Demon's Hunger (23 page)

Glenn Stewart shoved the long greasy strands of his hair back from his face. He was twitchy tonight. Privacy was a limited commodity; he had maybe an hour before the room he'd borrowed needed to revert to its owner.

An hour would be more than enough.

Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he glanced at the woman. She stood by the door, her arms locked around her waist, hugging herself, her expression guarded.

She was a looker, with smooth, dark hair, and those legs. Damn. Her stiletto heels were a turn-on, but the rest of her looked all buttoned-up conservative and too expensive for his taste. Still, he couldn't wait to see what was underneath those clothes.

There were only two problems that kept this scenario from being picture perfect.

The disdainful look on her face as she sized up the room.

"What the fuck did you expect?" he snarled. "The Taj Mahal?"

And the fact that she was a little older than he preferred.

The thought made him grin. Anyone older than fifteen was older than he liked. His preferences ran to young girls, wide-eyed and innocent. And scared.

But this bitch had come on to him, had refused to take no for an answer. Hell, she'd come on so strong, he'd thought she'd go through with it right up against the wall in the alley. But now, leaning against the door with her eyes wide and her lips pressed together, she didn't look so certain anymore.

Glenn watched as she looked around the room. There wasn't much to see. Peeling paint. A carpet that might once have been beige but now looked gray under a greasy coating of grime. He jerked his thumb at the naked, stained mattress.

"Get undressed and get on there. Oh, but leave on those heels. I like those high heels," he said, turning to the small table under the window.

There was a bottle there and two glasses, one of which contained cigarette butts floating in an inch of water. He unscrewed the lid on the bottle of cheap scotch and sloshed some of the amber liquid into the glass that didn't have butts floating in it. He figured that meant it was pretty close to clean.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman undo her coat and shrug out of it, then glance around, looking for somewhere to put it.

"Drop it," Glenn barked, enjoying the rush of power he got from ordering her around. "The floor's good enough."

Yeah, the floor was good enough for her. Maybe that's where he'd fuck her, right there on the stinking, grimy carpet.

She made a soft sound, and he squinted at her. In the alley, he'd thought she was too old for his taste, much closer to his own age than to her teens, but here in the dimly lit room, she looked younger.

Her coat hit the floor.

He liked that; she was gratifyingly obedient.

As she turned toward the mattress, he caught a glint of something shiny and bright, and he prowled closer, his eyes riveted on her necklace.

"This real?" he asked, closing his hand around the diamond-encrusted letter
A
.

He inhaled, liking the smell of her. Reminded him of bubble gum, or maybe cherry…

Damn, up close, she was younger than he'd thought. No lines on her face. No puffiness under her eyes. Just smooth skin and pink lips. She was little more than a girl.

His rod got real good and hard.

"I asked you a question."

She nodded, chewing her lower lip, uncertain. "Yes, it's real."

Glenn gave the necklace a hard yank, but the chain remained intact. Squinting, he looked closer. The links were heavy and thick.

That was fine.

He'd let her wear it while he fucked her, and then he'd take it. He knew a couple fences who would give him a few bucks for it.

"I don't need to do this," she said, so soft he almost didn't hear her.

He grunted. Maybe she didn't, but he did. Now that he'd seen her up close, he knew she was young, nice and young.

And scared.

"Yes"—he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back hard so she looked at him—"you do, pretty little girl. You can't wind my key and not finish the game."

She laughed then, low and husky, her hands reaching for his shirt. She fisted the cloth and tore it wide, the sound of rending material loud in the silence.

This was his best shirt, for chrissake.

"Hey!" he snarled, and backhanded her across the face.

She slammed against the wall, slid down it to the floor, and slowly raised her eyes to his. They glittered in the dim light, a strange color—gold and black, swirling like a tornado.

Glenn felt the first twinges of unease skitter through him.

Gracefully, she rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. Her features changed, becoming ageless and marble-cold. Frightening, though he couldn't really say why. He just felt like something in the room had shifted, the pendulum of power swinging away from him.

He backed up a step, spread his hands before him as a greasy, queasy sickness seized him.

And then she smiled.

Where in the fucking hell had all those teeth come from?

"Get undressed and get on there," she said, mimicking his earlier words and tone.

Glenn's heart slammed against his ribs. No, he didn't think so. But against his will, his hands shifted to his belt, the leather sliding from the buckle with a soft swish.

Fear dialed up a notch to terror.

What was this bitch doing to him?

He wasn't taking off his clothes by choice. He just couldn't seem to stop.

He didn't
want
to do this.

Only, he
was
doing it. His fingers found his button, his zipper, the metal rasping as he undid his pants.

He was panting, sharp, raw gasps, but he couldn't speak, couldn't cry out, couldn't stop himself from getting naked and crossing to the stained mattress.

She stalked him, movement for movement.

"On your back," she said, and against his will, his mind screaming its resistance, he lowered himself as she instructed, feeling the broken springs dig into his flesh.

And the whole time, she watched him with her glittering, terrifying eyes.

Why hadn't he noticed her eyes in the alley?

His heart hurt. It hurt. It was beating so hard and fast he felt sick. Cold sweat beaded on his brow and drenched the hollow of his back and the pits under his arms.

He could smell his own fear.

Jesus. Jesus.

"You like little girls," she said as she straddled him, one knee on either side of his quivering body. "You do things to little girls, and you make them cry. Make them scream. They beg you and you like that."

He wanted to tell her it wasn't true, wanted to tell her anything, anything.

Only he couldn't. His mouth wouldn't work, nor would his limbs. All he could do was lie there.

Besides, it
was
true. All of it. Everything she said.

"I don't
have
to do this," she murmured, raking one sharp nail along his belly hard enough to draw blood. "But I
want
to. Because you made a mistake, Glenn, years ago. You played your nasty little game with a girl that I know."

He screamed. He did. He screamed long and hard, but there was no sound, no release, no help.

"Take heart, sweet prince"—she laughed, a low, throaty chuckle, both sensual and terrifying—"your life force will be used for a greater good."

I
don't know what you're talking about. Please, please let me go. Please let me go
. He knew his mouth formed the words, but they stalled inside of him, unable to break free.

"I know," she said, soft, soothing. "I know."

She licked her lips, and then she raked her fingers down his belly, gouging deep.

Vivien awoke in Dain's bed. Her eyes drifted open to the first faint promise of sunrise, a purple-gray hint of light. She lay there for a moment, drowsy and replete, staring out the window at the sky, cloudless and vast and beautiful. Dain's heartbeat was a steady thud beneath her cheek, his arm heavy across her shoulders. She felt formless, boneless, far more relaxed than she ever recalled feeling in her life.

She felt wonderful,
altered
, the chrysalis opened, the butterfly set free, as though all this time, she had been encased in a confining shell.

Inhaling the scent of Dain's skin, she smiled. They had made love on the couch. Then against the wall, fast and torrid, overcome before they could make it to the bed, his warm hands underneath her buttocks, the smooth cool wall at her back, her legs locked tightly about his waist. She'd screamed high and loud as she came; she felt warm now just thinking of it.

Eventually, they had reached the bed. Made love again, with slow, lazy kisses and building need until she'd climbed atop and taken him so full and deep, riding them both to stunning release.

And each time, she had felt the golden glow of his magic suffuse her, bright and glorious. She didn't know how to describe the sensation of that… almost like she was sucking the most delicious, decadent milkshake through a straw. She'd felt so hungry, so greedy; she'd sucked and sucked, and, God, it had been so
good
. Was that how sorcerers made love? By sharing their power?

She supposed it was.

After they'd made love again and again, she'd lain beside him and he'd rolled on his side, pulled her against him.

"Sleep, love," he'd murmured drowsily. And she had, her eyes drifting closed with his words dancing through her thoughts.
Sleep, love
. A careless endearment; surely nothing more.

Now, she turned her head, raised up a little, and looked at him. His face was relaxed in sleep, his hair tousled. Oh, he was beautiful, sinfully beautiful.

Hunger surged inside her. She wanted him again, even more now that she
knew
him. Knew the feel of his long, strong fingers on her body. Knew the throbbing thickness of him as he pushed inside her and the taste of his mouth as he kissed her. She wanted his mouth on her nipples, sucking them with hard, tugging pulls, and she wanted the heat and power of him pumping deep.

He'd made her come how many times? Six? Seven?

Right now, she wanted to raise the count to eight… nine. She wanted to make love with him again.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Make
love
. Just a term? Or was she feeling something for this man, this sorcerer, something frightening and foreign.

She'd been in love once in her entire life, with Pat. And after what had happened to him, she hadn't dared let anyone in. Because everyone left. They always left. Nana, there one day and then just gone, disappeared without even a good-bye. Her dad. Her mom, who had never really been there for her in any emotional context. And Pat. Pat, who had died such a terrible death. She hadn't allowed herself to love, because she refused to open herself up again to that kind of hurt.

Even in university, she hadn't had crushes the way her friends did. The only person she'd let in was Amy, and that was mostly because Amy had refused to go away. She'd just been there, a solid friend, until Vivien had no choice but to care about her.

Right now, looking down at Dain's sleeping face, thinking of the way he'd made love to her, the way he spoke with her, listened to her, the way he'd protected her, she was terrified. She thought this feeling that bubbled inside her like champagne, like Alka-Seltzer, like Pop Rocks, was love. The thought left her dizzy.

Slowly, she eased out of Dain's embrace, careful not to rouse him. She felt an odd sensation as she broke contact, like an electric shock, very strong, and then a snap, like the recoil of an stretched elastic band. She glanced down, froze. Her fingertips were sparking with light, an odd, purple glow. She stared at it until it faded. For a second she just stood there, getting her equilibrium back.

Her gaze slid to Dain. He shifted in his sleep, and she felt a little guilty for the shadows beneath his eyes that told of fatigue. It seemed she'd exhausted him.

Resisting the urge to touch him, to splay her hands over his warm skin and wake him, she stood by the bed and studied him. He was so tall, so broad, his big body taking up space even in the massive king-sized bed. Her gaze raked him, from the swell of his chest to the dark line of hair that ran down his belly, flanked on either side by the ridges of his abdomen. The sheet twisted at his hips, obscuring her view. But she knew what was under there.

Temptation stole through her again. Let him sleep? Wake him?

His breathing was slow and even, revealing the depth of his slumber.
She'd
never felt more energized, while
he
seemed totally drained.

The urge to care for him, protect him, curled through her like smoke.

Poor guy. After the marathon she'd made him run, he needed his rest. And she needed a few minutes to wrap her head around all of this.

Abruptly, she realized she was hungry, ravenous.

God, she was starving for… ice cream. She was glad that Dain's freezer held a stock of Chunky Monkey.

Naked, she prowled to the kitchen quietly, the first streaks of dawn guiding her way. She rounded the counter and opened the freezer, feeling incomparably free and sensual. Even the waft of cold air on her skin was lovely.