Demon's Kiss (21 page)

He knew that.

And he loved her for it.

He tasted like the maple syrup from the pancakes he’d been eating. But his kiss was anything but sweet.

Thrilling. Stimulating. He slanted his lips over hers, his tongue savoring the inside of her mouth, devouring her.

Sensation washed through her, electrified her, made her wriggle closer, the firm press of his chest and abdomen and thighs flush against her, strong and male. She was lost in her awareness of him, drunk on it, so enthralled by him that she was breathless, shaky, her limbs barely able to hold her upright.

Dragging his hand along her waist, he reached under her T-shirt, palming her breast, running his thumb over her nipple. A slow hiss escaped her, and she arched into his touch. Aching pleasure. The reality of his kiss, his touch sank through her. So much better than last night’s dreams.

She reached between them, rubbed the thick rod of his erection through his jeans. Impatient. Her movements a little rough. Clumsy. Spurred by aching passion.

With a groan, he pulled away, his features taut with barely leashed need. She was left throbbing, her lips sensitive and swollen from his kiss, and she ran her tongue over them, tasting him.

“Clea.” His breath came harsh and fast. “I cannot know what will happen. What I will become.” His gaze burned into hers. “I cannot bear the thought of harming you.”

Such words should have terrified her, but she knew only passion and tenderness and the certainty that she was safe in his arms.

He tried to step back, and she held him, her hand fisted in his shirt. His eyes, those stunning multifaceted eyes, narrowed in watchful contemplation, an edge of desperation etching fine lines.

“You don’t know what I am.” His voice was hoarse, and his gaze slid away from hers.

Such pain in a handful of words. She whispered with all the conviction of her heart, “But I do. I do know.”

She willed him to believe her.

She was the one who was dangerous to him, dragging from him that which kept him safe: his power, his magic. Yes, she knew that, and it tore her apart. All she wanted to do was heal him, take care of him, make love to him, and make everything right and good. And how crazy was that? She wanted to protect an all-powerful sorcerer, wanted to take his pain and the darkness in his soul and turn it all to light.

That wasn’t the way it would play out, though. She knew that, too, and she accepted it, accepted him for all he was. And for all he was not. She would love him, love him with all her heart and soul and pray that it would be enough.

Light and darkness. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she knew
exactly
what he was. Sorcerer. Demon. All the secret, complicated parts of him.

He was danger and heat and need.

He was hers.

“I don’t care how far into the shadows you fall. You would never hurt me.” Silly words. Perhaps even naïve. But she had no doubt that they were true. She felt the certainty throbbing inside her, the potency of her trust.

Ciarran stared at her, his eyes darkening, and he pulled her up against him so sharply she gasped in surprise. He rocked into her, the thick ridge of his penis pressing against her, tantalizing her. With a rough groan he lowered his head and kissed her, endless, drugging, leaving her heart racing and her body liquid. It wasn’t until she bumped against the kitchen counter that she realized he’d turned her, moved her so that her back now rested against the solid surface.

Her hands tangled in the thick gold strands of his hair, and she purred her pleasure as he moved his mouth along her jaw to the column of her throat, grazing her skin with his teeth, his tongue. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, fast, strong, pounding out the beat of his desire.

“I want you,” he murmured, his lips moving against the skin of her throat. “You make me believe in myself, believe that I am yet the light sorcerer and not the minion of darkness. I want you to trust me, when I can’t even trust myself. Trust me to be inside you, and you inside me, magic to magic, mine weaving through you, and yours through me—”

He kissed her neck. Bit her lightly, and her desire ratcheted up another notch, infinitely powerful.

Yours through me.
There it was. The reality she had sensed. She
was
what he was. Sorcerer. Or, at least, she was some untrained form of it. Probably had been for two decades, only she hadn’t had a name for it until now.

Afraid. She ought to be afraid. But she wasn’t. She was deeply, darkly thrilled to be . . . like him. A sorcerer.

Whatever it meant to be as he was, she would cope, because it meant she was his
kind
. He was hers, and she was his.

It was all part of the attraction, the unfettered yearning. She knew exactly what he was.

The goodness in him.

The honorable warrior.

The shadowy demon that lurked beneath the surface.

She’d seen the darkest part, and, God help her, she wanted
him,
craved him, welcomed the hidden edge that made him just a little less than perfect.

He’d killed for her, to protect her. And he would again, if he had to. In her whole life, she’d never felt as safe as she did with Ciarran D’Arbois.

Breathing in the scent of him, she licked his skin, warm and clean and a little salty, sank her teeth into the swell of muscle where his shoulder and neck met. Oh, the satisfaction when he gave a deep, masculine growl of pleasure, the sound echoing through her.

“You make me crazy. All I can think about is you.” The sound of his voice, low and raspy, stroked her senses.

Fingers tangled in her hair, he tipped her face to his kiss, a luscious wet joining that sank through her to her core, making her writhe against him. She pulled him closer, tighter, until the heavy ridge of his erection pressed into her.

Sucking on her tongue, he rubbed up against her, and she sucked back, the sensation bringing heated images to her mind. She wanted to suck
him,
bite him, pull him deep into her mouth, feel the smooth glide of his thick shaft against her lips and tongue.

She wanted to bring him to the same sharp precipice, the same edge that he brought her.

Drawing back, he stared at her, his eyes glittering. He ran the pad of his thumb over her lips, and one side of his gorgeous mouth curved in a sexy, masculine smile as he pushed his thumb inside to rub the smooth surface of her teeth, then deeper, into the wet center. She swirled her tongue around his thumb, bit him, watched his smile turn tight with need.

He knew exactly what she wanted to do. She could read it in that knowing smile. With a groan, she sucked hard on his thumb, feeling a deep feminine satisfaction as his smile faded and the breath hissed from between his teeth. Using the pressure of her body, she urged him into a slow spin, pushed him back, kissing him, running her hands over his shoulders, his arms, until she turned their positions and he was leaning his back against the counter.

“Wait,” she whispered, her breath mingling with his, the sound little more than a sigh. She unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and, oh, the feel of him, the broad, smooth length of his naked cock, heavy in her hand.

Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, he hauled it over his head, shrugged it off his shoulders. The sight of him, golden skin taut over layers of firm muscles and the thin line of honey brown hair that arrowed down his belly to his groin made her mouth go dry. She ran her hand along his arm to the leather glove, weaving her fingers with his, her palm flat against butter-soft leather.

The darkness bucked, flickering between them. She felt the syrupy glide of it, tainting his magic, and with her thoughts and her will she pressed it back, an unwelcome intruder. A key. A lock. She joined her resolve to his, caging the beast.

She kissed Ciarran’s jaw, his neck, the solid muscle of his chest, his abdomen, and she sank to her knees before him. Fisting his hands in her hair, he guided her, and she worked her lips around the broad head of his penis, dizzy with the feel of him in her mouth, the taste. Smooth. Slick. So hard. Intoxicating.

A guttural moan tore from him. He rocked his hips forward, the sound of his pleasure twining through the silence of the kitchen until it came to rest in the pit of her belly, a languid heat.

Enthralled by the sheer size of him, the power, she sucked him deep, scraped her teeth along his shaft, traced the smooth skin with her tongue. Her fingers curled into the firm globes of his buttocks. The sound of his rough groan and the feel of his big hands cradling her head only sent her higher, beguiled her more.

“
Christe,
Clea.” Smoke and velvet, his voice was rough with passion, and beneath her hands the muscles of his buttocks tensed as she kneaded them.

With a growl, he pulled her up. She stood, trembling, her passion honed to a fever pitch, turned on by the fact that she’d turned him on. Feminine mystery and power. He stripped the clothes from her body, pushed aside his own jeans, bending to kiss her shoulder, the side of her breast, the curve of her waist as he disrobed them both. Naked. The sweet, sweet slide of his skin against hers was so unbearably good.

He was so perfect, so utterly sexy.

She felt the shift of magic, shimmering between them, coiling into her, and she knew she was drawing from him. She focused on that. Determined to stop her unwilling theft of his strength, his energy, she imagined a wall, a thick wall that magic could not pass.

“You are adept,” he murmured, his tone laced with admiration, and she knew she had succeeded, at least for now.

His mouth hard and passionate, his kiss lusciously sensual, he spun her deeper into a haze of desire. Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he pulled on it, bit her gently, and she moaned, a half-desperate sound that hid nothing from him. She was so hot, so ready for him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. There was only the wanting, the fathomless, aching wanting.

Bending his head, he licked her nipple, took it in his mouth, and sucked hard. She arched her back, offering him more, begging for his touch. The power of her arousal was overwhelming, sharp-edged, and she whimpered as he transferred his attention to her other nipple, his mouth just a little rough, the sensation purely exquisite. She clutched at his shoulders, her whole world turned upside down.

She was held up by his arm, a band of steel around her waist, holding her weight. If she’d had to rely on her own legs, she’d have been nothing more than a puddle at his feet.

He turned her until her back was pressed to the hard ridges of his belly, his hands cupping her breasts, his fingers tweaking her nipples, pinching them. The feel of his leather glove against her skin was indescribably erotic.

Walking her forward from kitchen to den, he tumbled her over the back of the couch, his gloved hand toying with her breasts, while the other slid between her legs, finding her moist core.

Wanting him was a fever pulsing inside her, blazing with a sensual fire.

“Ciarran . . . please . . .”

His fingers pushed up inside her. Incoherent. Bright delight. Her breath caught as he squeezed her nipple, teasing it with his clever fingers. He touched her. She hungered.

He brought his weight down onto her, his front to her back, pinning her beneath him, his breath hot against her cheek, and she sank deeper against the yielding couch back as his fingers withdrew, penetrated, stroking her until she squirmed and arched her buttocks toward him.

Melting into him, she was giddy with it, with the need to have him fill her. His fingers withdrew, replaced by his cock, hot and solid between her thighs, between the folds of her vulva. Hard. Silky. Perfection.

As he pushed up into her, she murmured, “Yes. God, yes.”

A low, erotic laugh rumbled in his chest.

The weight of him and the thrust of his cock were impossibly perfect, and he filled her, deeper, a smooth glide. So thick. So wonderfully thick.

She sighed. Gasped. Her hips followed his in an intense, arousing rhythm, her buttocks arching back to meet each thrust. Reaching underneath the front of her, his hand between her legs, he stroked her clitoris.

Magic swirled around them, through them, her carefully fabricated wall tumbling to ruins, her every thought focused on him, the smell of his skin, the feel of his body as he held her close.

The darkness was there, and she felt it, melding with him and with her, a part of him.

A part of them both.

He opened his mouth against the nape of her neck, his tongue stroking her, his teeth closing on the tender flesh. Marking her.

“My precious Clea,” he whispered.

Yes. His.

Reckless yearning spread through her until she thought she could bear no more. Every place he touched felt sublime. Her body moved in pattern to his, taking them higher, closer.

Lost. She was lost in him.

Adrift, and yet anchored all at once.

She was drowning in pleasure, in the hard thrust of his cock, the slide of his hot skin against her back and buttocks, and the stroke of his fingers between her legs.

Ciarran. Ciarran. Ciarran.
His name was a song, running through her mind.