Raising Hell

by Julie Kenner

  She smiled at the thought, pleased to have something silly enter her head after all the decadent images that had filled and distracted her.

  He’d touched her.

  Even now, it was all she could do not to trace her fingers down her throat and cup her own breasts, remembering the feel of his hands against her. So heady, so wonderful, so very erotic.

  And so very terrifying.

  She’d felt the quickening in her thighs, the liquid heat in her panties, and she’d bolted, startling him and embarrassing her. But what choice did she have? She’d come here to be a model, not to fall victim to Nicholas Velnias’s famous charm. No matter how real that charm might be.

  The man had a reputation, after all. And she didn’t want to be one of his many publicized conquests. Didn’t want to be one of a line of women. More, she didn’t want to turn into the very woman her father had predicted she’d become if she moved from home to the dark hell of New York City. A wild woman, unconcerned about whose bed she ended up in, more interested in pleasure than love or morality or simple kindness.

  No, Lila didn’t want to be that woman.

  But she did want to sleep with him. Like it or not—foolish or not—the desire coursed through her, filling her. And, ultimately, driving her.

  Her eyes welled, and she fought back tears as she thought of her father’s harsh words when she’d told him that she was doing it—that she was going to New York. He’d been cruel, accusatory.

  But he’d also been wrong. Because she wasn’t that woman. She had her head on straight and she wasn’t going to sleep around.

  But did that mean she couldn’t be just a little wicked with a man she was desperately attracted to? Because right now, she wanted to be. Oh, how she wanted to be.

  Nick was fully focused on her, and the sensation of being at the very center of his attention turned her on, filling her body with heat. Something about him—about this place—seemed to open her senses. The pungent scent of oil and turpentine. The larger-than-life women who watched her from canvases propped this way and that, seeming to urge her on to … what?

  She wasn’t sure. She wanted something, but she didn’t know what. She felt itchy, as if she wasn’t quite herself, but at the same time was more herself than she’d ever been before.

  The gentle scratch of Nick’s charcoal against the canvas seemed to be an incantation, something pulling her toward him. Something beckoning. Something seeking a promise from her.

  She wanted to turn from the window and promise him anything he asked, just so long as he’d let her keep that feeling.

  She stayed there, watching his reflection in the window as he sketched, occasionally trading the pencil for a brush with just a dab or two of color on it. His face was intense, his jaw firm. And as he stroked the canvas, she could almost imagine he was stroking her. Her skin felt on fire, and if he did touch her right then, she had a feeling she would come so hard her body would melt right into the floor.

  She craved him. And by the time he put the brush down and walked to her side, it was all she could do not to rip open her shirt and thrust her body against his.

  “That’s all for now,” he said, his hand pressing lightly against her back. “We’re losing the light. More tomorrow.”

  “So we’re only going to do this when the sun’s going down?”

  His rich laughter caressed her. “No. You can pose here in the evenings. The rest of the time I’ll work on feature studies. And, who knows, I may do a few smaller canvases as well. But that,” he said, turning toward the large canvas by which he’d been standing, “that is the portrait that will change both of our lives.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Confident, aren’t you?”

  “Very.” He traced his fingertip on the back of her neck, pushing her hair aside as he did so. “You were wonderful, by the way. I know it must be boring to stand there with nothing to do but look out the window.”

  “I had a lot to think about,” she said. She turned, letting his finger trace her shoulder as she did. Then she took a deep breath for courage and met his eyes, gratified to see the silver-gray storm brewing there. A storm that seemed to rival the tempest now spinning through her body.

  “Secret thoughts?” he asked. “Or will you tell me?”

  “I might tell,” she said, teasing. “If you’ll show me.” She cast a quick glance toward the canvas.

  “Show you mine, you’ll show me yours?” he retorted with a grin.

  “Something like that.”

  “Then by all means.” He took her hand, leading her across the studio to the canvas. “It doesn’t look like much yet.”

  How wrong he was, she thought when she laid eyes on the canvas. “On the contrary,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

  He looked more closely at the emerging image. “Do you think so?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, unable to take her eyes away from the orange and purple of the setting sun. Just a hint. A color study, really, but enough to give the painting a warmth. The rough outline of her hand, so delicate against the glass.

  For part of the time she’d stood there, she’d imagined his body beneath her fingers, and now, looking at the image and the tenderness with which he’d painted her hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if he somehow knew that.

  Her face, though, was the true masterpiece, even at this early stage, a mix of pencil and paint. Colors not yet alive or accurate. Lines unfinished. But none of that mattered. Her essence was there, spilling from the canvas, crying out to be completed and yet somehow whole even as it was.

  “Wow,” she said. “You make me look… I don’t know. Lit from within, I guess.”

  “That’s how you look to me,” he said, making the words sound like the truth and not a come-on.

  “That’s how you make me feel.” She licked her lips nervously. He was watching her, and she could feel the heat of desire radiating off of him, filling her.

  Earlier, she’d pulled away from him, a frightened little girl. But she wasn’t frightened anymore. And she wasn’t a little girl. She was a woman. Wasn’t that made crystal clear by the portrait? The image on that canvas wouldn’t shrink from her desire. She’d embrace it. And that’s just what Lila wanted to do.

  She moved closer. And then—before she could talk herself out of it—she took his hand in hers and put it on her breast.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, but he had to already know the answer, because her body was answering for her. Her nipple was peaking, her feet moving closer to press against him.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “I want to go a little wild. Just once. Just with you.”

  He didn’t require any more convincing. Instead, his mouth closed hungrily on hers, and she felt the low moan escape her and her knees go weak. His arm slid around her waist, holding her up. And then he picked her up, cradling her as he took her the short distance to the bed.

  He made quick work of the rest of the buttons, pulling her shirt open and then unfastening her bra. Her breasts popped free, and his thumb found the nipple of one while his mouth closed over the other, sucking and licking and sending a hot wire of heat shooting through her body to tingle between her thighs.

  She writhed against him, wanting to lose herself to sensation, but needing to say just one more thing first. Slowly, almost regretfully, she urged his head up, making him look at her.

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t tell me to stop.”

  “No,” she whispered. “But I need to hear something, even if it’s a lie. I need you tell me that I’m different. That I’m not like all the women before. The ones the magazines say are always in and out of your bed.”

  Her words seemed to amuse him, and she fought not to blush. The request was idiotic, of course, but she still wanted the lie. She wasn’t different, and she knew it. But this night was about her. About taking this experience all the way. About being wild and letting go. She could be Delilah Burnett again tomorrow. Tonight, she was going to be the woman on the canvas.


  “Nick?” she prodded.

  “You’re nothing like the other women I’ve had,” he said, so earnestly that she almost believed him. “You’re special, Delilah. Let me show you just how special you are.”

  ‡

  Chapter Six

  Lila was not a virgin, a fact that would surely have shocked her father had the Reverend Burnett had a clue. But she might as well have been, because certainly she’d never felt before the way Nick made her feel now.

  His hands stroked her body, which sounded simple enough. But there was nothing simple about the trill of electrical sparks that seemed to skip from his fingertips into her blood, firing her desire and loosening her inhibitions.

  His kisses, too, were beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Deep and hot and all consuming, she thought she could get lost in them, and she writhed against him, desperate for that deep heat to fill her—and frustrated that he hadn’t simply ripped her clothes off and thrust himself into her.

  “Patience,” he whispered, his voice laced with a small chuckle. “All in good time.”

  “How can you do that? How can you know what I’m thinking?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled in a grin, and he urged the shirt off her body, leaving her clad only in her bra, and that hanging open, the cups lost somewhere under her arms. “Your body,” he said, pressing a kiss on her neck, and then moving down to kiss between her breasts. “It tells me.”

  “Yeah? Well, good.” At least her body was still managing coherent thought. Her mind wasn’t doing nearly as well, dipping low as it was into the swirling abyss of pleasure.

  True to his word, Nick understood what she craved even though she could never have voiced her needs, not in a million years. He trailed kisses down her belly, pausing to pay special attention to her navel, his tongue flicking in and out in a manner that hinted of similar attention to come just a bit farther to the south.

  And oh, how she wanted that attention. Her back arched, and she bucked up in silent demand. Her body was on fire and right then, only Nick could quench it. Damn it all, though, the heathen was doing nothing more than tossing thimblefuls of water onto the inferno that raged in her. Dousing small bits of need, maybe, but sending up clouds of steam that sizzled and popped and seemed only to give the fire that much more room to grow.

  “Nick,” she moaned, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Now.”

  He just lifted his head and smiled. A slow, sultry smile that made perfectly clear that this was his show, and that he wasn’t going to move any faster than absolutely necessary.

  She only hoped she didn’t die before he thought it necessary.

  His body was tucked between her legs, as his mouth caressed her belly and his hands stroked her thighs. Shameless, she writhed against him, trying to get some friction between her legs to quench the red-hot need she felt there.

  “Soon,” he said, as he slipped down lower and took her jeans with him.

  He tugged her jeans off and tossed them onto the floor, then moved back up her body, this time trailing kisses up the inside of her legs. He paused only briefly to lick the inside of her knee, and the sensation was so wholly erotic that Lila’s entire body shook from the unbridled pleasure … and from the anticipation.

  She held her breath, her body so tense and taut that she expected to snap in two at any moment. Nick took no mercy on her, though. He trailed soft kisses down the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his strong hands holding her down as her body bucked and trembled.

  And then—when she swore she’d die if she didn’t find release—he stroked his finger against her slick, wet heat, slipping inside her with firm, even strokes. Her body spasmed, closing around his fingers, wanting to pull him inside her and yet still wanting more.

  He gave it to her. With his finger still stroking inside her, he bent low and sent a whisper of breath to cool the heat between her legs. She whimpered, then nearly bit her lip when she felt his tongue caress her clit.

  That was all it took. He’d wound her so tight that that one, tiny touch drove her over the edge. He held on, sucking and nipping, as she cried out with a pleasure so intense it could be mistaken for pain. She bucked and twisted, unable to stand it, desperate to get away now and at the same time never wanting it to end. It did end, though, and when her body finally went limp, he was right there beside her, his arms strong around her waist, pulling her close until he was kissing her, the taste of her sex still on his lips.

  His hand crept down between them, and he stroked her. Her body fired in response, her limp, sleepy limbs coming alive with a passion that had been hiding only too close to the surface.

  He’d taken her to wonderful, erotic places. Hell, he’d just taken her. And now, she thought, she wanted to return the favor. Reaching down, she stroked him, her hand not quite able to close around him as she slid up and down over the velvety shaft. “It’s your turn now,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, the heat in his eyes undeniable. “It is.”

  Nick couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on. Even the countess he’d met in Venice three centuries ago hadn’t sent him spiraling so out of control. His hands roamed her body and her thrilled moans and excited whimpers fired his blood. He’d been with countless women, but none with such a mixture of fire and innocence. The combination was seductive; it had sure as hell seduced him, even as he’d been seducing her.

  He kissed her, wanting nothing more than to consume her, to take her body the way he would take her soul. To make her his.

  Desperately, he nipped and suckled, losing himself to everything except the goal of pleasing her and his body’s ever-growing demand for release.

  The silk of her skin burned under his fingers, the heat swelling to fill and surround him, burying him in a blaze of lust and greed. He wanted to hold out, to tease and pleasure this woman until she screamed for him. But she’d undone him, and he could stand it no more.

  “Nick.” Her voice, low and strangled, rasped over him as he pressed the tip of his cock to her core. “Oh, yes.”

  Nick groaned a response, then slid inside her with one strong thrust. She cried out, her back arching with pleasure and her fingernails digging deep into his shoulders. She was as warm and soft as he’d imagined, and he thrust again and again.

  Their bodies sang together, an infinite wash of pleasure as they moved as one. Time seemed to stand still and to expand, and he was aware only of the velvety sensation of her body around him, counterbalanced by the sharp sting of her nails in his skin and her desperate moans in his ears.

  The friction between their bodies sparked and sizzled, lighting a fuse that wouldn’t be extinguished until the violence of an explosion ripped through him. More and more and more until he cried out, his body yanked apart, then coming back together as he sagged against her.

  She curled against him, her body as slick with sweat as his. Her cheek rested against his chest, and one finger lazily stroked his chest. “Wow,” she whispered.

  Yes, he thought. Wow.

  And not just from the intensity of his reaction when their bodies had been high on hormones and lust, sex and need. But from the pulse in him even now. A steady thrum that drew him to her, made him want to touch her. To keep a hand on her, possessive yet gentle.

  To stay. To sleep.

  And—for the first time in over a century—Nick felt absolutely no urge to slip out of bed and paint.

  A burst of light yanked Nick back to consciousness, and he sat up, irritated and mildly surprised that Delilah hadn’t moved at all. His confusion faded almost instantaneously, however, as his fuzzy mind took stock of the situation.

  Nick’s father had arrived.

  Slowly, Nick slid out of from under the covers, the cool air soothing his heated skin. “One of these days,” he said as he slipped on a robe, “you really need to learn to knock.”

  His father actually laughed at that, his usually flat black eyes now flashing with glee. He waved a hand, ind
icating the image that was just starting to emerge from the canvas. “I’m pleased,” he said, running a hand over his goatee. “A single day and the woman is already in your bed. But it is not your pleasure I’m interested in, Nicholas. I want the woman’s soul.”

  “You made that perfectly clear, Father.”

  “Did I?” His father lifted an already-angled brow. “Good. Because your elder brother seemed incapable of following even the clearest of instructions. I trust I won’t find the same disappointment with you?”

  “You won’t,” Nick said firmly.

  Lucifer traced a finger over the lines of Delilah’s face, the form barely emerging from the canvas. “You’ve begun then? With this touch I’m caressing the soul that I covet?”

  Nick hesitated, unsure of the best way to answer his father. With Lucifer, the question of temper was always at the forefront. Lying, however, was not an option. If his father ever learned the truth, the punishment would be exponentially increased. And Nick was many things, but a glutton for punishment was not one of them.

  “There is no soul in that canvas,” he said, still not entirely sure what demon had stilled his hand, keeping him from infusing the canvas with her soul even from the first moment the bristles had stroked the canvas.

  His father stiffened, his hand still resting on the soft brushlines that would soon be transformed into Delilah’s flowing hair. He turned slowly, his eyes full of an anger so hot it seemed icy. “Do not tell me that you have already started down the path to failure, son. After Jack, I don’t think I could bear the disappointment. Certainly,” he added coldly, “I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.”

  Nick took a step forward, determined not to show fear in front of his father. Most of the time, that was easy. The tales about his father’s temper were true enough, but Nick had known the man long enough to have learned to stand his ground. Sharing the same blood didn’t hurt, either. But that didn’t mean Nick was immune. And he certainly never wanted to see his father’s wrath aimed directly at him.