Muriel bit her lip, trying to force herself to find him ugly in some way. “What do you know about first aid?”
“It’s the oldest trick in the book to gain confidence. You tag team a mortal. One demon attacks while the other saves them and nurses them back to health. That way you’re their best friend.” He smiled to himself, as if thinking of all the mortals he had destroyed.
“A hard position when you’re sucking their soul away.” She jumped as one of his big hands gently pushed her to lean back over the sink; her back arched and her breasts pushed close to his mouth.
The sudden image of him stroking her naked breasts with his tongue caused her legs to go weak. He stepped in closer and his thighs were against hers. His erection was a not so subtle bulge pushing against her stomach.
Muriel closed her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. At least he had the decency to keep his mouth shut about their compromising position.
The sudden burning pain of the peroxide cleansing her shoulder combined with the cold excess running down her back was enough to chase away any arousal. She hissed at the sensation.
She needed to distract herself from the double whammy of his proximity and the pain. “Do you bite a lot of women?”
“Demons bite during sex. We aren’t the most civil creatures in bed,” he casually said as he gently wiped the peroxide away with a towel. “I wanted the men I was with to think we were fucking.”
Muriel absorbed the information. She supposed that she knew that demons bit during sex, but she’d always assumed that they liked causing pain, not necessarily to enhance the experience.
His hands continued to softly tend to her wounds. The care he was taking with her was disconcerting. She was expecting angry and brutish. Not seductive and tender.
“Becoming friends with me won’t work. I still remember you’re the one who did this,” she pointed out.
“Well, thanks to you, your pain is my pain. I know this stings.” He finished applying the bandage over the wound. “Have you figured out the main flaw in your plan yet?”
The undeniable sexual attraction I have to you? “Not yet. What have you figured out?”
“You can’t change your shirt with the handcuffs on.”
Muriel smiled. “No problem. The binding spell on the handcuffs was the hard part. It was easy enough to bespell some shirts. Hands-free dressing for the time being.”
“That’s good,” he said, though she assumed he was not too pleased by her foresight. “Is this one of them?” he asked, referring to her torn work shirt.
“This? No. I’m not planning to work with you hanging off my wrist,” she said with a crooked grin.
That was all the permission he needed before he ripped her shirt all the way down the center. Muriel was grateful for her modest bra, because her entire top half was bared to him. Nervousness caused her to gulp in air, but this only caused her breasts to move closer to him on every inhale.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he muttered.
Had one night really seemed that long to him?
His eyes lingered on her bra-covered breasts for a few drawn-out moments, and Muriel couldn’t stop her nipples from hardening. She told herself it was the cold and not his burning gaze, but she knew better. Luckily for her state of mind, he turned to leave the bathroom without touching them.
“What do you sleep in?” he asked as though he hadn’t just been drooling over her. She almost thought she imagined the brief interlude.
“Pajamas,” she answered, knowing that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. For one of the first times that night, she actually led him somewhere as she rifled through one of her drawers until she found a modest pink shirt and purple, loose-fitting lounging pants.
Her work shirt still hung from her cuffed arm, but instead of searching through the house for scissors, she looked to Kier. “Do you mind?”
She held her arm closer to him, and he must have understood what she meant because he reached up and ripped the material completely off with one hand.
The tugging against her skin caused some pain, but that was nothing compared to the shot of arousal that reverberated through her body. “Thanks,” she muttered.
She held the pink shirt to her stomach, closed her eyes and concentrated. Seconds later, the shirt left her hands and covered her.
“Neat trick,” he said. “Mine’s better.” In one second, his gray shirt, jeans, and shoes were gone, replaced with a pair of loose-fitting sleeping pants.
She hadn’t bothered to ask Esmeralda to bespell any clothes for him. Demons were able to conjure clothes to fit whatever situation they needed. The better to corrupt mortals, if they needed to.
As an angel, Muriel had the same ability. It was an easy task that most celestial beings could do. Fallen angels had none of those talents.
If she’d known what he was about to do, she could have prepared her mind, but before she could blink, he moved closer until he was just an inch away, his naked chest close enough that she could feel the heat coming from him. The muscles in his broad chest rippled with the movement and begged for her touch. God help her, but she wanted to touch him.
The intense heat from his body seared into her. How could a demon be so hot? Did the fires of Hell give them extra heat? What would his chest feel like against her palm? Her cheek?
“You’re staring. If I didn’t know better, I would say that you like how I look,” said Kier.
His voice broke the spell. “Um, yeah,” she muttered, unable to think of anything to say to defend her obvious approval of his shirtless form. She settled for changing the subject. “I’m exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”
“I’ve wanted that since I saw you,” he whispered.
Muriel frowned. He must have meant since he’d seen her that night. No doubt sex had been far from his mind the night they had truly first met.
She cautiously climbed onto the full-size bed and Kier had no choice but to follow. The bed was much too small for him, and his feet hung off the edge if he didn’t bend his knees.
The cuffs didn’t make lying down comfortable. After trying a few different positions, Muriel settled for lying on her side, facing Kier. He looked at her, his black eyes calculating his next move.
Her body was exhausted from all the night’s events, but her mind raced. Was he thinking of ways to kill her? Would he find some way out of the handcuffs that she was unaware of? How could she sleep if a demon was in her bed, looking right at her?
“You are safe enough for the night. Sleep tight, my angel.”
He might have been trying to be comforting, but the words sent rage through her. “My angel.” He had called her those same words the night he had forced his foul blood down her throat.
Through the haze of her desire for him, she had lost sight of her purpose. This was an evil demon in bed with her, and she intended to ruin his soul, just like he had ruined hers.
It took a long while, but Muriel eventually fell asleep, which left Kier with very little to do besides watch her. Demons didn’t need sleep like mortals did. A few power naps a week gave him all the energy he needed.
Besides, what else would he rather be doing than watching his fallen angel? And she was his, no matter what she thought.
She had haunted his mind for the past five years. He’d tried a thousand ways to rid himself of her constant presence, but he had failed miserably. Five years of resisting temptation, all thrown away for nothing more than the possibility of seeing her working for a few moments. A momentary lapse in his resolve gave her just the chance she needed to catch him. Bind him.
He only planned to sneak a peek, throwing out a few cutting words and leaving her alone. Now that he had been with her, spent time with her, he was determined to keep her.
He didn’t believe the shit about his soul being corrupted by her proximity. She wasn’t a full angel anymore, and he had already darkened her soul. How much damage could a fallen angel’s corrupted soul cause?
Besides, it c
ouldn’t be bad if it felt so good to him. He laughed inwardly at the logic. How many times had he said the same reassurances to the humans whose souls he fed from?
Didn’t matter, he told himself. She’s mine.
And no matter how much she tried to fight it, Kier knew she wanted him. He had felt her desire reverberate through his body numerous times. Even if he wasn’t mystically connected to her emotions, he would have known.
She looked at him with obvious feminine appreciation. He saw her pupils dilate while her nipples would harden. Not even her modest bras could hide her reaction to him. His cock had been hard since the moment he walked into that restaurant, and he knew he would have himself buried deep between her thighs sooner rather than later.
She shifted in her sleep and her breasts moved closer to him. He cursed the bra she wore. He never met a woman who wore a bra to bed. He knew she was only wearing one because of him. She wanted as many layers between the two of them as possible. He made her uncomfortable.
He smiled wickedly at the thought. No amount of layers would protect her from him. He reached out his free hand and softly brushed the soft swell of a breast. Muriel moaned in her sleep and moved toward the touch as he growled his approval. Feeling bolder, he lifted the weight of her breast and molded it to his hand. Muriel thrashed on the bed and Kier knew she wanted more. Her unconscious mind knew it needed but didn’t realize what it was craving.
Her latest movement pushed her breasts against his chest. She had fantastic breasts. Big enough to more than fill his large hands. He wanted to see them but couldn’t risk her waking. He would just have to imagine the rosy, flushed colors of her nipples as they hardened under his touch and begged for his mouth.
He remembered bending her over the sink. They had been pushed right into his face, and the dark look on Muriel’s face told him that she was imagining all sorts of naughty things. He had similar images in his own mind. He had seen himself paying each breast special attention. Tongue teasing one pink tip while his hand kept the other satisfied.
Kier’s cock surged in arousal. He shifted a bit, moving his bound hand closer to him and in the process, slightly adjusting her wrist. He was motionless for a few long seconds, waiting to see whether she had awoken. Her steady breaths signaled that she still slept soundly.
His bound hand went back to caressing and massaging her breast while the other moved to his cock. He wrapped his hand around the base that was now hard as steel. He imagined her hand touched him. She was inexperienced with the ways of men. He could tell she had remained chaste by her frequent blushes and modest underwear. She had been around long enough to know the ins and outs of sex. She had probably even fucked an angel or two in her long life, but the sterile mating of angels was nothing compared to the passion that mortals and demons experienced during sex.
He would teach her how great it could be. He would have her begging for more.
He imagined her begging for his cock to fill her. Her kneeling in front of him, taking his cock in her mouth while her hands gripped the base. She would eagerly take him as far in her throat as she could while he would wrap his hands in her hair and show her how he wanted her.
His hand moved faster, up and down his length, as he imagined that it was her tongue. He would come in her mouth, and she would swallow every drop. It wouldn’t be enough for her. She would want more. She would want him on top of her. Inside her. He would throw her on the bed and fall on top of her, already hard. In a second, he would plunge between her thighs, sliding deep and long inside her.
She would be a little animal under him, screaming and clawing, but only because she loved it so much. Then he would fuck her as if their lives depended on it. She would orgasm around his cock, screaming for him. Her tight pussy walls would grip his length, holding him tightly to her while her nails would leave tracks down his back.
The images of her, head thrown back, breasts up, while screaming for him and squeezing his cock was too much. His breath came in quick pants as his seed released, covering his hand and pants.
He lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He looked over to her still sleeping form and realized that his bound hand was clutching tightly at her breast. Muriel groaned in her sleep and pushed herself deeper into his touch. Careful not to wake her, he removed his hand from her and wiped his other hand on his pants. He smiled to himself while thinking about the possible reactions if she woke up to find him in this state. He would spare her the embarrassment. With a quick thought, he was covered with a new and clean pair of sweatpants.
She would never need to know his dirty thoughts toward her while she slept. He might tell her anyway. For fun.
Azazel looked down upon the trembling prophet. A pathetic example of one.
In their heyday, prophets were as close to God as humanity got. They were exalted and cherished. Now they lived in secret and in fear. Instead of exalting in their power, they hid away from the world. Trying to be normal.
Tears streamed down the prophet’s pale and ashen skin while silent sobs shook his body. Azazel looked at the two guards he brought with him, signaling that they could relax. This man would be no trouble.
The guards let go of the prophet’s arms and he slumped limply to his knees.
Azazel knelt next to him and planted a concerned look on his face. “Shhh now. It’s all over.”
The man bent over his folded legs and continued to sob.
Azazel curled his lip in disgust. Really, what male ever allowed himself to get in this state?
“Why—why did you have to kill her?” he stuttered out between sobs.
Trying to regain the man’s focus, Azazel moved so his body would block the sight of the dead woman lying in the corner of the room.
“Jackson, focus. Your wife didn’t care about you. She sold you out, remember? She tried to get you locked away.” Not completely true, but she had called her psychiatrist to ask advice for a hallucination-suffering husband.
It was just good luck that a demon had been sucking the soul out of the doctor’s next patient on the other side of the door. Well, good luck for Azazel. Not so much for the prophet and his dearly departed wife.
“Samantha!” he cried with glazed-over eyes.
Azazel gripped the bottom of Jackson’s jaw. Long and claw-tipped nails bit sharply into the skin, and he turned the prophet’s face to look him straight in the eyes. Jackson’s eyes widened in fear, truly seeing Azazel for the first time.
From far away, his short stature kept him from appearing too intimidating, but up close there was no denying his power. His chest and shoulders rippled with muscles that rivaled Arnold’s during the height of his bodybuilding career.
He had a broad forehead with a wide and flat nose, making him look closer to Neanderthal than homo sapiens. When he spoke again, he revealed long white fangs that caused Jackson to shudder in revulsion.
“You are afraid. I understand. You should be afraid of me. All you have to do is tell me what you saw in your vision last week. It was me in the vision?”
Jackson nodded a shuddering head. Azazel rolled his eyes. If he’d known that the woman’s death would put his prophet in such a state, he would have waited to kill her.
She hadn’t given him much of a choice. Her incessant screaming and crying when Azazel and his two young demon guards transported into her living room had been enough to wake even the soundest sleepers within ten miles. He had even asked her to be quiet before he snapped her neck. He hadn’t asked nicely, but the king of Hell could only be expected to show so much patience.
A sound drew Azazel’s attention. Someone else in the house was crying. An infant.
Azazel smiled at his changing luck. Finally he had some leverage again.
He dropped the nice guy act. His gentle smile slowly turned to one that dripped malice. “You see my guards over there? If you don’t start talking, they are going to make sure your brat never makes a noise ever again.”
“Please let me go,” he begged.
Azazel grabbed the prophet’s wrist and squeezed until the bones beneath his fingers turned to mush under the power of his grasp. Samantha’s screams paled in comparison to the cries of agony that emanated from her husband.
“Did I give the impression that I’m patient? I assure you that this is the last time I’m asking. What did you see?”
Azazel released his grip and Jackson cradled the now useless hand to his chest. Strangely enough, the intense pain seemed to finally get him to stop crying like a child. “I saw a woman. She walked through an alien-looking forest. The skies were dark purple and there was lots of wind and debris blowing around her. She was running. Trying to evade someone, but she doesn’t look scared. She looks pissed off. She finds a large and ornate building and walks in and sees you surrounded by people. The vision goes black for a second and then I see you dead at her feet.”
Azazel analyzed the words, committing them to memory. “How dead am I?”
“Your heart is in her hand.” Hatred shot from Jackson’s eyes.
“That might be what you saw, but prophets get more than just visions. What did you feel?” There had to be some sort of useful information hidden in the prophecy.
The child’s cries filled the room again. The noise must have reminded Jackson of all he still had to lose because he started to talk again. “The girl wasn’t normal. She was special. I can’t put my finger on how I know this, but I know she used to be an angel.”
“A fallen angel is going to walk into Hell and kill me?” Azazel couldn’t hide the shock from his voice. Fallen angels just didn’t enter Hell. They couldn’t.
“She’s more than that. In my vision, she was brokenhearted, and that pain was what gave her the power to kill you.”
Azazel considered the prophet before him. He had volunteered the last bit of information without any prodding from him. Maybe he could be trained after all. Prophets were scarce and all he needed was one. Every prophet saw the same visions at the same time. Azazel had heard rumors of his forthcoming demise and demanded that a prophet be found as soon as possible.
Her Very Own Demon (Evil Rising, #3) Page 4
