“I’m not human,” Michael said, and his gorgeous smile was doing those crazy things to her head again. This time, she didn’t mind so much. “Not completely. And I don’t care if I come. This arousal you stir in me gives more pleasure than an orgasm ever has.”
Taylor laughed. “Bullshit. What would you really like?”
“Are you offering?”
Oh, God, yes. She could almost taste him now. Could almost feel him straining under her hands, against her tongue.
“Anything you want.”
His smile faded, and the sudden intensity of his obsidian gaze made her heart trip faster. She recognized that look. She’d seen it in Hell. The dragon, but not the coldness, not the cruelty. This was the fire.
“Be careful what you offer me.” His thumb skimmed over her mouth. “Know that my hunger always burns deep—but my hunger for you is immense, and will sharpen with every taste. I’ll control it for you. I’ll stop when you tell me to. But don’t doubt the strength of my need, or how much I want to take.”
“I know at least some of it.” And it hadn’t frightened her. She’d been coming too hard to even think of being scared. “You would take all of me—like you did in my head.”
“I would,” he said. “I have no boundaries, Andromeda, except your pleasure and your consent. But what you felt didn’t come from me. I can project your need back to you, but I can’t force you to experience what I want. I used your memories instead.”
Her memories? Shock parted her lips. “What? No. Because I’ve never taken it up the—”
“Memories of fantasies.” His fingers tightened in her hair. “Of me. I thought you would hate me anyway. I thought it would be the last time we would touch. So I wanted it to be what you imagined.”
She stared up at him. Heat burned in her cheeks. She didn’t know what to say. Everything he’d just told her was another flashing arrow. Here’s why this should be the last time we touch. But it wouldn’t be. Because she’d told him to get into her head. She’d expected sex for real, not using her memories, but she should have known that he’d be ruthless in his determination to please her. He’d use anything available, just as he’d turn any object in a room into a weapon. And maybe that should have scared her. But it thrilled her instead.
His gaze searched her face. “Are you angry now?”
“I want to be.” It would be smarter. “But I’m not.”
“Then are you still offering?”
“Yes.” Her eyes locked with his. She hadn’t backed down from the dragon in Hell. She wouldn’t now. “Anything you want.”
Hunger flared from his psychic scent, a sharp burn. Bracing his weight on his left arm, he angled his muscular torso up to look down at her. His weight shifted between her thighs, pulling a gasp from her as the ridge of his cock rode against her clitoris for an all-too-brief second. He left no time for frustration to set in. The tip of his finger began tracing a circle around one of her nipples, leaving a glistening trail of burgundy liquid. A shiver tightened her skin. The scent of wine filled the air.
His gaze followed the path of his finger before rising to her lips. “I vanished the wine from the glass so that your mother would believe I was drinking it. All the while, I watched you sip, thinking that if I kissed you, your mouth would taste like this.”
His beautiful mouth. She couldn’t stop staring at him. “Then do it. Kiss me.”
“Not when you still want to be angry with me.”
“I might be angry if you don’t.”
“I would like to see that, too. Andromeda Taylor, furious because I won’t kiss her.”
He lowered his head. Not to her mouth. Her fingers fisted through loose sand when his tongue followed the trail of wine, a leisurely circle around the rigid peak. Need pushed through her, not pounding and pounding but slow and thick.
Above her, Michael stiffened. His head bowed. Braced in the sand, the carved muscles of his arms sharpened.
“Michael?”
“Your taste, Andromeda.” His head lifted, features stark with arousal. “I have to focus on the wine, or I’ll lose all sense.”
And this was what pleased him? Indulging in a flavor? Her hands curled over his shoulders. “At least the wine is good.”
“Better because it’s on you.” His head dipped. “And I’ll never have enough.”
His mouth opened over her breast and he drew the taut bud into his mouth, suckling hard. A heavy groan rumbled from his chest, a sound of pure male pleasure. Taylor cried out, her hips bucking against him, the involuntary movement pushing her up his thick length, the lips of her sex parting around his shaft.
And his linens were gone. Oh, God. His bare cock nestled between her folds and rose like hot iron against her lower belly.
“So sensitive,” he murmured roughly against her skin. “I barely touch you, and you’re wet all over again.”
Sensitive. She’d never thought so. She’d enjoyed sex before, but it had always taken work. To let herself get close to someone. To give herself completely over to desire, to the sensations—and never quite making it. A part of her always held back, questioning and doubting. But she had no barriers with him.
And he watched her now, eyes locked on her face as she lifted her hips again, deliberately this time. She couldn’t hold his gaze, her head tipping back with a long moan as the slick drag of his cock over her clit sent pulses of ecstasy shooting along her nerves.
“Look at you, Andromeda.” Hunger etched his face. His big hand gripped her left thigh, pushed her leg over his back. “Do it again. Just like that. Ride me like that while I suck.”
She couldn’t have done anything else. More wine spilled over her breast and he latched on, his moan like a growl on her skin. Hips jerking upward, she cried out, then rocked in time with the suction, with the flick of his tongue.
Heart pounding, he lifted his head. Taylor stilled her hips, gasped for breath. Wine drops fell between her breasts, rolling forward and back with the heaving of her chest. He swept them up with a lick, but this wasn’t a respite. Anticipation wound through her in razor-sharp coils as he licked his way to her left nipple, already throbbing and rosy, eager for his attention.
He didn’t make her wait. His lips closed over her breast and sucked her into wild abandon, her hips pumping up and down in short strokes, seeking release as every draw of his mouth tugged fire through her veins.
Close, so close. Then his muscles bunched beneath her hands and he rose up, pushed back. The incredible pressure against her clit vanished. Frustration screamed through her but his weight returned, his ridged abdomen hard against her pulsing core. Not the same, but it was Michael against her, skin against skin.
Wine spilled from her sternum to her belly. His tongue followed. Realization almost stopped her heart, then razored anticipation kicked in again, her need cutting painfully deep.
His hand slipped beneath her bottom, pushed her into motion again, but her whole world centered now on his mouth, moving down. Her calf slid up his back, her heel against his spine. She rose onto her elbows to watch him. Oh, his face. His eyelids at half-mast, as if every lick was bliss. She shook when he sipped from her navel, his tongue dipping inside. Then her leg fell away from his back as he continued down, forcing her thighs wider to make room for his broad chest, his massive shoulders.
He stopped, looked up at her. Her breath came in labored pants. Slowly, he hooked her knees over his shoulders.
Taylor whimpered, her stomach clenching. His strong fingers gripped the underside of her thighs, his thumbs rubbing up and down the sensitive tendons at the juncture of her legs. Two narrow streams of wine slipped from beneath his fingers, rolling down the inside of her thighs, pooling on the flat stretch of skin above the mound of her sex.
Oh, my God. Her gaze locked with his. Pure obsidian stared back at her, a dragon’s hunger.
“Tip your hips forward, Andromeda.” His voice was a dark growl, a deep abyss. “Let me taste.”
Muscles shaking w
ith tension, she tilted forward. She felt his heated gaze on her face as wine trickled through her curls, an endless tease before the sudden spill down her cleft.
He swooped to catch it. His tongue slicked over her clit and then she was done, her back arching in the sand and screaming his name, and there was nothing else, nothing but his mouth and the nip of his teeth and the thrust of his tongue. She came, shuddering and clawing at his shoulders, but his hands only angled her up for a deeper taste, every lick setting off new sparks, reigniting the need.
“Michael.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She struggled for breath. “I can’t—”
But she did, twisting and crying. His ravenous groan reverberated against sensitive flesh. Firm pressure from his hands spread her wider and he slid down, his deep, hungry licks slowing to a leisurely feast, as if settling in for thirds and fourths.
The wine had long gone. He only fed from her now. And after he had a taste, it was hard for him to stop. She would have to stop him.
But one more orgasm first.
It broke over her in a long, endless wave, left her utterly wrecked. Weakly, she reached for his head. His hair wasn’t long enough to pull. She pushed at him instead.
“No more. Michael. No more. Stop.”
His breathing ragged, he raised his head. She pushed up to her elbows to look at him, and another delicious shudder slipped through her body. God, he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. A flush darkened his bronze cheekbones. Her arousal glistened on his lips. White sand sparkled against his heavily muscled chest, dotted the gleaming skin of his shoulders.
Licking her from his lips, Michael rose up over her again, raining sand over her belly, her breasts. “You are well?”
It wasn’t obvious? But she was too spent to laugh. “Yes. But you didn’t come.”
“I don’t need to. I took more pleasure with one look at you, one taste . . .” His gaze fell to her mouth. “I could have feasted on you forever.”
“I wouldn’t survive it.” But she would have loved to try.
“Neither would I.” He closed his eyes. His chest expanded on a deep inhalation. Then his breath stopped.
He rose to his feet. The warmth of the sun replaced the heat of his body, and she shielded her eyes against the glare, watching as he turned to look out over the ocean. In the tropics, somewhere. Turquoise water deepened into blue. Soft white sand shifted under his feet. A length of linen appeared in his hand, and she treated herself to the sight of Michael, as vulnerable as she’d ever seen him, preparing for battle with a few wraps of cloth. It was a crime to cover his ass, but somehow he was even sexier in those ancient briefs. The pale linen against his skin only drew attention to the strength of his long, muscular thighs. The wide shoulders and his strong, perfect back, tapering to the tight span of his waist.
Even his scars were perfect, completing the image of an absolute warrior. But they weren’t in the shape that she expected.
She frowned and sat up. “Are those symbols on your back?”
He seemed to stiffen before facing her. “Yes.”
“Those are from Khavi?”
“Yes.”
Heaviness marked the slant of his shoulders, his voice. Why? She studied his expression, couldn’t read anything there but the hardness of his features and the intensity of his gaze. Some deep emotion, kept in check behind a wall of stone.
Because of the symbols? She couldn’t see the marks on his back now, but she’d expected more scars on his torso instead of smooth skin. When she’d been transformed, they’d covered most of his neck and chest.
But perhaps that explained his reaction. In Hell, he’d been furious when he’d seen the glyph Khavi had carved into her chest. Maybe these remained because it had been too painful to heal them.
“What happened to the other symbols? Did they have to be burned out?”
“I don’t have to burn them. The dragon’s taint doesn’t become an infection. It’s already who I am.”
“So they just heal?”
“Eventually.”
Then why hadn’t these healed with the others? Unless they were newer. But she took the formation of his tunic and loose pants as the end of the discussion—and with him covered, sudden self-consciousness reared its head. She wasn’t exactly a beach bunny, blinding white skin and tangled red hair and sand everywhere.
He must have read her discomfort. Eyes amber again, his gaze roamed over her naked form. “You’re lovely, Andromeda,” he said.
“I thought you didn’t see that?”
“I do. It’s just not important to me. That doesn’t mean it’s not important to you.”
Sometimes it mattered. Sometimes it didn’t. Mostly it depended on who was looking.
It mattered when he did. “I like to think I’m more attractive than a pile of dog crap.”
His low laugh accompanied the shake of his head. “You are far more attractive than that. Everything about you is beautiful to me.”
Taylor sighed. No wonder she couldn’t stay mad at him. She climbed to her feet, thought about clothes. Her usual trousers and button-up shirt didn’t seem right here, and a little bikini wouldn’t be right on her. She settled for a big, Michael-sized shirt and looked out over the water.
“Where are we?” Not in the Pacific, because it would still be night there.
“An atoll in the Indian Ocean. One of the locations I visit when my head needs to clear.”
As hers had. She glanced back. The island wasn’t wide. Maybe a few hundred yards across where they stood, and narrowing at the ends, like a crescent. A few trees and grasses grew on a gentle swell. No houses. No hotels. A warm breeze. Nice.
But they couldn’t stay. “Can you anchor to Khavi?”
“Not yet.”
Taylor bit back her frustration with a sigh and dug her left foot into the sand like a shovel. “She lies a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she lied about Jason when she said that he’d never wake up?”
His voice softened. “She might have. But probably not.”
“Well, how can she be so certain?” She hit wet sand. Water started filling the hole around her toes. “She’s always saying there are things she doesn’t know or can’t see.”
“Because her foresight is based on probabilities, possibilities. It depends upon the choices people are likely to make. That’s why the events that she sees are never certain. Free will changes everything.”
The future wasn’t certain? She stopped digging, looked up at him. “Then why—”
“Because there are some certainties. If a man and a woman stand upon the edge of a cliff, and the man falls over and the woman catches his hand, Khavi can see whether the woman will be more likely to hold on when she feels the man’s weight pulling her over with him, or whether she’ll keep trying to save him until it kills them both. Khavi can see if the man will let go to save the woman from falling with him. She knows the probability of all of those things happening, but nothing is certain until the choice to hang on or to let go is made.
“But there are events that don’t depend on choice,” he continued. “Such as whether the woman will have enough strength to pull him up, and if adrenaline can make up the difference. Whether the ground at the edge of the cliff will hold their combined weight, or crumble beneath the woman’s feet and take them both down. Those are certainties.”
Nothing to do with free will. Just good old science. “And the damage to Jason’s brain?”
“Whether it heals does not depend upon choice.”
A hollow pit opened in her chest, deeper than when Michael had first said he couldn’t heal her brother. But she must have still held out hope. “Does it ever happen anyway, despite the certainty?”
“When humans invent cures and create new possibilities.” He met her eyes. “And sometimes there are miracles. But don’t rely on one.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. She wouldn’t expect anything like a miracle. That was what had started s
crewing with her head in the first place.
“I used to believe in all that stuff. Not hard-core or anything. Just the way my mom and dad brought me up. Just believing that there was some meaning to all of this. Then after my dad was killed, after Jason . . .”
Michael nodded. “It was more comforting to think that there wasn’t.”
Got it in one. Of course he did. Her cheeks flushed. “You’ve probably heard this story a million times.”
“Yes, but that does not make it a trivial story. That it’s so common only reminds me how important the question is. How easy it is to doubt—and why humans have such good reason to.” The sincerity in his voice eased her embarrassment. “You did not have angels at your table when you were growing up.”
She’d had him over for dinner instead. And that was the heart of it. “No. But it should have been almost that simple. Because then the Guardians showed up, and I’m . . .” Her throat thickened. “Here I am, still trying to figure out where the fucking meaning is. It was good before, thinking that there wasn’t any. Because that meant the only thing that mattered was who we are, what we do. All that mattered was here, now.”
“That’s still what matters.”
“Yeah, because it determines whether we’re going to Heaven or Hell. And I get the front seat to see who is boarding each train.”
“No.” He stepped in front of her, his expression grave. “What we do matters for far more reasons than that. You don’t give a thought to Heaven or Hell when you speak with your mother, or to Joseph Preston—you only care what they feel, what they think, and whether your actions will hurt them or not. Even for me, though I won’t see Heaven or Hell. But what I did, what I do now . . . they will determine whether I can protect you. Whether you trust me again. That matters more than anything. That is all I care about.”
That might all be true. But it still didn’t change anything. “I shouldn’t trust you.”
His hard face still solemn, he nodded. “I know.”
And yet here she was, on a beach and covered in the remains of sticky wine and clinging sand and a thousand orgasms. “God, I’m like Charlie’s sister,” she moaned and buried her face in her hands. “Despite the evidence, wanting to believe so much.”
Guardian Demon (GUARDIAN SERIES) Page 29