Demon's Kiss (22 page)

Every nerve, every cell alive, her body tightened around him. A ripple of ecstasy shot through her. She jerked, panted.

“Ciarran!” She dug her fingers into the couch, her body shuddering as the surge of her climax burst upon her. And then she was floating, the echoes of her pleasure lingering in softly pulsing waves.

Ciarran kissed the back of her neck, her shoulder, holding her tight against him as she shuddered her release. The waning current of her orgasm stroked him, making him harder.

She was slick. Wet. So tight he could melt.

He wanted to feel her come for him again.

A tremor shook her as he shifted inside her, and she murmured, turning in his embrace, face-to-face. Her movement dragged him free of her warmth, the disconnection almost painful. She was pinned up against him, chest to chest now, her buttocks pressed against the couch, her body soft and supple, relaxed even.

And he was still hard as stone, his cock throbbing, nudging at her moist sex. Open and yielding as he kissed her, she sealed her mouth to his in a way that made the ache in his groin pulse even stronger.

“God, I love the way you kiss me,” she said, her voice husky with passion. She tunneled her fingers through his hair and pulled him back to her, her kiss wonderfully sensual.

Letting her weight fall back, she pulled him with her, the two of them tangled together, tumbling over the back of the couch to land on the cushions. He rolled her beneath him, pinned one wrist above her head.

Smiling, she lifted her head, let her tongue lick a wet path along his throat. Her nails scraped the curve of his hip bone, her fingers closing around his shaft. With slow, leisurely strokes that made the breath hiss between his lips, she rubbed him, his body winding ever tighter at the sheer uncomplicated bliss of her touch.

He closed his hand around hers, stilling her movements, then guided himself into her once more, sinking into the white-hot pleasure of it. The pulsing of his cock was so tight it was almost in pain, a deep ache, the wanting of her.

Arching her back, she moaned as he thrust deep. He took his time, stoking her passion, building it up until she writhed and surged against him, low sounds of passion torn from her as she met his thrusts.

She was so hot and soft and tight, melting for him. Her legs were wrapped around his waist. Her nails raked his skin. Waves of searing pleasure dragged at him, and he was so goddamned close.

The beast stirred. Darkness. Feeding off his passion. Oozing past his wards. Pouring through him.

Cold panic roared to life inside him.

Christe
. He couldn’t breathe.
Clea
.

He tried to pull back, pull away, keep her safe.

“Shhh . . . we’re good. We’re perfect.” She stroked her palm along the length of his back, and he felt her send magic into him, tentative, uncertain, untutored.

There, inside him, he felt her power, winding through him, calming the darkness. She moved against him, her hips swaying, deepening their physical connection.

“We’re perfect,” she said again. And he believed her.

Her breath warmed his lips, short, ragged pants that told him how very close she was. He thrust into her. Deeper. Harder. Faster. With a high, keening moan, she contracted around him, coming undone, her body taut as she rode her release.

Sheathing himself to the hilt, he brought his body flush with hers, indescribable pleasure gushing through him. He came in a hard rush, pouring into her, no holds, no barriers, his heart pounding, his whole body shaking.

There was nothing but Clea. No darkness. No light. Only the crashing waves of his orgasm, chasing through him, through her.

Finally, he remembered to breathe, collapsed across her, still inside her, his limbs twined with hers. He had only enough focus left to shift his weight so it did not lie full atop her.

Slowly, he ran his fingers through the strands of her curls. Beautiful. She was so beautiful.

“Ciarran.” She said his name like she was tasting it, and her lips curved in an amazing smile. Lazy. Satisfied.

Her lashes lifted, a slow drift, and her dark eyes met his. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her lush mouth.

And felt the tight edge of his panic sneak back to the fore.

Christe
.

He knew how to keep her safe from every threat. Every threat except himself.

He’d almost lost it. Almost let the demon slide free.

He’d fed her peach wine because she’d said she liked it. And strawberries dipped in chocolate.

Spicy Thai noodle salad. Warm spinach dip with salted tortilla chips.

A ripple of his power shimmered between them, and she tried so hard not to draw magic from him. Tormented by the knowledge of what her proximity cost him, she focused on maintaining the barrier, her imagined wall, lest she siphon all he was.

Her efforts were a revelation.
This
was the struggle he maintained. Day after day, year after year, he worked to hold at bay the darkness inside him. She was exhausted after mere hours of trying to control her blooming power, trying to hold back her pull on his magic. She couldn’t imagine what such effort cost him in the long run. But she
would
find the strength to keep this up. She
would
keep him safe.

He was amazing. And she was more in tune with him, more connected, than she’d ever been with anyone.

She’d expected to fall in love someday, with a sedate, conservative, safe guy.

Safe.

Yeah.

She was smack-dab in the middle of a war between good and evil, and she’d never felt safer than she did right now, lying beside Ciarran D’Arbois, light sorcerer, demon host.

So much for her expectations of falling in love, how it would happen, who it would be. He was nothing she had ever imagined and so much more than she could have dreamed. The need to heal him was strong, and she wished she had more to offer. If only she could make him see what she saw, make him understand that he need not succumb, need not allow the monster to wrest control.

“Time for deep, dark secrets,” she said, trailing her fingers over his lips. God, she’d been half in love with those lips since the night at the Blue Bay Motel, imagining all the amazing things he would do with them. She smiled. Reality had proved so much better than her imagination. “I’ll tell you mine; then you tell me yours.”

He almost laughed. Stole a pair of jeans.
That
was her secret. “That’s . . . uh . . . bad.”

She sent him a reproving look, shimmied her naked body against him.

“No. Really. That’s dark. Definitely a deep, dark secret,” he muttered, reaching for her breast.

“No. Listen.” Her voice was steady, intense, and her expression was earnest as she caught his wrist, halting his quest. “This is serious. Important.”

It was. Important, to her. He could see that. And so he let her talk, focusing on her words, searching the nuances of her tone for secret meaning.

“I was fifteen,” she said. “In high school. York Mills Collegiate. I was a good kid. Got good grades. Quiet. Never made trouble.” She paused. “Not even when I wanted to. The temptation might have been there, but conscience usually overruled.”

Watching him, sloe-eyed, tousle-haired, she looked so incredibly sexy, the sheet twined around her in a haphazard way, leaving the length of one leg exposed, and her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. He shifted closer, skin to skin.

Her eyes widened, and she wet her lips.

“Behave,” she whispered, and tugged the sheet higher.

He laughed, liking the way she felt lying next to him. Liking her.

“Anyway . . .” She cleared her throat lightly, and her gaze dropped to his mouth, slid away. A jet of heat seared him, straight to his groin. Focus. He needed to focus. There was something she needed to tell him, and the fact that she felt the need to share it made him want to hear it.

“All . . . um . . . all the other girls had these great designer jeans. Shirts. Name-brand shoes. We couldn’t afford it.” She shook her head. “Sometimes, we had a tough choice between making rent or eating. I was working two part-time jobs just to help Gram with the bills.”

Ciarran stroked her skin, the comfort of a loving touch. She had suffered, and the fault was his. So caught up in his own regret, his own personal hell, he had spared no thought for the girl his magic had saved, spared no concern for what her life had become after the death of her parents. He had left it to Darqun to ensure that she had a relative to care for her, and once that was proven a certainty, he had absolved himself of any responsibility. His neglect was one more transgression to add to his lengthy inventory.

“So there were these jeans. And just once, I wanted to be cool. To have the latest style. To dress like the girls who hung with the in crowd.” She laughed. “Stupid. I know. But it didn’t seem stupid then. It seemed like the most important thing in the world.”

He focused on her words, instead of his inclination. He wanted to drag the sheet off her body, kiss her breasts, her thighs. Lick his way to the heat of her sex. Taste her. Make her come against his lips.

His cock was already stiff. But she was trying to tell him something, and it was significant to her. Which made it significant to him.

“Go on,” he said.

“So I went downtown to some trendy store—I can’t even recall the name—and tried on these jeans. They were perfect. Absolutely perfect. I’d actually seen them on the cover of a teen magazine the day before. And you know what? It was easy to walk out with them. The antitheft tag seemed to slide off just because I wanted it to.”

She reached out and touched him, her cool fingers playing lightly across his jaw, his lips. The glow of magic reared inside him and the howl of the darkness.

“It felt strange, to steal those jeans.” Her gaze locked with his, then slid away. “Terrifying. But good, in a horrible way, to be doing something so bad.”

Yeah. He knew that feeling. Knew the secret, forbidden pleasure he felt when he loosed the chain and let the dark power flow through him to manifest as black blades and killing mist. It
had
felt good to do something so bad.

“I kept that secret for a week, then two, never daring to wear those jeans, mostly because I hated them. Hated the sight of them and what they said about me. And also because I was so afraid that Gram would know the second she saw them. Know that I’d done something awful. So they sat at the bottom of the drawer, and I never took them out. Then one day, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I shoved them in a bag and took them back to the store and left them in the dressing room. And then I went home and told Gram everything.”

Ciarran stared at her. That was her darkest secret? She’d given in to temptation, stolen a pair of jeans, and then taken them back. He felt a sharp kick of relief. Despite the hardships of her life, this was how she defined darkness. She looked so serious, so intent, so innocent. She had no idea what true darkness was, and he was fiercely glad of it. Grateful.

True evil, like that which dwelt in his soul, had not touched her. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t say it to her. Glancing down, he realized that his gloved hand was fisted tight around the sheet, and he made a conscious effort to unclench his fingers.

She thought she knew what lurked beneath the surface, thought she saw the whole of it from the brief glimpses she had been allowed.

“Ciarran . . . I—” She paused, shook her head. “Do you know what Gram said? That there is both great goodness and vast evil in all sentient beings and that we can choose our path, not by stifling the evil, but by accepting its existence. Accepting and choosing. Do you understand?”

Accepting. If he stopped the struggle, the fight, if he accepted what he was, then he would be no more. The darkness would breach his wards, take his body, twist him into something foreign and disgusting. Take his soul.

“Do you think I know nothing of hardship and heartache?” she asked gently. “That I can’t understand what you face?”

No. He knew that she had suffered, had known grief and poverty and desperation. Hunger. Fear.

His fault.

Words eluded him. He gave her the only answer he could. Rolling her beneath him, he kissed her, letting himself free-fall into desire. She made a sound, perhaps delight, or denial. He knew she wanted answers, but he had none to give.

With a groan, he caught her wrists, dragged her arms to her sides, holding them there while he sank into the kiss, pouring his need into her, reveling in her response. He moved down the front of her body, kissing her breasts, her belly, his tongue tracing the rim of her navel. Lower, he licked the curve of her hip, smiling as she jerked and gasped.

She knew so little of his darkness, and he wished it to remain that way. But the joining of their bodies gave him succor. In her arms, he found his truth. His salvation.

Nudging her thighs apart, he kissed her there, licked her, felt her muscles twitch as she let the pleasure take her. She shuddered, pressed her heels against the mattress, and raised herself into his kiss. Her wrists shook within his grasp, but he held her, gentle bonds as he licked her and sucked on her, everything in him focused on her perfect bliss. His own passion was a wild heat that stabbed him, tightening his balls, his cock, until he throbbed, her desire fueling his.

“Ciarran—” His name was little more than a gasp; then she pressed her sex against his mouth and came unraveled, her thighs drawing tight, her hips arching, her body shuddering.

He held his tongue still against her, letting her ride her orgasm to its completion; then he slid up her body and thrust deep. She was so wet. So hot.

Her legs came up around him, holding him as she matched his rhythm, the steady pulse of his hips, the long, deep thrusts. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he sank into her, again and again, until at last he found release, his body slick with sweat. She came with him, her cry of pleasure surging through him, stroking him, taking him higher as he poured into her, a physical and emotional bond that was unstoppable. Unbreakable.