by Anna Windsor
Camille hated the reality that she was still damaged. After all these years and the new fighting group and all the work she’d done, she was still so broken inside that she’d frozen when she saw Asmodai. She hadn’t even gotten off a good shot with the throwing knife. And—almost as bad—she hadn’t been able to tell Maggie Cregan to stuff it up her ass when Maggie doubted her report on the demons.
“Of course he’s not coming back,” she said out loud, just to make herself acknowledge reality. Complications on top of complications on top of—oh, hell.
He wasn’t coming back.
She leaned against a corner of a lab table, folded her arms, and let her head droop. Good thing she wasn’t a typical fire Sibyl, or this whole place would be burned to bits right now, probably exploded, with Mrs. Knight’s place and everything within a mile going up in one giant fireball.
A soft sound traveled down the hallway outside the lab. The opening and shutting of a door.
Camille’s heart rate jumped.
No. She had imagined that. Heard what she wanted to hear.
But a minute or two later came the whispering rush of a shower running.
She tried to swallow, but all she could do was stand there and hug herself. It seemed like a million years ago, that night in the alley when she’d first seen John Cole in the flesh, and a hundred years ago since she’d met him again in person. The date, so perfect until it just wasn’t. That was years ago, too, wasn’t it?
Tears clouded her vision, blurring the dark, shadowy lab. She listened to the water splashing softly in the distance.
Was it John?
It had to be John.
Who else would go into her room and use her shower?
She listened for longer, and longer still, not knowing whether to feel elated or completely freaked. Why weren’t Bela and Dio and Andy coming down to tell her he was home?
Because they were probably sleeping off the shock of the distress call and of Asmodai coming back on their radar. Or they were staying the hell out of her private business. Her quad could be so nosy and sticky in some ways, but they were all very good at giving space when space was needed. That was probably why their brownstone was still standing.
How long had he been in the shower now? Minutes. Felt like hours. She should wait and let him finish, see if he wanted to come down the hall and talk to her. She should give him space and time to decide what he wanted, without any pressure. That would be the thoughtful approach, wouldn’t it?
More running away, just without all the arm pumping and sweating.
What would it be like to run toward something, just once in her life?
Camille chewed at her bottom lip, pulled between her life so far, her opinion of herself, her thousand doubts—and all that could be if she stopped letting all of that hold her back.
But he hadn’t come straight to her. He’d gone to another room, closed the door, gotten in the shower. Maybe he needed—
Ah, screw it.
She was out of the lab and down the hall in seconds, her own footfalls echoing in her ears. She hesitated at the door, breathing in the swirling scents of soap and water. She thought about knocking, then just turned the knob and went inside.
One lamp was on, bathing the room in a soft, warm yellow light. John was standing just outside the bathroom door with one of her big green towels wrapped around his waist. He was using a smaller towel to dry his hair.
He lowered the towel and stared at her.
She stared right back at him.
It was no secret how handsome he was. She’d seen him shirtless during their morning chats, covered in nothing but a sheet, but somehow, standing there with so little on, he was even more gorgeous. Her fingers tingled from wanting to touch the damp, glistening muscles of his chest and his big arms, from wanting to stroke the ridge of the scar where Maggie’s sword had taken its taste. The way his wet hair tumbled into his eyes—no words. She felt like she could eat that towel straight off his waist.
His eyes, so green and deep, burned with the passion she felt, and she knew in an instant how much he wanted her. He’d never tried to hold that back. Why had she doubted him? Why had she doubted herself?
“I had a big speech about what happened at the house,” he said, his voice thick, like he was barely holding himself back. “I’m not safe, beautiful. You understand that now, right?”
Camille went toward him and he threw down the small towel and raised his hands—whether to embrace her or push her away, she couldn’t tell, but she kept coming.
“I’m dangerous,” he whispered, putting his hands on her shoulders.
Camille put her hands on his fingers and squeezed. “Don’t run away from me, John.”
She saw him go to war with himself, felt the heat rising through her as he fought his battle and lost—or won. Flames ignited deep in her belly, hotter than hot. Was she smoking like a normal fire Sibyl now?
He pulled her to him rough and hard, crushing his lips against hers, taking her completely and filling her mouth with his minty, male taste. She met his tongue, thrust for thrust, winding her arms around his neck and pressing herself into the firm, warm ridges of his muscles. Camille couldn’t breathe anymore, didn’t even care about breathing. She just wanted him, more of him, all of him.
He kissed her deeper, working his fingers through her hair, holding her head closer, possessing her until she had to take what she wanted, too. She slid her hands from his neck, down across his pecs, raking with her nails, lower, lower, until she grabbed the towel and tore it off him.
He was unzipping her sweatshirt, pushing it aside. The room’s cool air swept across her bare breasts just before he cupped them, just before she wrapped both hands around his stiff, pulsing length. He felt perfect. Hard and thick and ready.
He pinched both of her nipples and she tore away from their kiss, moaning, trying to get air. She bit his chin reflexively, then his neck.
“So beautiful.” He rubbed her nipples in his fingers, around and around, then groaned as she squeezed him.
Camille’s insides caught fire. She really was losing it for John, in all the right ways. Her sweatpants sparked, then burned away in a quick rush of smoke and flame, almost as fast as her shirt hanging off her arms. Naked now, except for the dinar hanging around her neck. It took every bit of her will to pull the energy back and put out the fires before she burned down the bedroom.
“Who’s dangerous?” she murmured in John’s ear, stroking him, fingering each glorious inch of him from the damp tip to the soft sack that made him groan when she touched it. “Who’s the killer in this room?”
Fire. She’d never known it like this before, so close, all over. It flickered off her skin in bursts, in fast little waves. Was she burning them? Did he care?
He had her by the waist, then by the ass, lifting her, pressing her bare center against his erection.
The contact made her want to scream. It made her want to open wide and take him in and never, ever let him go. Camille held on to his neck, locked her legs around his waist and gripped him, moving herself along his hard length.
“More,” she heard herself saying. “More now.” A husky sound, barely controlled. When she looked into his eyes, she saw feral desire. Tenderness. She saw everything.
He carried her toward the bed, walking like she weighed nothing, moving like he didn’t care about the fire, the smoke, the burning. She kept trying to pull the energy back, but fire spilled out of her like he was calling it straight from her depths. He was touching the dinar as he touched her, and Camille saw the flames dance over him like the coin was shielding him from her power, and maybe it was. She hoped something was, because she couldn’t help herself.
“I love how you feel.” He sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt between her legs, brushing his rough hands across her belly. “Is there anything we should do, protection-wise?”
“I’m immune to diseases,” she whispered, hoarse from excitement. “Pregnant by choice only. We’r
e good to go, so go.”
John bent down and kissed between her legs, and thrills shot through her, heating her skin more, making her tilt her head back and lean to meet him as he rose and caught one of her nipples in his teeth.
Camille cried out, need and want blended together. She was helpless to stop the sound. Crazy feelings sizzled in her body, and she grabbed the sides of his head and held on tight.
He pushed the chain and dinar out of the way and nibbled one nipple, then the other. Then he took them again, longer, slower, biting harder until she arched her back higher and moaned, pulling his hair tight with both hands. He nuzzled the sensitized skin with his lips, nuzzling her whole breast, sending fresh shocks of pleasure rippling through her center and making her throb, throb. Goddess, she needed him now.
When he moved lower, pushing her up on the bed and widening her legs, she could smell her own arousal.
“That’s it.” He kissed the insides of her thighs. “I told you a long time ago, I like it hot.”
“Quit teasing me or I’ll burn down the house.” The words came out in a rush, barely audible, but the wicked roar of fire crept into each syllable.
His laughter rumbled across her sex, and that drove her twice as crazy. Then he moved his tongue inside and tasted, really tasted, and she screamed again, shaking from the perfect torture. She needed more relief than he was giving her. Part of her mind realized she was pulling his hair, then pushing his head down, down, harder. She moved against his mouth, and he let her do the work, teasing, flicking his tongue up and down over her swollen center.
He slipped two fingers into her wet channel, and Camille rocked, moaning from the connection, from the joining.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Show me, beautiful. Let me know what you want.”
Camille clenched tight around him, but he slid his fingers out, and she thought about fire and burning him up—then his tongue found her center and she couldn’t make a sound or even a spark.
He teased with his mouth, with his thumb, moving his fingers into her and out of her, into her and out of her. Sweat coated her entire body and nothing was left in the world except John and what he was doing between her legs. Pleasure spun through the heat inside Camille, building, burning, closing in, but he backed off again, leaving her hanging, kissing her thighs, letting his fingers go still in her depths.
“Not yet.” His voice was as much a tease as anything else, a vibrating rumble that seemed to touch her everywhere at once.
Camille pulled his hair again, and he swept his tongue along her folds. Just right. Just enough to make her yelp. She wanted to kill him. Camille wasn’t a squirmer, she wasn’t a screamer, but she was doing both with him already, and he hadn’t come close to giving her the satisfaction she wanted.
“Please,” she heard herself saying, not really believing she was starting to beg, but what the hell.
He slipped his fingers out of her again, grabbed her hips, and pulled her to his face. His growl of male pleasure gave her fresh, hot shivers. He wasn’t just tasting anymore, he was moving his tongue hard and fast, just where she wanted, just where she needed. Camille shot toward the brink, bucking against his mouth, moaning—and he stopped.
Waited.
She clamped her eyes closed and called him names.
He laughed at her. “I’m enjoying this, beautiful. I want it to last forever.”
The sheets were on fire. Camille let go of John’s hair long enough to absorb the flames and pat out the embers.
Then he was kissing her again, her thighs, and inside. He had her so worked up she couldn’t stand it, but he made her stand it, pulling her sensitive flesh into his mouth, then letting it go, again, again, and she was building again, building, building—
Everything inside Camille flared, yellow-hot, white-hot. The climax took her over, claimed her, flattened her, and she cried out low and loud. Fire burned through her mind, her senses. Everything pounded. Everything throbbed. Even the dinar seemed to get hot, melding into her skin.
And his fingers were inside her, pumping, pumping, pushing her higher, so hard and fast she didn’t even have a chance to grab the sheets and hold on. Her second orgasm blew through her, wild and hard, and she shrieked and almost crushed his head with her knees.
Aftershocks like big fiery earthquakes shook her inside and out, but he wasn’t stopping. John was moving his body up, pushing her onto the bed. He pressed his hard cock into her belly, his gaze more fire, green fire, flaming into her awareness as she gripped his shoulders.
“Too much, beautiful? Are you ready to run?”
“Never.” Just a rasp. Camille had no idea how she’d gotten the word out. Have I lost my mind?
His mouth came down on hers, so soft, yet so powerful. She smelled herself on him. Something new. So intimate. Camille didn’t usually let herself get so close, much less absolutely lose her mind, but John wasn’t giving her many choices.
He moved her legs with his until she was wide open, waiting for him.
Camille gasped as he pressed into her opening, stretching her, showing her how he’d fill her with his thickness. His gaze held her as tight as any embrace, and she felt the sweet warmth of his breath on her face.
“You’re big,” she murmured, squeezing his arms, digging in with her fingers to anchor herself, to keep herself from burning away to nothing.
“Too much?” he asked again, only this time, he wasn’t teasing.
She answered by lifting herself, taking an inch, then another, and groaning from the absolute joy and satisfaction of finally feeling him inside her.
He went slow, easy, moving himself into her depths, and Camille had to close her eyes. Deep. Full. Wonderful.
“Just right,” she whispered, loving how careful and tender he was, how strong and deliberate. With gentle, measured thrusts, he rocked into her, rocked her body, rocked her senses in every possible way.
She felt herself relaxing, taking more, wanting even more, and then she was begging again. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
John picked up speed, and when she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her, adoring her. She felt like the center of the universe. He was sure as hell the center of hers.
“Made for me,” he growled, teeth clenched. He was holding himself back. He was waiting for her.
No way she could have another orgasm—but she felt it building, rising, threatening to blow any second. She wasn’t sure she’d be sane when it finished, and she really, really, really didn’t care.
( 23 )
She screamed when her climax hit her, and John couldn’t hold himself back another second. He exploded inside her, going as deep as her body allowed, reveling in her moans and the way she thrashed and scratched at him, the way she set the sheets on fire.
Instinct made him reach out to the flames with some of his own energy, and to his surprise, the fire went out. Didn’t even burn him.
Her walls gripped his cock, squeezing, squeezing, until he had nothing left, but he already wanted to go again. He wanted to keep pleasing her all day, all night, as long as she’d let him.
“Enough,” she was whispering, her beautiful eyes closed, her gorgeous face slack from exhaustion. A fine sheet of perspiration made her glisten in the room’s soft lighting, and she seemed magical in his arms, otherworldly, like something he should hold forever to keep her from disappearing.
“Is my weight too much for you?” he murmured in her ear, kissing away the sweet, damp strands of hair and smelling that delicious lily scent.
She pulled him down to her, holding on, still clenching now and again. “You’re perfect. Don’t move.”
He lay there on his elbows, keeping some of his bulk off her slight frame. He knew she wasn’t fragile, but she felt so delicate to him that he had to honor that. Her eyes stayed closed as he kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose. A lot of freckles. Light, barely visible—they were hard to find in places, but he searched with care and diligence.
Soon, too so
on, he felt her even breathing, and he knew she was asleep. Before he gave in to his own exhaustion and accidentally crushed her, he eased himself out of her warm depths and wrapped her in his arms. She arched her back, moving her ass against his spent cock. He kissed her neck and shoulders, finally burying his face in her hair and falling into oblivion, wondering how long he should wait before he told her he loved her.
John dreamed in fits and starts, bouncing from the war to demons to Bengals to training sessions with Duncan and the guys at OCU headquarters. They used a basement with gym equipment and stone floors and stone walls, and he thought that might be a good place to take Camille, especially if she kept getting better at the fire-making thing. Stone wasn’t flammable.
The next John knew in his dream, Camille was there in the big stone basement with him. She had his cock in her slender, graceful fingers, stroking, stroking, like she was trying to—
Wake me up.
He opened his eyes, and Camille’s bed and bedroom came into focus. Cream-colored sheets with a few scorch marks, rumpled and shoved around. Calm, soothing walls with the Motherhouse artwork. And she was—
Down at his waist, her long auburn hair spread across the covers and his belly, running her palm up and down his throbbing erection.
John came fully awake in every possible way.
Her warm breath covered his length along with her fingers, giving him hints, and damn, he was already tight all over.
“You are big,” she murmured, her breath an exotic vibration along his shaft.
John ran his fingers through her silky hair, holding his breath and letting it out slow to keep himself regulated. “You’re too beautiful for words.”
Slowly, sweetly, almost teasing, she slipped him into her mouth, running her tongue around the head.
He groaned, then had to bite down on the inside of his mouth to keep from shoving himself all the way into that delicious, hot warmth.
She tested again, taking him a little deeper, using her tongue all along the sensitive underside. His cock bucked from the stimulation, and Camille took all of him then. Her mouth hit him like wet fire. Nothing shy. Nothing tentative.