Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  “My angel, above. The firmament between.” He touched her face, her breasts and belly. Moved his other hand, still between her thighs, where she was hot and wet. “Flood and furnace. It has left its mark, but there is no part of you that is Hell for me—and the only torment would be losing you again.” He drew her back down against him.

  “Good,” she said fiercely against his mouth. “Because I’m too greedy to let you take your love back, and too selfish to push you away.”

  “Good,” he echoed, and traced the seam of her lips with his tongue. Dipped inside to taste before pulling back. “Let me be kind to you, Lily.”

  But it was not kindness when the delicious torture of his fingers halted, and he withdrew his hand. She snarled in protest, but he only laughed, the sound roughened by his arousal. “Up,” he said, pushing her up over the length of his torso, tugging down her waistband at the same time.

  “Oh, yes,” she said as she realized his intent, and scrambled forward on her knees, kicking at the pants until they came off. “God, yes, be kind. Be very, very—” The heat of his mouth seared through her, and she fell, her elbows hitting the rug, bracing her only by virtue of their construction, because every other bone in her body seemed suddenly weak and useless.

  She gasped as his tongue brushed her clit, when it returned to stroke more firmly. Then she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. His hands curled around her thighs, held her against him—but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not with his tongue licking, darting, suckling. Trembling, she looked again, and he tilted his head back to watch her watching him, canted her hips to keep her against his mouth.

  Leisurely now, he licked through the soft folds. Used his lips to tease at her clit. Her jaw clenched against the whimpering moans of pleasure that built inside her with each luscious slide of his tongue, and she only heard the wet slick sounds, the low encouraging noises that came from his throat. Until he said, “Open for me, Lily,” and she laughed, shuddering with need, wondering how she could open any more for him.

  He licked. “I won’t settle for half.” She thought he was throwing her words back at her, and she shook her head. He needn’t worry—this wasn’t half, he was giving her everything. But he growled with frustration and rolled her over. Pinned her wrists to the floor. “You don’t have to hide from me. Lie, if you must, if you can’t tell me with truth. But don’t hide. Not when I’m touching you, not when I’m inside you.”

  And she realized she had been holding back, refusing him her response except for those she could not control. She’d been conditioned for too long; denying herself any pleasure, denying the acknowledgment of it.

  She pulled her hands free. She didn’t have to use her strength; he let her go, but didn’t move from between her legs. His muscles were rigid with tension. His eyes searched her face, as if waiting for her to come to a decision.

  And a part of her rebelled—he’d hidden from her—but the need in his expression quelled that vengeful little voice. She would do unto him in this, if only this—if only Hugh.

  “I don’t want you to touch me,” she said.

  His lips parted, his head bowed in relief. “Lie to me again,” he said.

  She grinned, and smoothed her hands over the muscular planes of his chest. “I don’t want you inside me. I don’t want you to be kind to me.” She tugged, and his shirt joined his glasses on the sofa. Threaded her fingers through his dark hair, pulled him down and kissed him long and deep. His fingers worked between them, and then his skin was bare against hers.

  He filled her palm, his length hot and hard. Each stroke of her hand pulled a harsh breath from him.

  “I don’t want to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

  He groaned, thrust into her tight grip. The protuberant head was slick, and she swirled her thumb over it.

  Laughing softly, she said, “I think you have a word fetish. Fuck.” She whispered it into his ear, and he jerked against her. “Why, my virtuous Norman knight likes a dirty Anglo-Saxon word. And lies.”

  “Only when you say them.” His laugh was tortured.

  She licked his mouth. “I don’t want you to fuck my—”

  “Lilith, for god’s sake!” He fumbled with his pants, lying discarded beside them. “I need pity.”

  She did, too. He rose up on his knees, and he was beautiful, his erection ruddy with need, arching toward his navel. Her breath hitched, and the slow, throbbing ache centered in her core twisted, speared through her. His eyes were dark as he unrolled the sheath over his cock.

  And then he bent, lifted her easily and set her on the edge of the large ottoman, hooked her legs over his arms. The leather was buttery soft beneath her.

  “Do you want to watch?”

  “No,” she said and couldn’t look away as he pressed against her, slid the thick head of his cock up and down, teasing.

  He pushed forward. Sank into her.

  It burned and stretched. Pain, just a little, but it was good—she hadn’t felt it when she’d been a demon. She panted and writhed against her seat as he went deeper, feeding his shaft into her inch by slow inch.

  He paused, his breathing harsh. “Am I hurting you?”

  Yes and no were both lies, both truth. In answer, she pushed toward him. Full penetration, and she cried out, unable to contain it.

  “Aye, Lily—like that. Let me hear it again.” He withdrew, then stroked thickly back inside. Braced his forearms on either side of her. Another thrust, slowly, and he groaned in triumph, in pleasure as another cry tore from her. “I’m greedy, too,” he said.

  Her laugh ended on a scream as he began to drive into her, hard and fast, but even that sound was cut short as his mouth took hers and his tongue and breath pulled and pushed in rhythm with his cock. Unable to keep still, she arched up against him. Dropped her feet to the floor and lifted. And almost sobbed as the new angle allowed him even deeper, hitting just right with every sharp thrust, an overwhelming, terrible pleasure.

  He slid his hand beneath her, to support her or to hold her still for him, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Short lunges now, each one quick and unbearably perfect. And her orgasm ripped through her, an unexpected release that left her shaken, falling, clinging to him inside and out.

  Gradually, she became aware of his skin, slick with perspiration. The muscles in his back flexing under her hands. He slowed, waited as if to give her time to come back to herself.

  Had it always been like this: laughing one moment, intense and earth-shattering the next? Full of need, then certain she’d never want for anything else? She could never be restless with him, never bored—never had been. Even stillness with him was a constant revelation.

  She pressed her lips to his throat, blinked away the burning behind her eyes. “Four days is enough.”

  And then she pivoted, knocking him back, sprawling atop him. Rode him as she’d promised once, threatened hundreds of times. His fingers tightened; she didn’t remember threading hers through his, but their palms were locked together.

  “I can’t love you,” she said, and the thrust of his lean hips became erratic, a staccato beat.

  “Lie.” He panted the word.

  She clenched her teeth, bore down, grinding against him. “I shouldn’t love you.” He tensed beneath her, and her name was a plea on his lips. But shouldn’t was Lucifer’s lie, not hers.

  “I don’t love you,” she lied instead, and he arched beneath her, shuddering. The pulse of his release sent tremors through her again, and she didn’t resist the simple human pleasure of it.

  She lay on his chest, felt the racing of his heart, his ragged breathing. They eased, and he finally managed to say, “I should have given in the night on the wall walk.”

  Laughing, she turned her head and bit his shoulder. Licked, tasted salt and warm, satisfied male. His hand smoothed down the length of her spine. She glanced up at him, but he was staring at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused.

  “I’ll find a way, Lilith,” he said quietly, and unease sh
ivered over her skin.

  But she didn’t object when he mistook it for cold and was kind to her again.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Oh, Liiiiil-LITH!” Her father’s singsongy call became a roar, demanding obedience. She tasted dirt and blood, and her stomach heaved in revulsion.

  “If you puke, you’re going to die.” He sounded pleased by the idea.

  Lilith forced her eyes open. Lucifer perched weightlessly on her stomach like a vulture. He’d adopted the form of a towheaded young boy, eight or nine years of age; his jeans and T-shirt were pristine and dry despite the misting rain.

  She tried to speak, but her tongue lay stiff and cold in her mouth. Lucifer tilted his head and smiled.

  “You’ve got just enough left in you,” he said. Plunging two fingers into the wound in her chest, he wriggled them around. “If he’d taken your head off, I wouldn’t be bothering with this now.” He wrapped his free hand around her jaw; withdrawing his blood-slicked fingers, he slipped them into her mouth.

  “ ‘The blood is the life,’ ” he crooned, and then giggled.

  A scream built in her throat but she dared not release it. She kept her mind and expression carefully blank. He could do much worse than this—would do worse if he knew the extent of her fear.

  “I’m extremely displeased, Lilith,” he said conversationally. “Are you a succubus? No. And yet you stood there: a whore with your mouth and legs open, begging for his sword. ‘Kill me, kill me!’ ” He imitated her voice, his expression disgusted. “Where was the woman who, only two thousand years ago, sobbed so pathetically? ‘I don’t want to die!’ You accepted my Gift—and let a Guardian take it without a fight?”

  His voice had been rising, each word a thundering shout. A second mouth opened above his eyebrows, its voice terrifyingly calm.

  “The same Guardian for whom you betrayed me before!”

  From his forehead, he said, “I try to imagine your reason for allowing him to Fall.”

  “This is the second time you’ve proved your worthlessness and ruined my plans.”

  “You did not kill him, but perhaps your redemption lies in his humanity.”

  “But you won’t again, Lilith; there is no more room for your errors.”

  “He would not have belonged to me, but as a human he will be fragile, susceptible—and he has shown his weakness: you.”

  “You no longer believe there is no light without darkness?”

  “My plans for him are ripe, but all the pieces are not yet in place.”

  “I’ll enjoy reminding you.”

  “Until that time, I have another project in mind for you.”

  Both pairs of lips smiled, and the mouths spoke together. “We will wait, Lilith. When the time comes, you will succeed where you failed before; his death will be yours to give, or your soul mine to keep. Have we a bargain?”

  No, no, please, no. But she couldn’t respond; he sighed, grabbed her hair and rocked her head back and forth in a disjointed nod.

  “Wonderful!” he crowed. Reaching over her shoulder, he unfolded something from the ground and brought it to his lower mouth. The scent of it was both sickening and achingly familiar: Hugh’s robe, soaked in her blood.

  Lucifer began sucking on the coarse fabric, and the mouth on his forehead said, “He buried you, did you realize that? Shedding tears all the while. Quite touching. He wrapped you in this thing and stuck you in the ground.” His cheeks puffed out as his mouth filled. “Did he think to give you peace? Foolish Guardian. There is enough blood here to reanimate you a thousand times over. And I don’t even have to do the rest. You remember last time—” He made a slashing motion with his left hand, and Lilith whimpered.

  He grinned. “That’s my girl. You’ve been a very good girl, haven’t you? But that has to change: it’s time to be bad again.” Dropping the robe onto her chest, he leaned forward. Blood dribbled from his mouths. “Give Daddy a kiss.”

  “Better now?”

  Even before she nodded and said she was, Hugh knew she would lie. Sighing, he helped her to her feet, then closed the toilet lid and flushed. There’d been nothing left in her stomach at the last, but she’d still heaved as if her body could purge whatever the nightmare had left in her.

  He knew the feeling well. Had recognized the terror and sickness when she’d bolted from the bed, her hand over her mouth. And though he’d known she’d hate him witnessing it—would consider it a weakness in herself—he’d remained with her, leaving only for a moment to collect pajama bottoms for himself and a covering for her. They’d been in the cramped, cold bathroom for almost an hour, silence between them but for his soothing murmurs when each bout of retching had taken her.

  She swayed. He steadied her, his hands on her waist. The thin flannel robe he’d placed over her shoulders slipped, and he tucked her arms through the sleeves, tied the sash.

  “Bulimia . . .” Her face was still pale, but as if to signify that she had finished vomiting, she reached up and pulled apart the messy braid Hugh had made to keep the hair from her face. “. . . is a necessary evil; I am too vain to gain an ounce.”

  He smiled and wordlessly handed her his toothbrush.

  She met his gaze in the mirror as she scrubbed her teeth. Her eyes were dark and haunted, and his chest ached when she looked away. She spat and rinsed before carefully replacing the toothbrush in its container. Each movement was deliberate and precise, overly studied in its attempt at normalcy.

  His throat tightened; she seemed brittle, overwhelmed. Yet he couldn’t leave her alone. Searching for something trivial, something to make her smile, he glanced down at the uncluttered shelf beside the sink. “Throwing up will keep you thin, but if you are to completely indulge your vanity, we’ll need lady-things: lotions, perfumes.” Her profile was to him; her lashes were lowered, a thick sweep against her cheek. Her black hair tumbled the length of her back. “Cosmetics, though you don’t need them. Brushes and jeweled combs. Spices and silks.” He would gladly give her anything.

  “Another razor,” she said, turning toward him. Self-consciously, he touched his jaw, remembered the whisker burn on her skin. But she only pulled aside the bottom of the plaid robe, exposing the tops of her thighs, the length of her legs. “I dulled yours shaving.”

  His gaze skimmed from thighs to feet, and he sighed. “So you truly weren’t pleasuring yourself in the shower earlier.”

  “My vanity could hardly bear you seeing stubble.” Her hand slipped between her thighs, and she arched a brow. “But I couldn’t finish the rest.” She lifted the edge of the robe higher.

  “There are refills in the cabinet,” he said, his mouth dry.

  She traced her fingers through the dark curls. “Shall I shape it like a heart?” Her eyes glittered with wicked laughter. “An arrow, pointing you in the right direction?”

  He choked, torn between amusement and arousal. Though his erection was suddenly painful in its intensity, straining against the front of his pajamas, he remained where he was and watched her play.

  How many times had he had her? He’d essentially spent the entire day within her, but it still wasn’t enough—and the moonlight spilling through the room reminded him he had only three days left.

  He forced that sorrow away as she leaned back against the wall, raised her knee and braced it against the sink. She shrugged, and flannel whispered to the floor. “Look”—she exposed pink flesh, swollen with desire; her slim fingers slid down, then inside, and his entire body clenched with need—“at how wet I am.”

  “Lilith—”

  Her back arched, and she licked her lips. “AmI a bad girl, Professor?”

  A change came over her, as if she’d said it in jest but it had struck a different note within her. Her mouth twisted, her eyes hardened. Hate and anger in that look—but not directed at him.

  Before she could twist it back at herself, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. “I haven’t seen any evidence that you are, Lilith.” Challenge in his voice. “Nothi
ng that earns the reputation you’ve cultivated, anyway.”

  She blinked, and her gaze refocused on him. Her foot dropped to the floor. Her smile was slow and dangerous. “You’re going to pay for that.”

  An hour later, his throat was raw, his voice all but gone. Two hours later, she finally let him come, and he went over soundlessly, certain his jaw would never unclench and his body would never have enough of her lips and tongue. Never enough of the scratch of her fingernails and grip of her hand. The bite of her teeth and the rasp of her voice. Or the slick, heated clasp of her sex.

  They had no more condoms; she’d taken him without barriers, and then used it against him, riding him to her climax several times though he could not take his own. And again, using her hands and lips and tongue until he was on the verge of orgasm, then sheathing him inside her body, forcing him to hold back. A sweet torment, to have what he most desired, but unable to have it in full. Exquisite agony to choose between the pleasure of being inside her, or release—and then to be denied choice. He had begged, but did not know what he begged for: both choices were torture, both mercy. Now she wiped the seed from his abdomen with a soft washcloth, and each stroke quivered through his sensitized flesh. He laughed silently; he’d thought his muscles were all but water, but they still responded to her touch.

  “This was stupid,” she said, but her tone was smug. He would have argued—provoking her had been the smartest decision he’d ever made—but his voice didn’t work.

  She tossed the cloth to the floor and untied his wrists. The bindings hadn’t been tight, but it was a relief to lower his arms, to touch her as she lay down on her side next to him and propped her chin on her fist.

  She looked down at him and laid her other hand on his chest. “I don’t know that I can have children, anyway. I didn’t when I was alive before.” She leaned over, kissed his eyelids. “And despite immortality leaving its mark, not everything is healed, or made better, or stronger. You’re still practically blind; I may still be barren.”