Demon Seed

by Jianne Carlo

  “I cannot.” She shook her head. “It is all too much.”

  “You’ve no idea, kitten. You can and you will. Feel how nice and wet you are.” He wriggled the fingers still snug and moving inside her. “The last time you come, I’ll be inside of you. And you’ll be so slick and ready for me, I’ll be able to fuck you for a long, long time. I’m going to learn when you like a slow in and out, how deep you like it, what makes you explode on a dime.”

  Without warning her sex readied for him, drenching his hand. “How can this be? Seconds ago I could not have imagined having the energy or the desire. But you say such wicked words, and I feel it building again.”

  “That’s the secret. Finding the things that get you going. Sometimes it’s a visual. Like those white cotton panties. Or you wearing my T-shirt. Sometimes it’s a smell.” He slipped his fingers free, brought the slick digits to his nose, and inhaled.

  Fascinated, her excitement leaping, she licked her lips when he sucked off each finger. “Always it’s the taste. Then there’s the feel of us skin to skin. The little noises you make. The way you thrash on the bed and fight the climax. Even a simple, underrated, chaste kiss. You turn me on, Jacinta. Every which way and then some.”

  They didn’t surface until near noon. Her body ached in places she hadn’t even known existed. He had made her wait longer and longer for each climax, and by the end, she would’ve done anything, anything at all, to get him inside her. He had kept true to every declaration: five orgasms, her pleading for release and crying out his name as she shattered, and the last and sweetest, his engorged penis ramming, sliding, driving her to the brink over and over until he finally threw his head back and roared his pleasure, taking her with him.

  Cozy and safe in his embrace, Jacinta slid in and out of sleep, surrounded by the tangled aromas of her juices, his musk, and their combined sweat. The real world seeped back into her consciousness when her stomach growled insistently and the heat and humidity climbed to a thickness that had her longing for a swim.

  Opening her eyes, she found him staring at her. “Do you ever sleep?”

  “I don’t need much downtime. Ready for some grub?”

  “Do we still have the M&M’s?” She tousled his hair and traced the square line of his jaw, lingering on the dimple in his chin.

  “That’s for our afternoon quickie. I set a couple of lines in the water after you fell asleep. Caught three fish and scraped some mussels off the rocks. I’ve a fisherman’s stew bubbling on the burner.”

  He winked at her, and she marveled at the thick fringe of lashes framing eyes now colored more green than brown. She sniffed. “It smells delicious. I think you want the M&M’s for yourself.”

  “You got me. I’m going to eat them out of your pussy later.”

  She blinked and then giggled. “They’ll melt if I’m as hot there as you claim.”

  “Strategy number two. Sucking melted chocolate off your pussy. Not to worry—you can have the peanuts.” He nipped her earlobe.

  Jacinta knew she wore a foolish grin. “What’s strategy number one?”

  “Putting them inside of your sweet pussy.” He waggled his shaggy brows.

  “We need a lot of rain.”

  “Woman.” He shook her. “I’m talking of pussy and chocolate and you want rain? What gives?”

  “How else are we to get clean?” She crawled over him and out of bed, batting his hands away when he tried to grab her waist. “I thought it would rain last night. I love bathing in the rain. In the cloister at night, when a storm broke, I would sneak out, naked, and run through the forests. Another example of my pagan nature, Sister Helen said when she caught me.”

  “I love your pagan nature.” He lay on the bed wearing not a stitch of clothing, penis thick, heavy, the ridged veins prominent against his flat belly, head cradled in his hands, watching her through hooded eyes. “Where’s your Sister Helen from?”

  She shrugged. “She wouldn’t tell me, and I stopped asking. Most of the elder sisters were from Ireland, and the younger ones from Brazil or Venezuela. She spoke so many languages, even French. I like not the French. I miss her. It has been fifty-nine days since I last saw her.”

  His jaw clenched, the set of his mouth changed, flattening ever so slightly, and his nostrils flared for a brief instant. “Exactly when did you leave the cloister?”

  Chapter Seven

  Cocking her head, she squinted at him. “Fifty-nine days ago. Why? You have that look on your face. The one you had when I spoke of Emilio showing me my mother’s picture.”

  Damn it. No one saw beneath his poker face. Demon relaxed his facial muscles and checked his stance. His breathing hadn’t changed, and he hadn’t moved a muscle, so how in pissing hell had she cottoned on to the change in his questioning?

  “Do not even think it.” She folded her arms. “You will not distract me with sex. Or food. You will stop treating me like a child. Like a foolish girl who cannot take care of herself.”

  She’d lived in a cloistered convent from babyhood, save for the last fifty-nine days. Demon gritted his teeth. Plain as day to him and any other sane person—she needed protecting and sheltering to the max. Not that he’d done a brilliant job of that to date. He weighed his options and decided knowledge and a heavy dose of scare tactics were the best strategies to obtain her total obedience.

  “Pedro Nunez killed your mother exactly sixty-two days ago. What kind of contact did the cloister have with the outside world?” No fucking coincidence, the two events—her leaving the cloister and her mother’s death—being so close together. Demon swung his legs off the bunk. He hadn’t intended to leave until well after dark, but this news impacted the timing of his plans.

  “Once a week, the parish priest visited. He brought all the mail, any supplies, and books from the library. And every so often, the regional priest from the archbishop’s office came, but we never knew when he would come.”

  Clutching the white bra and T-shirt to her chest, she slumped onto the opposite bunk, and her beautiful irises glistened as her pupils contracted.

  “Two days after the archbishop’s priest came, Sister Helen and Mother Superior denied my request to take my first vows. Told me that I had to live in the outside world first. Sister Helen knew?”

  Her eyes had widened to the point where her skin must hurt, and she had that bewildered, wounded, hurt expression any young creature wore when a family member turned on them. Demon didn’t hesitate for a second, swooped her into a bone-crushing hug. Couldn’t she catch a fucking break? He’d give his left nut to spare her what was coming. And he didn’t give a shit if she never spoke to him again. No way would he tell her everything now.

  Rocking back and forth, he lapsed into Spanish without even realizing it, murmuring nonsense phrases, for they were all lies. He couldn’t make her situation any better. At some point in time, she’d have to learn the truth. But not now. Not until he had her in protective custody in the continental US. Not until he wiped a couple of her relatives off the face of the earth.

  She cuffed his shoulder, putting some elbow grease into the blow, and the surprise of her action snapped him back to the present. “What, kitten?”

  “I need to speak to Sister Helen. Right away. You must take me to the nearest town. I will find a way to get back to the cloister.”

  The hurt had vanished, and her set jaw shouted a stubbornness that would take some doing to erase. Before he could utter a word, she lurched off his lap, stamped a foot, and threw the clothes at the bunk.

  “I am so tired of people making decisions for me. First my mother. Then Sister Helen. Then the principal. Emilio. Now you. No. No more. Bastante. Turn around. I need to get dressed.” She waved a dismissive hand. “No more sex. Of any kind. Not until I have spoken with Sister Helen.”

  She needs space. Fine. Jim Dandy. He had things to do, transport to arrange, bodyguards to hire, and, most crucial of all, information to gather. For that he needed to contact the squad. Pronto. But first h
e had to let her know who was in control.

  Demon lifted her by the waist and, when she opened her mouth to protest, kissed her senseless until she went from rigid to pliant, until she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him in kind. Then he set her on the bunk, picked up her clothes, and dropped them in her lap.

  She blinked up at him, her eyes glazed.

  “No sex. Until you ask me nicely.” He snatched his jeans off the floor and stalked straight to the deck, ignoring the stew simmering on the stove even though his intestines gnawed at themselves.

  The storm had broken, and neither of them had even noticed. She screwed with his normal alertness big-time. Thunderclouds carpeted the sky and blocked the sun so completely the darkness mimicked a total eclipse. Rain fell in such a heavy, thick veil that even if a hint of light showed, he wouldn’t be able to make out the white rocks lining the bay.

  He tossed the jeans into the engine room and let the torrential downpour batter his flesh, opening his arms and welcoming the anger of the gods. Immediately he imagined Jacinta dancing like a pagan goddess in the storm, and his cock reacted like the blasted irrational organ that it was. Fuck. He couldn’t even harness his anger against her. No way could he continue to put her life in danger. Fuck using her as bait. The minute they hit the next river town, she was out of here. Stashed stateside and safe. Still, there was no getting around one fact—Jacinta was central to the situation.

  What the hell had he become embroiled in?

  Too many fingers pointing in too many directions—all with one connection: Jacinta.

  He closed his eyes, lifted his face to the heavens, and focused.

  The beach. Emilio. Jacinta.

  Where was the fuck-for-brains connection?

  Who knew he’d scout that particular beach?

  Only Satan.

  And who had clued Emilio in?

  Rosa Nunez’s death. Sister Helen. Jacinta being sent to the city.

  Who’d told Sister Helen of Rosa’s death?

  Why had it been so vital to get her out of the cloister?

  Fuck.

  Jacinta had told Sister Helen about Emilio in the letter. And never heard from the nun again.

  Shit. Demon smacked his forehead. Emilio must have gotten to Sister Helen. Ten to one she was dead. Or in hiding. Nah. She’d given her all to protect Jacinta. No way would she abandon Jacinta now. Another reason to make the fucker’s death agonizing.

  He had to get her out of danger. But she’d point-blank refused. Tough. He had the means and the ways. She would be on that blasted plane if he had to knock her out and tie her up to get her there. Set her up in the cottage he’d bought not two months ago. Have her make it into a home. Father that baby she wanted.

  Pissing hell. He had no business planning a future for them. She needed to be set free. To go out there and experience the world. To fuck other men.

  He sucked in a deep breath and choked on it. No fucking way would he let any male near her. Shit. He, who always had a plan, who always had a goal and a way to achieve it, foundered like a fucking shipwreck, unable to commit, unable to bind her to him by any means, foul or fair, because his honor demanded he set her free.

  He wandered to the bow, stared unseeing at the entrance to the bay, leaned his forehead on the flagpole, and searched for another resolution, a win-win to the glum scenario of letting Jacinta out of his peripheral vision. Not going to happen. He was such a fucking a-hole. Someday, sometime in the future, she’d wonder about what could have been. Maybe want to know what another dick felt like. Jesus. He slammed a fist into the railing. No fucking way.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He spun around and was sucker punched by Jacinta in a wet tank top, nipples puckered, black pubic hairs clearly outlined in the white cotton panties she wore. Eyes wide and tremulous, spiky hair wet and dripping, she stared at him, and he lost it.

  Unable to stop the automatic need to shelter and protect, he swept her off her feet, buried his nose in that sweet spot between neck and shoulder, and inhaled. A lung-filling breath that curdled his soul and firmed his resolve.

  She was his.

  Pure and simple.

  Fuck honor.

  Before he knew it, they were in the bunk room and she had yanked herself out of his arms and stood before him, dripping rain like an ice-cream cone shedding sprinkles. Each drop begged for his mouth; he knelt.

  “No.”

  He hung his head and fought for control.

  She surprised the gumption out of him and knelt and nudged his chin.

  “My bad. I am asking you nicely.” She wore that wide-eyed doe-in-a-searchlight expression he’d seen a kazillion times and never felt a twinge cutting down with a bullet or a clean cut.

  He’d die before delivering her any hurt.

  “No. My bad. If I could, I would take back every single word.” He locked his hands behind his back, determined not to touch unless invited.

  She stroked his jaw and looked at him, and her eyes had him mesmerized. At that moment, he’d have agreed to sell his soul if she asked.

  “I know that you do not want to hear this, but I have to tell you. I love you.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Counted to a crappy, fucking ten, and then tore off her panties, swept her off the floor, hustled them to the nearest bunk, and covered her in a heartbeat. Thrust inside, stilled, framed her face, and growled, “Mine. All mine. And I’m never letting you go.”

  Demon lost himself in her heat, her taste, her touch. He loved her with each caress, each kiss, each suckle, each stroke. Stamped her his. Murmured his love in languages long forgotten—the native dialect of the ancient Incas his mother had spoken, the stilted German dialect of the missionaries who’d raised him.

  The storm never let up.

  Thunder pounded the cove. The deep bass of each growling rumble penetrated his subconscious, and he matched the rhythm of Mother Nature, loving Jacinta with each slow thrust, trapping her gaze with his, inhaling her essence. He couldn’t get enough, couldn’t cage her in arms and lock her in forever, couldn’t vocalize the tempest of his thoughts, his feelings.

  Electric flashes followed the piercing crackle of the lightning outburst as the storm crested. The sudden streaks of brilliant light showcased the turbulent emotions bursting across her face.

  She clung to him, arching and tilting her hips to deepen the angle of his driving cock, moaning and digging her nails into his shoulders when he battered that soft clump of nerves just inside her contracting walls. His stones had been ready from the get-go, but he clenched his jaw and willed his knotted and aching balls into surrender, determined to draw this act of love out for as long as he could.

  His tenacious control fractured when she placed hot palms on his cheeks, stared right into his eyes, and whispered, “Meu amor. I love you. Come to me, Demon.”

  Knowing he had lost the battle, clinging to the last vestiges of control, he reached for her clit and pinched—short, quick tweaks—and gave in to the climax once her eyes glazed and her pussy started milking him. The orgasm burst from him. He grooved his toes into the mattress, gripped a post so hard splinters dug into his flesh, threw his head back, and roared as the spasms spiraled up his calves, thighs, and across his groin.

  He released his death-clutch of the post. The few gray cells still functioning prompted him to lever to his forearms and not crush her. His strained biceps burned and twitched. In that instant, his training fell away, and he was aware only of her hot, contracting pussy, her budded and peaked nipples scraping his chest, and the sweetest press of her lips raining kisses on his sweaty skin. When he made to move off her, she wrapped her arms around his back.

  “No. I like the feel of you on me, in me.” She pulled him close, forcing him to shift his weight to his wrists and palms. “You would have me lean on you. I would have the same from you.”

  She broke through all his walls. All his stubborn formalities. But there was too much of the protector in him, and he couldn’t squ
ash her small body, so he rolled over and settled her on top, relishing the way their lovemaking had combined their scents, the fresh sunshine of hers mingling with the dark musk of his.

  Erratic gusts buffeted waves slapping the boat’s hull, and the rhythmical rocking helped settle his racing pulse. He kneaded her neck and shoulders, and gradually her breathing normalized. Her lithe fingers traced the dark patch of flesh surrounding his nipple.

  “Why’d you think I didn’t want to hear it?” He worked his way up her spine, tracing each vertebra, memorizing the feel of the small bones that spoke of such grit and steel.

  Tenderness washed over him when she set her mouth to the pulse at his throat. “I do not think you feel yourself worthy of love.”

  Fuck. She might as well have plunged a dagger into his heart. Cut his wrists and left him to bleed out.

  “But now I have said it. You will hear it often. I love you. I had never thought it would happen like this. In an instant.” She propped her chin on twined hands and met his gaze. “I had come to believe that clichés were, you know, passé. Not to be believed. Love at first sight—not possible. Not, as Spock would say, logical. What were you speaking just now? I have never heard that language.”

  Love. If only it were true. She was too young and too innocent to love a man like him. Infatuation. A crush. He’d take whatever she had to offer, any scrap of affection. For as long as it lasted.

  “A whole bunch of bastardized dialects. I don’t deserve you.” He had to say it, had to. “I haven’t lied to you. I’ve killed many men.”

  “You are a man of honor, a true warrior. If you killed, they deserved to die. I should like to tell you something.”

  Crap. He didn’t like the stubborn set of her chin one bit. “You don’t have to warn me. I can tell now when you’re going to make a pronouncement.”

  “Pronouncement. Hmmm. I like the sound of that. How can you tell?” She pressed her thumb into the hollow of one dimple, kissed his chest, and outlined his mouth, her fingertips leaving embers on his lips.