. . . and the girl came across a cobra curled up against the freezing night air. The cobra begged her to stop and carry him in her pocket until the sun rose in the morning, but she refused. “You will bite me,” she said. But the cobra promised not to. “I will die here; if you save me, I will treat you as a friend.” The girl was too soft-hearted to let him freeze, and so she picked him up and put him in her pocket. She’d taken not two steps before she felt his fangs against her breast. “Why?” she cried, her voice weak from the poison. “You said you would not!”
“It is my nature,” the cobra replied, “And you knew what I was.”
Cold hands clasped her hips, pulled her back to gyrate against her. Vampire, but not Colin’s hands. His were warm. He could walk in the sun. He was beautiful and charming.
She’d thought if she offered her blood to him, she wouldn’t be hurt by it.
She should have known better.
Frigid fingers drifted beneath her shirt, along the curve of her waist. It felt fantastic. Her skin was tight, burning, and his hand trailed over her stomach like a block of ice. His cold form rocked against her back. His erection. Perhaps he could cool her from inside, make her forget . . .
But no—that was one of the drawbacks of her memory. Her mother’s screams, forever captured. Her brother’s tortured, bubbling breaths. Her father’s silence.
And Colin’s fangs buried in her throat, desolation and horror tearing through her mind as her body shuddered beneath his.
He’d done it to teach her a lesson—and, by god, she had learned. Her brain had gotten the message.
Her body had not.
She was on fire. Alcohol hadn’t dulled it, water hadn’t doused it. She hated being drunk; she couldn’t think.
A shiver wracked her when his fingers slid higher. Her nipples drew tight beneath the silk.
“You’re so hot,” said the rough voice behind her.
Like a demon. Averaging 106.7 degrees Fahrenheit, 41.5 degrees Celsius, 314.65 degrees Kelvin. Or did he mean it in that you’re-sexy-come-home-with-me way? Didn’t he have a partner to share blood and a bed with? Perhaps he was one of those vampires whose partner had been killed by the nosferatu.
Vampires didn’t drink from humans, not unless they intended to transform them. If that was what he offered, why not take him up on it? She was going to eventually anyway.
He could turn her, and she would live forever.
Clammy lips touched the back of her neck. Cold, wet—like the nosferatu. Oh, god. This wasn’t what she’d promised Nani. She ripped out of his grasp, staggered forward.
Colin caught her. He hadn’t been there a moment before; she was certain of it. She’d seen him at his table, where he’d spent the whole of the night. Watching her.
She hadn’t known he could move so quickly.
His arm circled her waist, his chest hard and warm against hers. He didn’t look at her, but over her head. His jaw clenched in a tight line.
Behind her, the vampire babbled incoherently.
“He didn’t do anything,” Savi said quickly. She’d seen that expression on Hugh’s face once, when Lilith had come home with a knife wound across her chest after a fight with a vampire. Had Lilith not already killed it, Savi was certain Hugh would have left the house and not come back until he’d done the same.
But this vampire didn’t deserve to pay for her mistake, her stupidity, her drunkenness. How to convince Colin?
Trying not to slur, she said, “Your lips are beautiful.”
He flinched, and lowered his gaze. “You bloody foolish chit. You think to manipulate me?” he said through gritted teeth, but his eyes softened as he searched her features, as he inhaled her breath. “Christ. You’re completely foxed.”
“Deep in my cups,” she agreed, nodding.
He blinked. After a long moment, a smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Sweet Savitri—what have you been reading?”
She needed to stop looking at him; surely he was worse for her brain than alcohol. But the firm curves of his upper lip were extraordinary—the dip in the center looked as wide as her forefinger. She reached up to test it.
“I had a phase about five years ago. I read about lords and ladies. Waltzes. Did you waltz?” The faint stubble was rough against her fingertip; a perfect fit.
Colin gripped her wrist, pulled it away and slid his hand down to clasp his palm against hers. “Yes.” His other hand settled over her hip. “Toss him out,” he said to someone behind her. “Clear them all out.”
And he swept her off her feet.
She didn’t know how he did it; though past closing time, dancers still bumped and ground across the floor—yet he twirled her through them without touching a single person. She couldn’t keep up or match his steps; he lowered his forearm to cradle her bottom. Then he lifted her against him and glided.
“Oh my god,” she said. Lights and colors whirled around her.
“Focus on my beautiful lips, Savitri, lest you become dizzy.”
“And cast up my accounts?”
“Yes,” he said, laughing; how could she not to look at his mouth when he did that? At his elongated incisors, the sharp white line of his teeth. But safer than looking at his eyes and risk seeing the wholehearted, almost boyish delight that had so captivated her in Caelum.
The sound of his amusement rumbled through her, combined with the heavy beat of the music. He wore cologne, a masculine fragrance so light she’d not detected it before. Notes of orange and papaya and sandalwood. She buried her face in his neck, wrapped her thighs around his lean hips.
“Oh my god.” His cock was thick and hard beneath his trousers, nestled between her legs. Another perfect fit; she remembered all too well how perfect.
She could come just from this.
“It didn’t work,” he said in Hindi. He sounded almost apologetic.
She was burning, burning. Just like Polidori’s. “What didn’t?”
“The woman from the stairwell. Acting the ass at the bar, that you would put distance between us. It seems I can protect you from everyone but myself.”
Her body went rigid; her eyes flew open. I don’t always have control. He’d tried to regain it by feeding, but that had been hours ago. How thin was it now? Her heart pounded. “You were lying at the bar?”
“No. But a gentleman can tell the truth without being cruel, if he wishes it.” He slowed next to his table, and eased down onto the sofa without letting her go. Her knees sank into the cushions. His arm across her lower back trapped her hips against his. “Do not mistake me for a kind man, Savitri.”
She wouldn’t. Not again.
“What are you going to do?” She pushed at his chest.
“Taste you.” He cupped her jaw. His thumb smoothed across her cheek. “Only your mouth, and only if you agree.”
Tension coiled through her stomach, arousal and fear. And heat. He was a fever inside her, a sickness. “What if I don’t?”
“I’ll carry you to my suite and do it there.” The apology dropped from his tone. He’d set his course; he would follow it. “I don’t intend to take your blood, Savi. I simply want—need—to taste you.” His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. “I think I will die if I do not.”
She wouldn’t believe that; only poets and horny teenagers did. But her gaze dropped to his lips. “Just a kiss?”
“Yes.” With gentle pressure, he urged her nearer. “A sword lies behind the wall panel; the spring is two inches above the sofa, one foot in.”
A strange offer. Did he think she would need it? But if he lost that much control, she’d have no possibility of defense.
She’d had a better chance against the nosferatu.
Her palms slid over his shoulders, up to curve around the back of his neck. Her fingers buried in the hair at his nape. So thick and soft.
“This must be because I’m drunk,” she whispered as she lowered her mouth to his. “I know better.”
So did he.
Meljean Brook, Demon Angel
Demon Angel Page 46