Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

  A startling thought comes to me: This is where I belong.

  I never drop my formidable defenses until the moment of orgasm, yet I feel safe with Stafford. I’m not a trusting person, but it feels natural to trust him. For once—despite any fear of my demon, I’ve already let go.

  His teeth skim my jaw; he kisses my neck. When his mouth moves to my breast, tugging and rolling my nipple, I whimper. Bucking, I arch to get closer, wrapping a leg around his lean waist.

  “I can’t,” I gasp.

  My flesh is on fire—my mind is mush. What was I going to say? I can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t think? Can’t stop? Can’t do this?

  “I know,” he snarls. “I can’t wait either.”

  Yes, that’s it! I can’t wait.

  Chapter 35. Animal Rutting

  His fingers grip my hands, tightening painfully. He bends his head down to bite and worry a taut nipple, making me arch with pleasure.

  “Please, fuck me!” I say in a breathless gasp.

  “Oh, I will.” Stafford’s voice is a harsh snarl—he sounds angry. I know what he’s feeling, though, and it’s far removed from anger.

  “Now! Fuck me now!”

  His laugh sounds somewhat forced. “I’m going to fuck you so good, you’re going to have aftershocks for days.”

  He’s making a joke, but I believe him. He’s still trying to keep it light. To hold back. To be civilized. He doesn’t want to instinctively and mindlessly rut like the animal he is.

  “Thank you.” My voice a husky whisper. I’m playing along with him and his inexplicable need for propriety.

  He chuckles. “My pleasure.”

  When he releases my hands, I grip his broad shoulders. Panting and moaning, my eyes close as he places his shaft at my entrance. I almost weep, he feels so damned good.

  Without pause, he savagely thrusts, seating himself deep inside of me. I cry out my joy as he enters, stretches, and fills me completely—with his thick cock, and with his magic.

  “Ah,” I gasp, as cascades of pleasure roll through me. Pulsing with erotic sensation—my body can’t possibly burn any hotter.

  Wrapping my legs around him, I dig my heels hard into his buttocks. With hands, arms, and legs, I pull him closer, bringing him deeper inside of me. I swear, I can feel the fur of his metaphysical wolf caressing every inch of my body.

  This is new.

  The delicious sensation of soft fur against my skin is arousing and amazing. Werewolf magic tricks—or is it? I read Stafford’s thoughts, his needs, his desires. I’m so close to him, it’s as though he is imprinting directly on my soul.

  I want to give him everything.

  Misted with sweat, breath ragged, we move together in sync. I quake and I cling to him as we ride each other. Pounding, urgent, we’re desperate to become closer, to bond together in release. Magic crackles and hums around us as it joins us on our ride.

  Our lovemaking is raw, otherworldly. Stafford and I have done this before, but we’ve never done this before—whatever this is. It’s as different as sound is from sight. Together, we’re creating something new.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “You feel so good,” Stafford groans.

  Pulling back, he ruthlessly surges forward, again and again, his hips slapping loudly against mine. I hear him audibly grunt with every thrust. Or is that me? In, out, deeper and deeper.

  The pace becomes increasingly urgent.

  The rough, earthy magic of man and wolf rolls like rich chocolate over my tongue. My nails dig deep into his broad back, clawing him—intentionally drawing blood. Wild energy flares with the very first drop, feeding our passion.

  Animal magic. Blood magic.

  Such power! Overcome with mind-numbing lust, my demon and I feed and feed. I’ve never known such ecstasy, but I crave more.

  Stafford’s strong masculine frame is so hard, his hands so firm, yet even he quakes with yearning. Hit with a maelstrom of sensation, drunk with pleasure, overwhelmed by emotion—I half-sob with passion.

  Together, we’re caught in a storm of desire. Flushed and aching, my body screams for release, yet at the same time I don’t want this to end.

  Hands, mouth, lips—him and his wolf, me and my demon. Lost to sensation, it’s confusing. I feel everything he feels and everything I feel. It’s overwhelming! It’s wonderful! It’s almost too much to take.

  I long to sink my teeth into his flesh.

  No wait, he wants to sink his teeth into my flesh.

  Who wants to bite who? We’re so close, so connected. His thoughts are mine. Or are mine his? In an impulsive, instinctive desire, I pull my hair back. I bear my neck in offering.

  Blood! We need more blood!

  I crave the taste of his essence. Blood carries the soul.

  Where the hell does that thought come from? What exactly is my demon up to?

  Stafford calls out, “Christ, I’m going to come.”

  “Please,” I beg shamelessly.

  Writhing and sobbing, I’m blinded by the power and magic running through my veins. Still, I continue to hold my hair back, exposing the pulse that jumps wildly in my throat.

  I’m not exactly sure what I’m begging for. To be bitten? To feed until sated on his animal magic and magnetism? To be given release?

  “If I bite you, you’ll be infected,” Stafford growls in warning. “You’ll become a werewolf. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  I’m blown away by his restraint and consideration. More than anything in the world, Stafford yearns to sink his teeth into my flesh. Nothing could stop him from taking what he wants.

  He places my wishes ahead of his own.

  Stafford is not a self-centered asshole. He cares for me, he wants me to be sure.

  For him, the passionate desire he has to bite me, mate me, and keep me forever is all-consuming. I understand his longing. I know how he feels. Metaphysically joined, we are exactly the same, he and I.

  “Bite me, bite me—I need your fangs in my flesh!”

  My voice is breathy. I make small noises deep in my throat. I want so much more. My own overpowering urge to bite and be bitten is impossible to resist.

  I’m immune to becoming a werewolf, anyway. I was infected by a moonstruck wolf years ago and nothing happened.

  Our gazes lock, I gasp in surprise. Stafford’s eyes are pools of compelling dark fire. I have to wonder, if his eyes look like this, what do mine look like?

  Stafford can’t witness my irises turning demon-red. I shut my eyes as a shock of fear rolls through me.

  Open mouthed, we lower our heads, and burrow into each other’s throats. Stafford thrusts even faster. My nails dig deeper into his flesh. The scent of blood and sex surrounds us.

  As if acting as one soul with one purpose, our teeth sink into each other’s necks hard and deep, at exactly the same time.

  His bite flashes through my body like a lightning strike. Raw bolts of bliss rocket through me. Strong and sweet, his blood sends a kaleidoscope of sensory input straight to my heart, my mind, and soul.

  Wildness, heat, and the preternatural strength of his wolf flows through me. For an instant, I see through the eyes of a wolf. I see everything in this dark memory—things no human eye can see. Minutiae. Shadow-muted tints and shades. Every nuance of color between jet-black and gray.

  I smell the rich scent of the earth, fallen leaves, and the woods at night. I hear the vibrant sound of life hiding in meadow grasses.

  A moonless night isn’t dark to a wolf.

  Blood. Flesh. Sex. Magic.

  Stafford gives everything of himself—he holds nothing back.

  Neither do I.

  The coppery taste of Stafford’s blood rolls over my tongue and down my throat. I feed on his life force, his energy and magic. I savor every drop. At the same time, I taste my own blood upon his lips.

  Vast, awe-inspiring power flares between us in a rush of hot wind.

  I hear Stafford’s inner wolf howl as he pounds into
me with short, sharp jerks. The climax, when it comes, is a brutal surprise. My body seizes with convulsions as we find our release simultaneously.

  Hard shudders wrack his large frame. Every jet of his semen fills me with burning heat—power from him, and from his beast.

  Earthy, animal magic pours into me in waves.

  My demon hums his satisfaction as the magic from my demon entwines with the magic from Stafford’s beast. I writhe with scalding surges of unbelievable pleasure.

  I’m on fire from the inside out.

  Stafford’s orgasm rips through him like a hurricane, leaving him shredded. As moments pass, he enjoys languid satisfaction, a coma-like daze, and an utter feeling of pure bliss.

  I feel everything.

  For me, the euphoria doesn’t stop. Such sweet agony, my frenzied convulsions go on and on.

  The magical essence of Stafford’s inner animal is within me, a part of me. Is that a wolfish howl of triumph and elation I hear from my demon?

  I blink, surprised by the inner vision of such a thing.

  I can’t take a full breath during these paroxysms of pleasure. As my sight tunnels from a lack of air, I feel the darkness of unconsciousness embracing me. I idly wonder—am I going to pass out or die?

  Oddly, the idea of dying doesn’t bother me.

  As they say, what a way to go.

  Chapter 36. Wolf Magic

  It’s as if a lifetime of passion has damned up inside of me, silently waiting. Stafford and his wolf bring every drop of longing out. Hours pass, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve climaxed.

  Being with Stafford is intense. Intimate. Raw and uninhibited.

  This is far more than sex.

  Between the madness of erotic fervor, we talk, we laugh, we wrestle, and tease. I fight to pin him down, to be on top—to have my way with him, and he lets me. He steals quick kisses while tickling me. I’m breathless as I giggle like a loon. Engaged in stupid, silly games, together we play.

  It’s incredibly refreshing to have fun.

  Exactly like children, I realize how essential playing is for adults. Perhaps adults need uninhibited fun even more than children. Grownups can become far too serious.

  This intimacy between us is unselfconscious, easy, and comfortable. Exhausted, eventually, I fall deeply asleep.

  My dreams, when they come, commence with flashbacks of recent events. Like shuffling a deck of cards, pictures and emotions spike through my mind. The weird raven and the stench in my frightening nightmare. The white wolf ghost with blood-red eyes. The rescue of Hope and Owen.

  I trail through fractured childhood memories—images returned to me, while crossing the ward to the magical land. The sight of my first werewolf in wolf form.

  I revisit Stafford’s response to finding me using his daughter’s ID. I remember his silver bullet scar. The way his hands and lips felt on my body as we made love.

  Stafford’s deep longing for a mate and for children of his own. The vats of human fetuses that had fascinated my demon. Their imperfections.

  The Alpha’s bite. The taste of his power and his blood. Off the charts magic. And did I mention off the charts sex?

  Fucking incredible, super-hot, best-ever sex.

  I’m stunned when my consciousness suddenly slips its skin. Every thought I have disappears.

  I am no longer who I am.

  Why doesn’t this bother me? I am inhabiting the body of…something else.

  I find myself running. Running with uninhibited joy and uncomplicated purpose.

  The smell of fresh, clean water, pine trees, and earth fills my senses. Heart racing, blood pumping—life pulses through me. Exuberant and free, I run and run. I’m part of this land, this magical earth.

  As I slow to a trot, my mind is open to the sounds of the forest, the late afternoon birdsong, the skittering of small animals in the undergrowth. I sit back on my haunches to look, to smell and listen.

  I smell everything—the earth; sun warmed rocks; the scent of rain in the wind. I hear everything, too; the rush of a nearby stream; grasses, and trees moving in the breeze; the sound of wind through the wings of a flying bird.

  My nose twitches. A musky scent warns me of a red fox den close by. I hear five heartbeats—four very fast, one slower. The fox is a vixen with four one-month-old pups. I smell the sweet tang of mother’s milk. They are not yet weaned.

  Fascinated by this rough earthy magic, I look down to see that my paws and fur are wet from a stream I crossed earlier. Stopping in the sun, I close my eyes, and feel the heat of it warm me. After my sprint, and my wade across the creek, my gray fur steams in the cooler afternoon air.

  The sun dries me. I stand up, and begin an easy lope. I’m circling my territory in search of game. A trace of warm-blooded life causes my nostrils to flare. What is it?

  Skidding to a soundless halt, I lift my nose into the air and sniff.

  I know this scent.

  Wolf instinct takes over before I’m aware of it even happening. Ears up, my body hunches forward, instinctively staying low to the ground. My nose twitches wildly as I attempt to place the smell, to recognize the creature.

  A delicate breeze picks up, carrying the scent to my quivering nostrils. The answer comes to me.

  Rabbit. Hot-blooded. Alive.

  The distinctive smell echoes through my senses. Generations of pack memory, and years of hunting in these woods slide into my consciousness.

  Licking my lips, I tremble, imagining fleshy tissue, oozing fat, and muscle. I envision my teeth sinking into meat. Breaking bones. Tearing into flesh. I recapture the scent, the weight, the speed, each defensive move, and how to best counter it. I remember the taste of fresh killed rabbit on my tongue.

  All of this takes less than a heartbeat.

  Alert and excited, I begin the hunt.

  Nose down, I find fresh tracks. I follow them, scenting every trail the animal has tramped, right back to its burrow. As I break through the underbrush, never losing the trail, branches brush against my late summer fur.

  My nostrils flare. The scent is stronger—I’m close. The prey is very near. The rabbit has left its den. Staying in the shadows, I pad into a noiseless walk.

  I’ve cut the animal off from the safety of its burrow.

  My mouth waters, my long tongue licks my teeth and lips. With silent steps, I stalk my food. The creature is close. The sound of its high-pitched death returns to me. I recall the noise it makes as I sink my teeth into its neck.

  Pulsing hot fresh blood and living flesh.

  Instinct links with memory.

  My stomach tightens. I know the sounds, the smells, the taste. I know when, why, and the manner in which my prey will run. There is no doubt of what I should do. No guilt. No confusion. I don’t worry some other wolf will judge me. I have no thought of consequences.

  In fact, I don’t think at all.

  The wondrous pleasure of being a wolf is—the wolf just knows.

  It’s simple being an animal.

  My mouth waters in anticipation. I slowly creep forward to spook the creature, and catch it as it attempts to flee.

  My muscles bunch, tensing in preparation. I taste its fear. The rabbit has nowhere to go. The creature suddenly leaps out of the brush, tearing away in a noisy rush. Twisting and turning, I revel in the pursuit, the hunt, the thought of a fresh kill.

  I was born for this.

  Terror increases the speed of our chase. I continue to fend it off, keeping it away from its burrow. It changes directions several times in the open meadow.

  Finally, it makes the wrong turn.

  As it spins in its attempt to get away, I catch it between my jaws. It’s small heart beats swiftly. It’s brutal fight to survive excites me.

  Crunch.

  Fur flying, bones breaking, flesh tearing. Hot blood gushes into my mouth. I feel its last desperate flicker of life, as it dies. The animal’s death scream lasts less than a heartbeat.

  Dropping the lifeless creat
ure on the grass, I push my nose into the animal’s torn neck. Its blood tastes sweet, clean and fresh. I lick it up before it spills down to feed the soil.

  The rabbit’s life essence rolls off my tongue, while I glory in the kill. A light breeze blows as a wave of magic and life fills me. I look up and gaze upon the perfect balance, sheer beauty, and perfection of this enchanted earth.

  Blood. Flesh. Bones. Death.

  This is what life is about.

  Satisfied all is right in my world, I begin to feed.

  Chapter 37. Waiting for The Other Shoe to Drop.

  The smell of seared beef, bread and vegetables wakes me from an incredibly sensory dream. It had been so real! I’ve never dreamt I was a wolf before.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” Stafford says with an affectionate grin, sitting down on the bed next to me, playfully riffling my hair. His smile melts my heart. He looks happy.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Four hours.”

  I sit up, rest against the headboard. “No way. Really?”

  He sets a tray over my lap. “Really. You must have needed it.” His voice softens. “After the…last time, I couldn’t wake you.” I feel his raw desire touch me like a living presence.

  The last time.

  A flush of heat runs through me, no doubt reddening my face. I’m not embarrassed—I’m turned on…again. I remember the last time. The man is literally an animal, and insatiable. We can’t seem to get enough of each other. I’ve never climaxed so many times in my life.

  Stafford’s nostrils flare—from what? The scent of sudden arousal?

  Geez, you can’t hide anything from a werewolf.

  I stare down at the food he brought me. “Oh, thank you. I’m starving.”

  “Bon appétit."

  Reaching over, Stafford pushes a lock of hair from my face, securing it behind my ear. His fingers gently brush against my cheek. His dark eyes smolder. Abrupt and unexpected, raw lust rips through me in a shock of pleasure.