by Bethan Tear
She didn't have much in the way of clothing for him. The only male clothes she owned were a pair of ratty old jeans belonging to one of her mom's previous, shorter boyfriends, ones she used for painting and decorating. She suspected they would be several sizes too small for the hunk of manhood lounging around her kitchen, flicking idly through a fashion magazine.
“I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere,” she told him sternly. He didn't give any indication he was listening to her, licking his fingers and turning the page. She doubted the exploits and scandals of celebrities interested much, and instead he was trying to push her buttons, to find out which ones would annoy her, which ones would excite her, which ones would make her fall for him.
Hazelle went to the spare bedroom and hunted through the wardrobe in there, allowing herself to imagine his face if she leant him one of her lacy nightgowns to wear instead. She didn't think he would look so smug then. As it was she didn't dare to disrespect a demon. He may seem placid now but she was willing to bet if she said the wrong thing at the wrong time he wouldn't hesitate to punish her.
All she could find in his size were a pair of leather pants from her mother's fling with a biker thug three months ago. She returned to the kitchen and held the pants out to him. He took them without comment and she started to turn away as he slipped them on.
“What's with the false modesty?” he sneered, “You've already seen all there is to see. Care to repay the favour?”
There was an earnest glint in his eyes and she wanted to shatter that beautiful, untouchable arrogance into dust.
“No,” she said sullenly, turning away. She didn't like the tone of voice he used when talking to her, as if he were mocking her, too sure of himself and his charms. It was so frustrating to be trapped in the company of such an egoistical, chauvinistic man, let alone one that came from the great black belly of the earth and probably partied with the devil on weekends.
She didn't turn back until she heard the sound of a zipper being pulled up. Leather clung to him like a second skin, allowing her to see every chorded muscle of his thighs, his sculptured chest still bare, gorgeous golden abs gleaming in the bright kitchen lights like a freshly oiled god. He looked down at himself and then back up at her, a roguish smile gracing his lips.
“Do you approve?”
“It’ll do for now,” she said, trying to act indifferent to his attractiveness, still very much on her guard.
As much as the book had told her that he was under her authority, as much as he had tried to reassure her that she was the one in control, she didn't trust him to behave. There was something about him, something wild and uncivilised, something savage and primitive, from his untameable red hair to the feral glimmer in his jet black eyes that made her stomach twist in knots every time she looked at him, every time she felt his warm breath on her cheek, or the back of her neck. No man, human or otherwise, had ever affected her this way. He wasn't human, had never been human, and she had always to remember that, no matter how convincing his act could be. She tried to convince herself that she was only afraid of him, and nothing more than that.
Mom was still gallivanting around town with her latest toy boy, a mechanic some twenty years her junior, almost the same age as her own daughter. It was a sad reflection on Hazelle's life when her mom was more successful at dating men her age than she actually was. Mom usually spurned older men, instead frequenting nightclubs and other such establishments were youth liked to congregate, where she could prey on them, as if she were trying to reclaim her own youth by living vicariously through them. Much like Hazelle mom didn't look her age, nor act it. Hazelle, once critical of her mom's antics, now simply let her do as she pleased and didn't make any sarcastic remarks the next morning about bed springs squeaking in the night.
This stranger, this man, this demon, looked like he had made more than a few beds squeak. There was a natural elegance to his every movement, smooth, cool and confident, yet so subtle and meant to allure, to hypnotise her, to tempt her into his embrace and make her forget herself so that he could take advantage of her.
It wouldn't work. She was not so easily swayed. She was more sensible than that, and far too stubborn. Regardless of what he thought she would find a way to send him back, his tail between his legs, even if it took all night.
“I'm hungry,” he announced, rubbing his stomach and looking at her expectantly.
“I'm not a slave,” she snapped, “There is food in the cupboards and the fridge. Eat whatever you want.”
“I'd rather eat you,” he said in a low, erotic voice that made her shiver all the way to her core. He was trying to tease her, entice her, and despite her determination and indignation she could feel herself blushing crimson.
Did he know the power he had over her?
He must do, or surely he wouldn't say such wicked things.
She made no retort, instead she descended to the basement to retrieve the book, leaving him to his own devices, whatever they might be for a demon. She blew out the candles one by one, hoping that might be the secret to sending him back to hell. No such luck. When she returned to the kitchen to her distress he was still there, topless and rummaging through the fridge, wiggling his perfect leather bound ass at her. She had to admit, he did look good in those pants, almost as good as he did out of them.
She sat at the breakfast bar, pouring over the spell-book while he made himself a ham, salami, mustard, pickle, jam and peanut butter sandwich. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the bizarre concoction, but when he turned around she pretended to be ignoring him. He took the stool next to her.
“Find anything?”
She looked up, long enough to glare. “Not yet.”
“That's because there is nothing to find,” he told her condescendingly, like he was explaining something complicated to a small child, “You're wasting your time. Actually, you're wasting my time too.”
She disregarded him and continued to read, revising how to do the spell, the purpose and consequences should anything go awry. Technically nothing had, the spell had done everything it promised. There was no advice on how to banish him back to the hell he had clawed his way from, no hint as to what would fulfil that purpose and set him free. She read the book from cover to cover, until her head ached and her eyes blurred, and found no answers, only more questions.
She closed the book, sighing, disappointed and disillusioned. He had finished eating his sandwich and had taken to watching her read, his peculiar, slightly disturbing eyes concentrated on her face, with such intensity and dark longing in them it made her shudder from time to time. Even though he had eaten there was still hunger in his gaze, his eyes ravenous.
“What?” she demanded, irritated. She didn't like being stared at during the best of times, and especially not by the sarcastic sex demon she had summoned on a silly whim.
“I was thinking how unlike you are from all the others that have summoned me over the centuries,” he muttered, scowling. Suddenly their situation didn't seem to so amusing to him anymore.
“Oh.”
Had she offended him? It shouldn't matter, but she found that it did. It did not to well to piss off a demon.
“What were they like?” she asked curiously, closing the book.
“Beautiful. Hideous. Rich. Poor. Lonely. Desperate. It was one end of the social and sexual spectrum to the other, with so many colours, so many shades of grey in-between, but I have never been with anyone so...so...ordinary.”
He didn't say it scornfully, or disrespectfully, as if he meant to insult her. He sounded intrigued, almost fascinated by her. Perhaps she was as much an enigma to him as he was to her?
“Well, don't get used to it. You're going home in the morning, just as soon as I find another spell to send you back,” she told him firmly, unruffled by her failure tonight. If there was something to find she was damn well going to make sure she found it.
“If you say so,” he murmured, though made no other remark.
She yawned a
nd covered her mouth, not taking any chances when it came to old wives' tales about letting the devil in, especially now that she had irrefutable proof he existed, half-naked in her kitchen and clearly still aroused. She glanced up at the cat clock above the doorway that led into the hall and saw it was almost midnight. Mom wouldn't be home for a couple of hours yet.
The spell had definitely taken it out of Hazelle, she felt as if she hadn't slept in a week, she felt vulnerable, helpless, completely at the mercy of the demon by her side, if he even had any. Maybe he was waiting until she fell asleep so he could have his way with her. She should have picked up the dagger too, when she'd gone downstairs for the book. She would sleep with a knife under her pillow as an extra precaution, though she doubted she would be able to sleep at all.
“I want to go to bed,” she declared, leaping down from the stool haughtily, “And wake up in the morning and remember this all as a bad dream.”
“I'll still be here in the morning...waiting,” he added ominously, his eyes flashing with lust, making her shiver. Did he ever think of anything else?
From the prominent bulge in his pants, no, apparently not.
“Do what you want. Just stay away from me,” she warned him, and then marched out of the kitchen with her head held high.
To his credit he wasn't foolish enough to follow her as she trudged up the stairs, perhaps sensing the foul mood she was in, the foul mood he had put her in. He was everything she had always thought she wanted in a man, handsome, intelligent, desirable, determined and dedicated to her, and yet to have it waved in her face like that, knowing what he was, knowing where he came from, knowing she couldn't snatch him up in a heartbeat was so frustrating. He was incorrigible, insufferable, irresistible and a part of her didn't care, didn't care that he was bad, didn't care that he wasn’t human, didn't care that she wanted him.
She distracted herself with changing for bed, washing her face, combing her hair, brushing her teeth, all human habits. How did demons groom? Whatever he did it was working for him, with not a whisker on his chin or a blemish spoiling his skin. She was on edge, pausing occasionally and listening for the tell-tale creak of the stairs which meant he was coming to harass her some more.
He didn't. When she left the bathroom the hallway was deserted and so she slipped into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her, locking it for good measure. She'd forgotten to grab the butcher's knife from the wooden block in the kitchen, the one her mother used to slice steaks, and so she borrowed an antique silver letter opener from her desk, testing the sharpness against her thumb with a prick that made her gasp and bleed. Hopefully it would do the same to flawless demon flesh. She tucked the letter opener under her pillow and sucked her thumb, grimacing at the coppery taste of blood.
There was no noise from downstairs. Not a sound. Mom wasn't home yet, though it was still early for her. She rarely returned before two in the morning. Hazelle wondered how the demon was entertaining himself, she considered sneaking downstairs to spy on him before deciding it was none of her concern. Hopefully by morning he would have realised that she neither wanted nor needed him and would vanish, or slither back to hell, and she would be able to spend the rest of her life pretending it was all just a bad dream, a really, really vivid one.
She flicked off her lamp and slipped into bed, watching shadows dance on the walls, wishing wholeheartedly that she had never cast the stupid spell.
There was a timid knocking on her door and she sat bolt upright, startled, having been close to drifting off.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” the demon's gruff voice came through the door.
“Sleep wherever you like. I don't care,” she huffed, throwing herself back down on the pillows and scrunching her body up into a protective cocoon, as if to preserve heat, though merely the sound of his voice made her feel hot and flustered.
What was it about him? Was it magic? Or was it nature, pure and simple biological lust? She'd never reacted to any man in this way before and it was maddening, like her own body was betraying her.
“Okay.”
She didn't hear him walk away, deciding that he must have, for he didn't bother her again. Let him sulk somewhere, she didn't care, he wouldn't be around long enough to affect her.
She closed her eyes and let the sound of wind whistling through the trees outside lull her into a deep and demon-less sleep.
Chapter Three
The first thing she saw was darkness, black eyes gazing back at her, the glittering, dangerous, dark eyes of the demon she had summoned, his face so close to hers that their noses were touching ever so lightly, ever so intimately. Her brushed his lips against hers in what was almost a kiss before she came to her senses and leapt back, falling from the bed and landing with a loud bang.
He sat up and stretched leisurely, edging his way over to the other side of the bed on his knees, looming over her. He was naked again, the leather pants lying discarded on the back of the wicker chair she used for late night reading. His eyes flashed with amusement, as dark as midnight, as sensuous as sin, an effortless, sardonic smirk slipping onto his perfect face, his hair ruffled from sleep...or from sex.
But the chord on her pyjama bottoms was tight, every button on her blouse still done up and apparently untampered with. She felt fairly certain that had he meddled with her in any way she would have awoken immediately and put a stop to it, no matter how much a part of her wanted it, wanted him. This was her body and hers alone, to do with as she pleased and to refuse who she liked. No black magic could change that.
He cocked his head to the side, a lock of hair falling across one eye as he studied her curiously, before his hand slid under her pillows to where she'd stashed the letter opener, the closest substitute for a knife. He turned it over with his long, supple fingers, the silver blade catching bright sunlight shining through the window and reflecting it back at her, making her wince.
“You were going to stab me?” he asked quietly, his tone light and inquisitive. He sounded more amused than angry.
“I was going to defend myself,” she replied honestly. She had no reason to lie to him.
There was frenzied knocking on her bedroom door.
“Hazelle?” that was her mother's panicked voice, muffled by wood, “Are you alright?”
Hazelle glanced up at the pink Hello Kitty clock on her night stand. It was a few minutes past eight. Mom being up this early after a night out on the town was a good indication she had come home alone.
The handle was pressed down and the door rattled in its frame as her mother tried to get in. Hazelle's eyes widened as she saw the bolt still pulled across, locking it, barring intruders from her bedroom...or so she had always believed. She glanced at the demon accusingly and saw the mischievous glint in his eyes. Clearly locksmiths hadn't taken inhuman intruders into account.
“I'm fine, mom. I just had a nightmare,” she called back, before muttering under her breath, “And it isn't over yet.”
“Okay honey, as long as you're okay. Breakfast is in ten minutes.”
Hazelle heard her mother go downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief until the demon stood up, blankets falling away to reveal his huge, quivering member, primed and ready for use. She cringed and looked away. Did he ever think of anything else?
Of course not. That was his purpose in life. His very reason for existing. That was what he had been designed to do, that's what women begged him for. He was a demon of desire, pure and primal, and if he had it his way she would already be in bed with her legs in the air.
The floor would be good enough for him too, she doubted he was very picky.
“How did you do that?” she demanded, his nudity distracting. She forced herself to look back and not blush, not let him see how he could affect her. If he wasn't careful he would have someone's eye out with that thing.
He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”
“The door. How did you get in while it's locked?”
He rolled his eyes, exasperate
d, and then stepped away from the bed, standing before her in all his golden skinned glory.
“I'm a demon. Use your imagination, Hazelle,” he said disdainfully. It was the first time he had spoken her name since the basement and it wasn't any less stimulating.
“Oh, I don't need to,” she murmured sarcastically, flushing when she found her gaze lingering on his eye-watering appendage. For some reason her fingers itched to touch him, to weave through his tousled hair, her lips tingling in anticipation of tasting his lush, golden flesh.
She shook her head, still flustered. “Put some clothes on please.”
He bowed mockingly. “As you command.”
She climbed to her feet, still woozy from the fall and the shock of finding him in her bed, as if he belonged there. Her ribs were aching in protest and she knew she would have a nice shiny bruise on her hipbone by the end of the day. She limped to the door and unbolted it, before bolting it again and unbolting it, testing the mechanism for any flaw. There was none. Mystified, she opened the door and darted out, closing it behind her, hoping he would have put on some pants by the time she returned.
Hazelle took a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away the last of her disorientation and then she brushed her teeth, contemplating how he could have sneaked into her room without waking her, and more bafflingly, without disturbing the lock. Had he climbed in through the window? Teleported? Turned to smoke and infiltrated her bedroom through the now defunct keyhole? She had preformed magic to bring him to her, and had accepted that magic actually existed, but she was still unaccustomed to the rules and regulations, to the restrictions of what he could and couldn't do.
He was wearing the leather, figure hugging pants when she returned to her room, and she admired the contrast between dark leather and his burnished skin, tanned from the sun or fanned by the flames of hell she didn't know. She wondered if he could abide sunlight or if his skin would shrivel and melt away, until she saw him stood by the window, the curtain drawn back as he watched the world go by, the world he didn't belong to, the world he couldn't belong to, the world he had trespassed in long enough already. She reminded herself that he was a demon, not a vampire, but just because he didn't burst into flames and disappear in a puff of ashes it didn't make him any less dangerous.