She was lucky that she could multitask. She was still rinsing his hair, and Grace saw something that he would enjoy as much as a trip to a drunken proctologist. Slipping away with Burt and his fruit-flavored bees was the dark color of Caspian’s hair. Some witch she was! She tried to banish a demon and she banished his hair color? Pathetic.
But, perhaps this would be the catalyst for getting rid of him. He was clearly fussy about his hair, so when he found out that he was blond he would have a stroke. It’d be the end. Kaput. They’d be through. He was worse than a woman in that respect—unless he’d just been annoyed because he realized she was planning on banishing him. She imagined if she was on the receiving end of said intended banishment, she would feel insulted, too. Either way, he’d soon consider his part of their contract fulfilled and would be done with her completely.
But . . . if that was the case, she might as well grab a one-off. It’d be their last, so she could wholeheartedly enjoy it. She was secretly thankful that she wouldn’t have to try to figure out bad sex. That research would have been a jewel in the Hurts-Me-More-Than-You crown, of that she was certain. She was also certain she needed an unholy good time.
Since his hair was now clean, she looked down at her demon’s pitchfork and contemplated her next move. She debated sinking to her knees and taking him into her mouth . . . or maybe she’d just reach out and grab herself a handful. He seemed to think that it was fine for him to do with her, so why not turn the tables? Sometimes she thought that penises were separate creatures from the men they belonged to, anyway. His seemed to beckon her, whether he mentally wanted her to grab him or not. It had been staring at her for the entirety of her contemplations.
Grace splayed her hand across his abdomen, her fingers teasing Caspian as they slid toward her target. “Is your hair clean enough now, Miss Priss?” she asked with a playful curve of her lips.
His eyes were dark with desire, and there was nothing light in the hard set of his jaw, the sculpted perfection of his face. His responding kiss was brutal, his mouth demanding, yet his grip on her was tender—something entirely at odds with their previous encounters. Each time with Caspian was new and exciting.
She melted into his embrace, wondering if he was going to spank her again and deciding that she would let him. Everywhere their skin touched was afire, her nipples tight peaks scraping the broad expanse of his chest, her belly joined to the thick length of his erection. The back of her thigh tingled where his fingertips skimmed, guiding her leg up around his waist. She laid claim to the hard planes of his water-slicked body with her hands, tracing the lines of his back and shoulders, his hips.
And that ass! It should be illegal for a man to have that ass.
Just as the water grew cold, Grace found herself up to her neck in a hot tub. When she could think, she would have to remember to ask Caspian why he always teleported them when they were having sex. And, why not to a hot spring? This hot tub was familiar, but it was hard to place, especially when his tongue was doing things to her that made it impossible for her to think.
His mouth closed over her nipple. Caspian had positioned her so that his cock was rubbing her clit, and she threw her head back in abandon and didn’t give two damns about the hot tub any longer.
Just as she was about to demand more, he shifted again so that she was straddling him in a reverse-cowgirl position, leaning forward to use the side of the tub for support. She could feel his breath on her shoulder. Not that she needed it, but his arms were around her, his hands on her breasts, and she was anchored to him. And just as he entered her, she discovered a strategically placed water jet that doubled her pleasure as she rocked her hips against him.
He moved inside her, slowly, deliberately. There was a different kind of intensity to this encounter, something urgent but unknown. His movement, his ministrations—everything was measured and controlled and designed for her pleasure. The feel of him against her back was new, the breath on her skin and the slow caress of his hands on her breasts. And it was good. It was all so damn good.
Grace met his thrusts, grinding herself against him as she tightened herself around his cock only to release and pull him in again. She was so close, but she didn’t want to come yet. She wanted this sensation to last. She never wanted it to end.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
“Come for me, Grace.” Caspian pressed his mouth to her shoulder blade. “Come for me now. I want to hear my name on your lips as you do.”
“Caspian,” she cried softly.
“No. Louder. I want everyone to know who’s making you come. Whose cock are you riding? Tell him!”
“Caspian!” She gasped as the water jet increased in pressure like his thrusts. “Oh, God, Caspian!”
Electric pleasure shot through her, and her entire body contracted against the onslaught to release in a galaxy of stars and sensation. She relaxed against Caspian and realized that she didn’t even know if he’d gotten off. She took a deep breath and figured if he hadn’t, he would do something about it. And if not . . . ? Well, that was his problem.
“That was so good,” she sighed. “It’s always so good with you.”
The demon pushed her wet hair away from her forehead, kissed her softly and asked, “If it’s always so good, why did you try to banish me?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Night at the Opera
Michael Grigorovich was watching a show. His bill to the demon Ethelred was about to come due and he needed to relax. Carmen was in town and it was a particular favorite, especially the end. Of course, if he’d been Don José, he never would have been so stupid as to confess. Who gave a damn about a gypsy whore?
He smirked to himself as he looked at his new arm candy. Dina was blond, thin, and rich—everything that would have made Grace gnash her teeth together like junkyard machinery chewing through a rusted-out El Camino. She wasn’t physically attractive to him; he fucked her because he liked the power. It was like the ultimate grudge fuck.
She looked a bit like a famine victim, always hungry. He liked that. Also, she was more than willing to let him do all sorts of cruel things to her. She even enjoyed them. Of course, she liked to starve herself, too. That made him wonder how far he could push her before she snapped, how much pain he could convince her she liked. She was a new toy. He’d play with it until it broke.
Dina’s father leaned over and spoke. “You’ve got great taste. I’m impressed, Grigorovich.”
Of course you are, you pretentious bastard. You couldn’t get these tickets. The seats were practically impossible to obtain. But he waved his hand as if it were nothing.
“Let’s talk business after the show, shall we?” Dina’s father suggested.
Michael inclined his head and nodded. He’d just as soon shoot him in the face and take what he wanted, but Ethelred had told him to make nice and benefits would be forthcoming. This wasn’t turning out anything like he’d imagined. He’d thought he’d be a demon by now. Instead, his ass was in a sling, and it would be until Grace came to her senses—or until he talked her out of them.
A voice in the back of his head wondered if he should have actually bred with her. He should have at least told her he wanted a baby. Women seemed to think that meant something. And then he wouldn’t have added to his Hell-debt by implanting those memories, because they would have been real.
Of course, it was possible Grace would have been equally recalcitrant if a child existed. After all, there was no way Michael’s mother would sacrifice her life to save him. He couldn’t blame Nadja—he wasn’t about to go hanging his ass out on the line for her, either. He hoped she remembered that as she stewed in her limbo prison, neither living or dead, waiting for someone devoted enough to use the old magicks to release her. He pitied the creature who loved his mother enough to free her.
Sasha harbored soft feelings for Nadja. Michael knew that, but he hadn’t decided how to work it to his advantage. He was most thankful that no one knew where his mother rotted, waiti
ng for her chance to vent her poison. Michael was torn between admiring his mother’s strength and yearning for her approval and fearing her great power while hating it at the same time. And all the while, he coveted it as well.
Dina slipped her hand into his as the tenor sang. Michael allowed it, since her father was watching with an approving eye, but he couldn’t help but wish that she were Grace. Grace wouldn’t have tried to hold his hand or make any other public display of affection she knew he hated. Maybe when he’d succeeded and was a demon, he would raise her from the dead and keep her with him. She’d always been a good lay, and he’d have complete power over her then.
He glanced at Dina’s breasts. The low-cut dress did nothing for the flat, desolate plain of what was supposed to be her cleavage, and Michael was actually somewhat offended that she tried to pass herself off as a woman. If the bitch would eat, she might be hot. Then again, he did like her hungry look.
He smiled at his date, and she returned the expression. Sort of. That mouth too big for her sunken-in little face turned upward in a vulpine expression that was supposed to be a smile. He wanted to hold her down and force-feed her sausage gravy and chocolate cake. Together. Perhaps that’s what he would do to her, make her fat. Not just the Marilyn Monroe sort of classic voluptuousness that he found attractive; he would see if he could push her beyond that. She’d hate herself even more than she did now.
He gave her hand a little squeeze, and Dina seemed content in her place in the great wheel of his machinations. Yes, Ethelred had been correct yet again. Making nice had its advantages.
Feeling very satisfied, he caught sight of an elegant blond man seated nearby. The stranger seemed familiar and inclined his head. Michael returned the gesture in acknowledgment but was unsettled by his smile. Frankly, it was a look that Michael recognized, having worn it on his own face quite often. It was a sort of horrific glee, and seeing it on someone else did not bode well.
The blond man smiled wider and then kissed the tips of his fingers, extending his hand as if blowing Michael a kiss. He mouthed something Michael couldn’t quite catch but was clearly not a blessing on his mother. About five seconds later, the man was up and gone—the inconsiderate prick rose and left just as the gypsy hooker onstage was getting what was coming to her—and the most horrible sound gurgled out of Michael’s stomach. It was not unlike a toilet chugging down a full bowl of the abuse it had suffered after a college frat house’s taco night bender.
Dina’s eyebrows scurried up into her hairline like fleeing mice. She turned to look at him. “Are you okay?”
Michael nodded and crossed his legs. A small squeal erupted under his chair like there were four piglets fighting for a single teat. Michael felt his face flame, and Dina slowly turned her head to face the stage, her cheeks tinged pink.
He didn’t know why he was embarrassed. So he’d had some gas. So the fuck what? Everyone did. The average human male farted more times a day than he thought about sex. He was never going to see these people again, and if he did, they’d be puckering up for a good long blow on the rump horn just to get in his good graces. As far as he was concerned, he could perform the “William Tell Overture” out of his ass and these people should be thankful to hear it and expound upon his musical genius.
At least, that’s what Michael told himself to get his face to return to a neutral color.
The gurgling started again, but this time it was accompanied by intense pain. The sound was deeper. He wasn’t sure if he could get up, at least not without releasing a devil wind that was being restrained like the Kraken. With the pressure he was feeling, this was bound to be a tornadic assault. His entire body clenched, and he uncrossed his legs so he could better glue his cheeks together. He had a sudden terror of exploding there in the middle of the theater like some kind of new biological weapon.
Gritting his teeth against the stabbing in his gut, he glanced down at his belly as if he could will it into submission. If he’d been able to unclench his teeth, he would have gasped like a woman. His stomach was the size of a basketball and slowly inflating. He had to get up and get to the bathroom. If he didn’t, there was no doubt that his stomach would burst. That blond man had obviously cursed him. Michael would remember the bastard’s face, and when they next met there would be hell to pay—hell not unlike that he was in now.
Oh, no. He had to sneeze. The force of the sneeze would send atomic fire shooting out of his ass like a malfunctioning death ray. If he held the sneeze . . . well, he just didn’t think he could. Michael believed himself to be a man of few limitations, but this was one of them. He was in deep shit—or he soon would be. Literally.
He rose and fled, squeezing his thighs together, hoping that would help him at least make it to the mezzanine. Dina didn’t spare him a glance. She kept her head solidly facing front, which was just as well. If she’d chanced a look at him, she would have been sorry, especially if she opened her mouth to speak. Because, when the scent reached his own nose, Michael was sure the paint was going to curl off the walls.
He gagged a little as he slammed through the door to the men’s room. The attendant took one look and his left nostril flared, the rest of his face turning a garish purple. He coughed behind his hand, trying desperately to escape the stench.
A sound tore from Michael, an apocalyptic thunder that seemed to shake the very walls. The expelled air was something of a self-propulsion engine, and he barreled right through a stall door. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, the stall was already occupied.
“Somebody in here,” squeaked a high-pitched voice.
Michael looked down and saw a poor bastard sitting there with his white boxers hanging around his ankles, studying his iPhone over horn-rimmed spectacles. The game app he was playing made happy little noises.
“D-D-Didn’t you hear me?” the man stuttered.
Another thunderclap rattled Michael’s glutes like windowpanes in a hurricane, and he grabbed the guy by the shirt and heaved him out of the stall. The hapless gent went sprawling across the floor, his boxers still around his ankles; his lily white cheeks flew up in the air, two marshmallows fighting for dominance.
“Didn’t you hear me? Get out!”
Michael then slammed the door, and what followed was nothing short of Hiroshimic, mushroom cloud and all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Hot Tub
I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about,” Grace said as she took a redneck-like swig of the golden-hued champagne that Caspian handed her. Though, she did wonder why he hadn’t just conjured it. He’d been gone an awfully long time after making that accusation about her banishing him. Had he really just popped out to get some bubbly?
“Oh, no?” Caspian’s voice went up in pitch on the last word.
Grace shook her head. “Unh-uh,” she mumbled through a mouthful of booze. It wasn’t technically a lie.
“Grace. You don’t lie for shit.”
She set her glass down very carefully and ran her finger around its silver rim. “I don’t lie.”
“Then why is my hair blond?” He shouted the last word as if she were stone deaf.
“How am I supposed to know?”
“It’s banishing cream, Grace. You were mixing it. I seriously doubt that you’d prepare a Hell-stench like that without knowing what you were going to use it for.”
“Hell-stench?” She was indignant. He was impugning her potion-making skills, which was akin to insulting her cooking. “I thought it smelled like mangos. It was supposed to smell like mangos . . .” Her brow furrowed. Maybe demons smelled things differently. Especially banishing cream.
“Maybe mangos after they’ve been through someone-with-food-poisoning’s intestines.”
“Look, Caspian—”
He interrupted. “My hair, woman. Look what you’ve done to my hair!”
Grace had the good sense to act a bit sheepish. “Yeah, I’d noticed that. It’s, uh, very striking.”
“It’s balls is what
it is, witch. So it’s quite obvious you were trying to banish me. Well, if not me, someone. But I’m thinking me. What other demons have you been carousing with?” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been riding the demonic baloney pony with someone else now that I’ve given you powers of healing?”
“Jealous?” Grace taunted.
“Hell, yes. I broke you in for demon stick and now you’re hopping on someone else’s? Who wouldn’t be jealous?”
“Jealousy is a human emotion,” Grace shot back.
“So what?” Caspian said. “I was born to a human woman.”
“Really? Because—”
“No. Enough. Stop trying to change the subject. Who were you trying to banish? And for future reference, a banishing cream will not work on a Crown Prince of Hell. Not with the deal we made. Once you open that circle, I can stay out until Daddy calls to tell me playtime is over.”
“Maybe Ethelred,” Grace suggested.
“Ethelred? What did he do to you? Did Michael sic him on you?” The dark depths of Caspian’s eyes burned with intensity, and his demonic nature was never more evident. They were sitting in a hot tub that had been previously soothing, but now the heat bordered on unbearable.
She was sorely tempted to blurt out the truth, but if it wouldn’t make him leave, why bother? He was a demon, and she couldn’t exactly trust him. Demons had big egos and cocks, and often tiny brains. He’d just do something that would push Michael over the edge and Nikoli would be dead.
“Grace!” he demanded.
She didn’t say anything. The flame had spread from Caspian’s eyes into a black halo around him, and as his rage built, so did that fire. She knew that the water was going to boil her soon, but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even move, because her fear held her frozen. She’d always kept it in the back of her mind that Caspian was a demon, but she’d never seen his power spiraling out of control like this. It had just been great sex and word games. But now he was shedding his façade and displaying the power of Hell. Michael was dangerous, but he was mortal. Caspian was something else.
How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days Page 9
