing all the buttons, exposing him as she never had before.

  And it was about damn time.

  Just as her hands delved beneath the fabric, questing over heated skin and dangerously hard pecs, Malachi shoved her. No finesse. No care. He just lashed out, hand on her chest, and she tumbled over with a surprised squeak, landing back-first on a mattress with approximately zero give.

  He lunged after her with all the strength and tact of a prowling panther. The chaos demon blanketed her well before she had the chance to squirm away, capturing her mouth in another punishing kiss that had her toes curling.

  Somehow he had found a way between her thighs; she felt the fluttering movements of his hand at work—undoing his belt, popping open the button, sliding down the zipper. Ella scored her talons across his chest, snapping at his tongue when it dared dart between her lips. She wouldn’t let him take her like this, pinned on her back. He laughed darkly against her mouth and cupped her over her shorts, the delicious sweep of his palm forcing her back to arch.

  Ella thrust an elbow up, catching him in the throat just as his cock dropped onto her belly like a hammer. The chaos demon choked, coughing, and she seized the opportunity to roll over and crawl away. She’d almost made it to the couch’s armrest when he caught her by the waistband of her skintight shorts. Malachi tore them clean in two like they were nothing, ripping straight down the seam before yanking the two halves down her thighs.

  Exposed, vulnerable, Ella gripped the armrest for leverage, but his palm found her ass before she could scurry over and flee. One hard spank had her yelping; the second made her skin sing with heat.

  “Malachi—”

  “Don’t do the crime if you cannot take the fine, little vampire,” he growled back.

  No one had ever spanked her before.

  Guys had always been interested in her ass; her stringent squats routine made it round and perky, and big butts were supposedly all the rage these days. But no one had ever had the gall to—

  He did it again, catching both cheeks in rapid succession, a jolt of pain rippling through the thick haze of lust swirling around them. Ella groaned, torn between slashing at his face and putting a stop to all of this, or arching her ass up and begging for more.

  Malachi made the decision for her, the presumptuous bastard.

  A pair of large, strong hands gripped her hips, fingers bruising flesh, and she barely had the time to brace herself on the armrest before he filled her in one swift, powerful stroke. Her shocked cry intermingled with his groan, the sounds colliding, entwining, changing each other. Ella’s became wild, Malachi’s deep and primal. She had felt so little these last two weeks, but, fuck, did she ever feel him.

  It was no surprise that he was huge; pressed up against her with every feeding, she had basically mapped him by now. Malachi’s cock lacked mystery. Actually, it had lacked mystery long before she’d been turned; every inch of his persona suggested he either had something enormous between his legs, or something painfully petite. Her eyes widened—most definitely the former. It stretched her, filled her, pushed her to the brink of pain as she bent over the armrest. His hipbones dug sharply into her ass as he thrust just a hint deeper, his brisk exhale dancing across the skin exposed by her crumpled shirt.

  She relished the pain.

  In fact, she almost welcomed it.

  It made her feel alive—and it made the pleasure so much sharper. He pumped in and out slowly, hands still gripping her with punishing firmness, and every inch lost or gained inside her made her sing like a bow drawn expertly across taut violin strings. She shivered, arching her back, lifting her hips to meet him.

  “I’ve always wondered what your little cunt would feel like,” he rasped, every word strained, teetering on the brink of madness. Swallowing thickly, she glared back over her shoulder, both disliking that word and the implications behind it. But Malachi’s impish smirk sent heat soaring across her skin, and she swore she had goosebumps, honest to goodness goosebumps, when he smoothed a hand up her back to the base of her neck. The chaos demon towered over her, god of carnage, god of destruction, god of pleasure, and tipped his head to the side, eyes black and smirk sharp. “And now I know: it’s fucking perfect.”

  That wandering hand of his found its way into her hair, and he fisted tight in the mountain of curl, yanking her head back as he withdrew and then pounded into her. Ella yelped, the sound dripping with desire, her body clamping around him so desperately that it made her want to scream. He fucked her hard and fast, setting the tempo of his choosing—cruel, relentless, powerful, perfect.

  And Ella took every harsh thrust like she was born to do it. Pleasure bloomed, a slow burn that seeped out from her core, spilling through her every limb with the torturous pace of an oozing volcano. Slowly. Thoroughly. No part of her untouched. Hazy and smoky and so damn fiery that she could burn up right here and now, nothing left behind but a pile of ash stinking of lust and need.

  Her talons plunged into the armrest, piercing the leather and padding straight down to the foundations. Every snarl uttered from the chaos demon pounding into her drew more goosebumps, her skin prickling and burning with the sweetest heat, so fucking wonderful that she couldn’t imagine existing without it.

  When his hand left her hair, she slumped forward, elbows folding, no longer capable of keeping herself up. She bit into the armrest to muffle a scream of delight, her sex aching deliciously, dripping with desire, taking him in to the hilt with every vicious thrust.

  Thank goodness no one was home, because with Malachi she just couldn’t contain herself—and she had no interest in trying. A very small, very human part of her brain insisted she quiet down, really make him work for those sounds. For all the sexually charged crap he’d drawled at her since their first meeting, Malachi Saevitia needed to earn her pleasure.

  Yet here she was, tumbling toward a climax that she knew would be so raw, so sublime, that it would knock her straight on her ass—one from which she might never recover.

  And you know what? She was fine with that.

  So close to implosion she could taste it, Ella pushed back against him, grinding, circling her hips, chasing that lover’s high with everything she had. Until he stopped.

  The cruel bastard actually stopped just as she stumbled onto the green, bliss closing in on all sides, nothing but ecstasy ahead. Malachi fucking Saevitia had the ne
rve to still his hips and pull out, taking that enormous cock with him. He caught her ass with an open palm just as she started to sag, moaning, which left a biting sting on each cheek.

  Fury washed over her like a great charging wave, drowning whole villages and quashing anything in its path. Because what the hell? After all those dangerous smirks and burning glances and cunt-talk, he figured now was the time to stop? Right on the brink…

  Malachi Saevitia was a tease, and she hated that the realization didn’t surprise her. Ella rounded on the spot, quivering with pent-up anger and desire, pulsing with all the rage of a Greek Fury.

  Only to find Malachi on the far side of the couch, settled in the corner, sprawled like a king on his throne, like the sun god Apollo surveying his legions of admirers. Shirt open, ripped torso exposed, cock in hand. He pumped his shaft lazily, the thing harder than steel and twice as deadly. The smirk got to her, ruffled her feathers, and she didn’t care if he saw it.

  “Malachi—”

  “Come here,” he beckoned, eyes black and so intensely focused on her that she swore he could see straight through to her—well, lack of a soul. “I want to watch you come properly.”

  Her jaw dropped. The nerve of this guy… The sheer fucking arrogance—

  “And take that horrendous thing off,” the chaos demon added with a nod to her shirt. Old Ella wouldn’t have put up with this. She wouldn’t have bowed to his commands—she wouldn’t submit. But then again, human-Ella wouldn’t have even been here. When sober, human-Ella had refused to let Malachi so much as brush up against her.

  But there was power in the way she controlled him now, just a little vampire capturing his stare, his hand pumping faster, as she slowly peeled off her T-shirt and tossed it aside. Next came the dark grey sports bra, breasts free, nipples pearled. He tracked her every movement, every nuance, as she crawled across the pullout—slowly, because now he deserved to wait.

  Deep down, they both knew the truth. Malachi might bark the orders, but Ella called the shots.

  His cheek twitched as she climbed up his legs, gaze unflinching. Ella settled in front of that steel rod, nipples grazing his chest, and brushed her still-stinging ass up against it; two could tease, Mr. Saevitia. Jaw set firmly, Malachi traced a finger up her belly, over the generous swell of her breast, around a nipple. The noticeable bob in his throat caught her eye, as did the bloodstained collar, the faint marks of her previous bite, and her gums pulsed with a familiar ache. Her tongue swept across her lips as she lunged for him, fangs primed—

  Malachi tsked when he caught her by the throat, his powerful grip compressing her windpipe. “Come for me, then you can have your reward.”

  She dragged one talon down the back of his hand, from the middle finger to the muscular crest of his wrist. Blood dribbled in its wake, the wound superficial but telling. The corners of his mouth kicked up, but the display did nothing to loosen his hold on her. Lips pursed in a pout, Ella let out an extra-long sigh, the kind suited for a dramatic fuck like Malachi, then lifted her hips, teasing the head of his cock with her slickness.

  While he could certainly do the teasing, Malachi refused to be teased. He thrust up hard just as he pushed her down, one hand bruising her hip, the other her throat. Her teeth chattered when their bodies collided, fangs nipping the inside of her lower lip, and she whimpered as pleasure bloomed once more.

  It quickly became clear, however, that that one move was all he intended to do until she climaxed. Still gripping her throat, Malachi settled into the corner of the L-shaped pullout couch, then stretched his other arm out along the back. A slight flicker of his golden brow told her everything she needed to know: if she wanted his blood, she’d have to work for it.

  Fine. Ella had been making herself come since she was thirteen. With his gaze scorching across her body and his cock filling her sex, this would be a cakewalk.

  She clutched his wrist with one hand, then slipped the other between her thighs, toying with her clit as she rocked against him. The chaos demon exhaled sharply, jaw clenched tight again, muscles twitching with each swirl of her hips. For a few moments, she stared right back, matching his black-eyed gaze with an unflinching one of her own, until it was just too much. Her eyes fluttered closed, her fingers worked faster, and she rode him hard to an earth-shattering climax that tore clean through her.

  “Good girl,” she heard him growl over her cries. Pinwheels of color and light exploded behind her eyelids, her whole body trembling through a sharply intense orgasm that assaulted her over and over again. Pleasure rippled and churned, sparking an unnerving ecstasy that she felt in her teeth, in her bones—unlike anything she had ever experienced before.

  And god help her, she wanted more. All this feeling, the sensations of life pounding through her veins. More, more, more.

  Steering her to his neck, Malachi gave it to her. He hissed her name when her fangs pierced his flesh, fire spilling into her mouth, down her throat. Ella drank greedily, clinging to him, unsure if she would ever let go again. The chaos demon arched beneath her, body taut and hard, then dragged his hands over her curves, his touch one of possession, ownership.

  Her bite much the same.

  Malachi cupped her ass in both hands, tilting her forward, encouraging her to drink deeply as he peppered her shoulder with harsh, biting kisses, the kind that should leave her marked and bruised. Disappointment plucked at her heart when she realized come tomorrow, her body would look just as it had before all this started—unblemished, unclaimed.

  But not Malachi’s. His skin would heal, yes, but for a few hours at least, she could admire the marks she left on his neck and remember the way he growled her name.

  His hips bucked once, twice, searching for their rhythm—and there was no stopping them once they found it. Gripping her tight, the chaos demon pounded home, each brutal thrust driving him that much closer to his own pleasure. She struggled to keep hold of him, his brute strength dislodging her from his neck, so Ella claimed his mouth instead.

  Her second climax lacked the fire of the first, less dramatic and showstopping, but exquisite all the same. It slithered through her like a creeping fog, slow at first until it consumed every part of her. Arms wrapped around his neck, she moaned his name into the shell of his ear, and Malachi choked a few words back as he came undone, a dark and dangerous prayer that chilled her to her core. He shuddered beneath her, spilling himself inside, until the chaos demon slumped back onto his pullout couch throne, spent.

  A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, and his broad chest rose and fell quickly as he chased his breath. Ella sat on top of him, watching, wishing just for a moment that she too could feel his breathlessness, that her heart could race just as desperately. Wiping the blood from her lips, she climbed off him and knelt at his side, wrangling her wild mane back with a frown.

  Waiting for the guilt to strike.

  For the self-loathing.

  The regret.

  After all, this was Malachi. He had bossed her around, used her for pleasure, handled her so roughly that her human body would have been a heap of flesh and broken bone right now.

  Yet the guilt never came, nor the self-loathing, nor the regret.

  Ella just felt—at peace.

  Satisfied.

  Not exactly whole, but slightly less fractured than when she’d tiptoed out of her bedroom earlier.

  Her self-preservation insisted she get up and get out. Malachi had a reputation in Hell, according to Moira and Severus, for bedding women, for doing as he pleased. Ella Thomas wasn’t about to be just another notch on his bedpost. If he planned to brush this off, then so would she.

  And she’d do it before he had the chance.

  She crawled across the pullout stiffly, standing on shaky legs in silence. Her body yearned to curl up like a cat in a sunbeam, basking in the warmth of his skin, the afterglow of two stunning climaxes. Instead, Ella stumbled toward the staircase, ready to scrub away all evidence of what had just happened.

 
Only she didn’t quite reach the staircase—not by herself.

  Behind her, a shuffling across the rock-hard mattress. Heavy footfalls on the dark hardwood.

  Then an arm snagged her around the waist and tossed her over one broad shoulder. She went with a giggling squeal, gripping the back of Malachi’s torn shirt, a smile on her lips as he carried her upstairs, deposited her in the shower, turned on the water—and climbed in alongside her.

  Eyes black.

  Cock raring for round two.

  Chapter Ten

  A crisp, all-black suit.

  A spritz of his favorite cologne.

  A final ruffling of his golden mane.

  And Malachi was officially ready for his mysterious meeting with the angels of Farrow’s Hollow. He gave himself a once-over in Ella’s bathroom mirror, eyes narrowed, assessing every detail for any perceivable flaws. While there had been a bit of fine print on the summons that suggested by attending the summit he was agreeing to not butcher anyone present, there was still a very real chance that this could be a trap. Malachi had weighed all the options before accepting any of this, but as the sole demon with the paperwork to support his claim of this city, he decided he had no choice but to see what the winged bastards wanted.

  After all, going forward they would have to play nice with one another to maintain the balance between all the good and evil circling Farrow’s Hollow like a pack of supernatural buzzards. Chaos lurked in his heart, but Malachi understood the finesse of demon-angel-human relations on Earth. Demons were permitted to corrupt—to a degree—because the big man upstairs had given his least impressive children free will. Temptation, vice, and sin were a part of their existence, and should they wish to become entangled with the darker forces of this world, then that was their decision.

  The angelic garrisons assigned to every topside city with a hell-gate were to monitor and dole out appropriate punishments. Demons couldn’t run around blathering about the existence of the supernatural to humanity, nor could some hopped-up thrill seeker go on a killing spree just because. Balance. Malachi had sworn to uphold it when he paid his dues in Hell and acquired the deed to Farrow’s Hollow and its hell-gate.