Christ. As soon as they were done with the demons and the nephilim, he needed to get the hell out of here.
He closed his eyes, waiting for dawn, for that instant drop into sleep. The black would fall over him and the dreams would start. Maybe tonight, they’d be of Rosalia. Her silken skin. Her gorgeous lips and hot mouth.
But if he didn’t stop thinking of it now, he’d end up forming a tent of her sheets before he fell asleep and stay hard throughout the day. Daylight had to be coming soon. A few minutes felt like it had stretched into a dozen—the nephil blood, still slowing his perception. Maybe it’d wear off as he slept.
In the War Room, the quiet clacking of the keyboard fell silent. Rosalia’s sigh floated across the corridor, and was followed by her approaching footsteps as she entered the bedchamber. She paused, as if she stood near the bed, looking at him.
Unbelievably, Deacon felt the mattress dip beneath her weight. His eyes popped open as her cheek came down on his chest. Her hair spread over his shoulder. She inhaled his skin. Her body pressed against his side, and she seemed to do a fluid roll as if snuggling in as close as possible.
What the hell?
She stiffened. Her head jerked up from his chest and she stared into his face. Shock rounded her eyes. “You’re awake!”
Was he? Deacon wasn’t convinced he hadn’t slipped into daysleep and begun a vivid dream. “Am I?”
“Yes! The sun is . . .” Her eyes darkened. That subtle shift was the only thing that saved him, the only thing that gave him time to catch her wrist before her bladed fan sliced through his neck.
Jesus Christ. He’d reacted fast enough to catch her wrist . . . and was strong enough to hold it.
Rosalia still had the advantage of position and leverage. Shaking with effort, she shoved the tips of the blades into his skin.
“Demon! Where is he? Where’s Deacon?”
Fear and anger screamed through her psychic scent. She thought someone had killed him, took his place.
“Rosie . . . feel.” Her skin was hot against his. His must be cool against hers. Whatever else had changed, he was still the same temperature. “Feel.”
Her hand trembled. “The sun is up. How are you up?”
Realization hit hard. “The nephil’s blood.”
And afterward, everything around him had seemed slow, but that wasn’t right. He was faster. His senses were stronger—and his body, too.
Deacon prayed it wouldn’t wear off.
Her eyes rounded again. Beyond her amazement, however, Deacon recognized one clear thing: She’d come to hold him while he was sleeping. Using him as a substitute for the other guy, most likely. He didn’t give a fuck. If she’d come, she probably wanted someone to grab onto.
That guy wasn’t here. Deacon was.
And God knew he wanted her, too.
Rosalia could not wind back her astonishment. The sky outside had been light when she’d come in here. Yet he was awake.
The realization in Deacon’s expression shifted into something heated and intense. “You’re in my bed,” he said.
And he was awake. Incredible. So far as she knew, only one other vampire could resist the daysleep—and that vampire could also survive the sunlight. Could Deacon? They’d have to be careful, but they had to try.
She vanished her fan and tugged on his hand, half rising. “Let’s see if you can go out—”
His hand closed over hers, pulled her back down. She recalled how he’d caught her before. Not just awake. Strong. Fast.
“You came to my bed. Wrapped yourself around me.”
Oh. Now she felt a hint of color in her cheeks. “Yes. But Deacon, you’re awake.”
How could that not overwhelm any other concern right now? But he wouldn’t be put off.
“Have you come before?”
“Yes,” she said, and tugged again, but he wouldn’t let her move.
So he wanted to deal with this first. All right. He did deserve to know. She settled against him again, and with her astonishment fading, became aware of his body beneath hers, the cool hardness of muscle. She looked into his green eyes, focused intently on her face. Waiting for her explanation.
She moistened her lips. How to say this? His body beneath hers was the explanation.
“I do it to think,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “To think?”
“Yes. To remind myself why I’m risking so much. It’s easier when I can . . . hold on to someone.”
He looked doubtful, but it wasn’t a lie. Although she didn’t just want someone. It had to be Deacon, who risked the most with everything she did. Who she had to send into battle over and over. Who she’d almost lost that very night, in a battle she hadn’t foreseen.
And who she could have lost again, because he’d turned down the offer of her blood and risked the nephil’s, instead. She’d spent the rest of the night trying to suppress the ache of that rejection—and now, faced with the amazing fact of Deacon awake in her bed, that pain seemed far away.
“You want to smell someone, too?”
Her cheeks caught fire. So he hadn’t missed that. “I wanted . . .”
To imagine this. That he wouldn’t be sleeping. That he’d take her into his arms. That her mouth would find his. That he could know her—know everything she’d felt for him.
“What did you want?”
Her heart seemed to shrink in on itself. When she told him, he could reject her again. But she could show him instead, and take a little first—just a little bit of what she’d wanted.
“Damn you,” she whispered, and lurched forward.
Though Deacon was fast enough to stop her, he didn’t. His mouth opened beneath hers. Her stomach performed a long, slow dive and she stroked her tongue against his.
He kissed her back as if he’d been waiting for the touch of her lips. As if he was relieved. And so careful with his fangs, though with every lick and taste, she felt her control slipping.
Need rushed over her, like a whirlwind catching her wings, spinning her about. Her fingers framed his face and ran down to clench on his wide shoulders. She couldn’t taste him enough, touch him enough. Her heart pounded. Fear crashed into her. She didn’t know how to manage this.
She pulled back.
Deacon caught her waist, rolled her beneath him. The linen sheet wrapped her left leg, her knee cocked and trapped by his weight. He settled over her thighs, his heavy erection burning into her awareness through the linen, through her skirt. She clutched at his back to steady herself. Beneath the sheet, he wore nothing, only cool skin over iron muscle. Her short shallow breaths sounded panicked. She made herself stop.
He braced his hands next to her shoulders, his biceps bunching as he lifted to study her face. His mouth glistened from her kisses. A soft yellow glow washed over his features . . . Oh, God. Her eyes.
“Is this what you want, Rosie?” With a deliberate roll of his hips, he rocked against her.
Yes. Rosalia’s lips opened on a gasp and her hips rose to meet him. That rush sped through her again, made her feel like crying.
His mouth took hers before she came down. He palmed her left knee, pushed her leg higher. The sheet slid over her thigh, the fabric a soft burn against her skin. Deacon settled firmly between her legs, open to him, and the rhythm of his rocking hips matched the thrust of his tongue into her mouth. Rosalia clung to him, drowning.
He lifted his head. She gasped for air, for control—afraid he’d kiss her again and take her deeper.
Afraid he wouldn’t.
“Rosie?”
Concern softened the gravel in his voice. She looked up at him.
“Your nails are tearing up my back.”
What? A glance over his shoulder revealed her fingertips, wet with blood. Long gouges striped his flesh. Oh, God.
“I’m sorry.” She tried to get up, but he didn’t move. She pushed at his chest.
“Hold on,” he said, and she did. His dark brows drew together. “You’re sorry?�
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“Yes.”
“I don’t care. Rip me up if you want. But if you’re saying sorry, princess, it means you weren’t trying to get me off of you.”
He hadn’t stopped because of the pain, but because he’d been worried she wanted out? “No.”
Her misery etched into the word. Only a few kisses, yet she’d been scratching up his back. That wasn’t supposed to come until later, when he was inside her. She felt her color rise again. How many times had she seen people do this? She knew how sex worked. Yet she was losing control, getting it wrong.
Anger darkened his face. “Don’t look like that.”
“I don’t know how to handle this.” She wished he’d been asleep. Holding on to him wasn’t as frightening as trying to hold herself back. “It’s not safe.”
Tension hardened his muscles to steel. “You’re not safe from me?”
“No. You from me.”
She showed him her fingertips, then vanished the blood. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, as if he could open her up and peel away the layers. She struggled not to flinch away from that flaying gaze, tempted to recede into darkness. To just let it surround her and take her.
Then his face softened, and his long, slow smile appeared. “You don’t have to handle it.”
“What?”
“I won’t make it easy, but I’ll catch you. I’ll take care of you, keep you safe. If you’ll let me.”
His hands found hers, folded over them. The possessive gesture seemed to say, I’m strong enough. It promised to give her control that she didn’t have . . . by giving control over to him.
Could she? Her fingers trembled.
His grip tightened, pinning her hands to the bed. “Let me show you, Rosie.”
Oh, she wanted to. Surely it was no different than the trust she’d put in him the past three nights, when she’d sent him in to slay demons. She’d trusted his strength then, trusted that he would prevail, that he wouldn’t expose her, that he would take control of the situation. She had been frightened then, too—but he had succeeded each time. And her heart had been at risk each time . . . as it still was.
Yet every kiss had been worth that risk. This would be, too.
With a deep breath, she nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’ll let you.” Take control. Take me.
“Trust me.”
A command, not a question. She answered it anyway. “I do.”
His heavy-lidded gaze fell to her lips. “Then give me your mouth again.”
Her breath caught. Another kiss—but she had to offer it. He didn’t intend to let her lie back and take what he gave. He’d still make her lose herself in the rush of every kiss, every touch.
He’d said it wouldn’t be easy. But his strength would be her safety net—only if she truly trusted him.
She would soon find out.
Though strong enough to lift her head to his, it was still awkward raising her torso with her hands pinned to the bed. Her nipples brushed his broad chest, and heat blossomed through her stomach, between her legs. She delighted in the sensation before fitting her lips to his.
This time, she took it slow. He wouldn’t reject her. She could explore the shape of his lips, firm and cool. She breathed in, found the fragrance of her soap. Her scent. With a possessive thrust of her tongue, she deepened the kiss. Deacon’s groan rumbled in the quiet chamber. She lifted herself higher, her breasts flattening against the solid wall of his chest, and shivered when he penetrated her lips in return. A give and take, each taste deeper, more vital than the last.
A new anticipation filled her, an urgent, expanding hunger. His weight was a solid pressure between her legs, no longer rocking, yet she was so aware of him, and so wet. This would lead to Deacon inside her. Making love with her. That would be . . . different. She didn’t yet know how. But she would know.
Releasing her hands, his callused palms slid from her wrists, up her arms. When his weight eased away from her, she threw her leg around his back, tried to lock him against her.
“Rosie . . .” He looked down at her, trailing off—and whatever he saw in her face brought him back for another kiss, then another, before finally breaking away.
She let him go this time, letting her arms fall back over her head. There was urgency in this, but also a wonderful decadence that needed to be savored. While he lifted away from her, she luxuriated in her body’s arousal, the liquid heat that her skin couldn’t seem to contain. Every sensation seemed like another caress: the linen wrapped around her thigh, her skirt hem flirting at her knees, the warm air rushing in where he’d been hard and cool against her only moments before.
His breathing ragged, Deacon sat back on his heels, his knees spread and the sheet pulled taut over the bulge of his erection. She watched him, the movements that seemed too fluid for such heavy musculature. His pale skin glistened from the heat of her body. Dark hair roughened his chest, and narrowed into a thin line from his navel to the edge of the sheet.
She reached out to follow that trail with her fingers. He caught her hand.
“Come up on your knees.”
The low rasp of his voice drew her gaze to his face. His jaw was clenched, the strain visible on his face. Need clouded his eyes like a summer storm. Though he’d taken control, he walked on the edge of his.
Her heart hammering, she rose up, folding her sheet-wrapped leg beneath her. The movement dislodged the cover from his groin, exposing his organ. Rosalia stared. Jutting downward, as if weighted by its heavy length, the wide tip rested against the sheets. She looked at his large fingers still holding her wrist, remembering how big they’d felt inside her—how she’d barely been able to stop herself from riding him, the curling tension that hadn’t wanted to let her go. Her hands began to shake.
Deacon nudged her chin up. “Eyes up, princess. On mine. Are you all right?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good.” He skimmed his fingers over her shoulder, catching on the halter strap of her dress. “Take this off for me.”
Holding his gaze, she reached behind her nape to untie the knotted silk. She knew he liked her breasts, but anxiety and arousal made her clumsy. The strap tore. The bodice skimmed over her nipples, falling to her waist.
She didn’t glance away from his face, and watched as his gaze drank her in. Need hardened his expression. She recalled the sweltering night in Greece, that same hungry look
Feed them to me.
She wanted to again. How she’d loved offering herself. Feeling bold, she cupped their soft weight.
“Look at you.” It tore from him. Not a command. Something out of his control. “You’re beautiful, Rosie.”
She’d known she was, but it hadn’t mattered. A Guardian could look like anyone. But she felt beautiful now, when he looked at her.
He rose up, his hands sliding around her waist and drawing her forward, chests almost touching, his erection a solid weight against her stomach. “Lean back.”
Still cupping her breasts, she arched back. Her hair brushed the mattress. His hands flattened along her spine, supporting her upper body almost parallel to the bed. A feast spread out before him, given by her hands.
With a soft growl, he lowered his head. His tongue traced the lower curve of her right breast, wetting the seam of her cupped fingers. Though untouched, her nipple contracted into a dark bead. The ache between her legs intensified. She squeezed her thighs together, feeling the moisture there, the dampness of her panties against her core.
The sweep of his tongue around her nipple made her tighten. The soft scrape of fangs made her gasp. His strong hands held her steady when his lips closed over her nipple. She felt his tongue flick, then soft suction that drew her deep into his mouth. Overwhelmed, she began trembling. Her hips pushed against his, seeking pressure where she needed it most. She imagined his mouth there, licking and sucking, and the need rushed over her in a hot wave, filled her voice when she moaned his name.
Without w
arning, he brought her up and claimed her mouth again. Lost, drowning, she wound her arms around his neck and held on. She loved this. Loved his urgent murmurs between hot, wet kisses. Loved the muscles that bunched in his shoulders, loved the feel of his erection straining against her belly, the incredible anticipation. His hands slid up her front, cupping, then pinching and pulling at her nipples, until the bedchamber echoed with her cries for more.
Deacon gave her more. His hand stroked down, pushed inside her panties. She moaned into his mouth as his fingers teased, circling her entrance but never penetrating.
He broke their kiss, his breaths labored across her moist lips. “When you come, Rosalia, hold your psychic shields. Hold them tight.”
She hadn’t even considered that danger. This hadn’t been her intention when she’d joined him in the bed. Yet he’d remembered, and hadn’t made it a request. She would hold them.
“Yes,” she said. No question.
He kissed her again, deep and quick. “Lie back.”
She sank into the pillows, her feet against the mattress, her knees bent. Deacon reached beneath her skirts, hooked the waist of her panties. He dragged the scrap of silk down, lifting her legs until her toes pointed at the ceiling as he pulled them off. Her skirt slipped up her thighs, bunching on her stomach and baring her sex to his gaze.
“Oh, Christ. Rosie, you’re so . . .” Staring, he turned his head and pressed his mouth to her ankle—to kiss or to bite, she wasn’t certain. Instead he closed his eyes, gathering his control. After a moment he swallowed and placed her heels on his shoulders. “Vanish your dress.”
She did, knowing he felt the tremor in her legs.
His gaze held hers. “I won’t bite you. I won’t risk the bloodlust taking over. Trust me on that.”
She didn’t need the reassurance—but perhaps he needed it as a reminder to hold on to his own control. “Yes,” she said.
He leaned forward, reaching for a pillow. Weight against her lower belly made her glance down. Oh, God. Between her thighs, his engorged shaft extended upward from the apex of her sex, a graphic representation of how deeply she’d take him into her body. Anticipation wound tight. Her fingers dug into the mattress, holding herself still.
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