Wicked Game (5 page)

             
She sighed, frustrated. “Just say it.”

             
“Say what?” he asked in a high voice, feigning innocence and ignorance. 

             
“Tell me how stupid I am,” she said dismally, unable to look into his eyes and see the triumph there.

             
He stopped and gripped her arm above the elbow, not hard enough to hurt her but enough to make her stop too. She grudgingly turned to face him and found herself staring up into his black eyes, almost mirror like, reflecting her own back at her, weary and jaded dark blue. She felt the temptation to cry and yet didn't want to show vulnerability in front of him, to give him a weakness he could exploit.

             
“You're not stupid, Hazelle,” he said gently, looking into her eyes as he spoke, without blinking once, “You're more capable than you realise.”

             
“You don't know me,” she said coldly, wanting to snatch her arm back, not daring to. She didn't mean to sound so harsh but it didn't dishearten or discourage him.

             
“I may not know you but I know women, never doubt me on that. I know the different types of women, their different desires, different wishes and weaknesses. No woman that ever summoned me was able to resist me for so long.”

             
“What does that tell you?”

             
“I don't know...but it intrigues me,” he took a step forwards, his eyes glittering, “
You
intrigue me.”

             
The fingers wrapped around her arm were warm yet she still trembled, from a combination of cold and something else. It wasn't fear, what it was she didn't like to admit, even to herself. He was trying to distract her and she couldn't let him. She tugged away from him and he let her go. She was grateful.

             
Mom wasn't home so Hazelle set about making dinner. Kaden loitered in the kitchen by the blank TV, watching her chop vegetables and fry chicken. At first she had wanted to put as much distance between them as she could but now she preferred to keep him under her eye, to know that he couldn't plot, or scheme or seduce women without her knowing about it. She wasn't jealous of his past lovers, she
wasn't
, the fact was she'd seen enough soap operas to know that men were unfaithful, deceitful, manipulative and a sex demon prowling the streets, even in the twenty-first century, was bound to bring some unwanted scrutiny.

             
He seemed content enough to stay by her side and he didn't criticise her cooking. She didn't even hear him come up behind her, his muscular arms reaching around her, his huge frame enveloping hers. She tensed when she felt his bulge brush her back, sucking in a quick breath, blushing.

             
“Why don't we spice things up a little, hmm?” he murmured sensuously, his warm breath tickling her throat.

             
“We can't...not here in the kitchen...what if my mom comes home?” she gasped, and though she knew it was risky, knew it was wrong she was still a woman and it was her womanhood that ached now, screaming at her to accept his advances.

             
He reached out with a long fingered hand; at first she thought he was reaching for the knife she had used to slice the chicken and she tensed, but instead his hand picked up the paprika jar from the spice rack and he began shaking it over the chicken, marinating it. She relaxed, deflating against him, suddenly so weak with relief.

             
He replaced the paprika and retreated. She had to grip onto the counter for support.

             
“You don't have to be so scared of me, Ma Chérie,” he drawled, perfecting a French accent at the end, “I will not hurt you...unless you beg me to.”

             
She didn't know how to responded to that, and so she didn't, at least not with an answer. Her body did though, the heat between her legs flaring, the flames of lust licking at her flesh. She tried to ignore it, finished cooking the chicken and served it on a bed of salad. It was delicious.

             
“You know how to cook?” she asked curiously, having assumed he would be good for only one thing.

             
“Even demons need to eat,” he said, nonchalant, “Besides, I can't be doing
that
all day, every day. I'm not a machine, Hazelle. Or a god.”

             
“Know many gods, do you?” she asked sarcastically.

             
He smirked.

             
“A few.”

             
He lifted his fork, a succulent piece of chicken speared on the end.

             
“Let me feed you, lover,” he purred, and then she realised all the amusement was gone from his face, leaving only his lustful, piercing dark gaze, his black eyes penetrating a deep, dark, profound place in her that no man had ever come close to reaching.              

             
She shook her head.

             
“I am not your lover and I am not a child. I can feed myself,” she said contrarily, demonstrating this by taking a bite of chicken and chewing.

             
He sulked for the rest of the meal.

             
Mom still wasn't home by the time they'd finished so Hazelle cleaned up and left some chicken on a plate in the fridge, knowing it would taste as good cold as it did hot.               They went upstairs, Kaden following her, still silent, still sullen. She noticed he looked even more rugged, even more irresistible when serious, with less of the maniacal gleam in his onyx eyes that made her feel so nervous. She wasn't sure if she preferred him teasing her, at least then she knew what he was thinking...and what he might do next.

             
Hazelle left him to try on his new clothes while she showered and changed into her pyjamas. She took her time in the shower, enjoying the solitude after having been shadowed by a sex starved demon all day. She'd never used so much soap and shampoo because something about his intense, dedicated, dark gaze made her feel so dirty, as if he could sully her soul with just a wink. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair and knocked quietly on her bedroom door.

             
“The underwear is too tight,” he grumbled through the door, “You should have gotten the extra-large.”

             
She sighed, exasperated.

             
“Are you decent?”

             
“Yes.”

             
She opened the door, whirling away when she saw he was wearing nothing except the too small boxers. He hadn't been lying, in that moment she had seen the black material clinging to his large package, emphasising it. Her memory hadn't been exaggerating. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, in more ways than one.

             
“I asked if you were decent!” she snapped, annoyed and mortified. Was everything he did a plan to piss her off?

             
“Our opinions on decent must differ greatly then.”

             
“Put a shirt on,” she ordered, her back still to him.

             
“Its not like you haven't seen it all before.”

             
She picked up one of the new shirts, still with the price tag attached to it, and flung it at his face. He caught it and grudgingly did as he was told as she turned away again. She could see his reflection in the mirror from the corner of her eye and bit her lip, trying not to stare, trying not to dwell on the thought of his tawny, thickly muscled thighs rubbing against her bare buttocks as she mounted him.

             
This wasn't like her at all. Where did such lurid thoughts come from?

             
She decided it was all his fault.

             
When he was half decent she turned back to him. The shirt looked good on him, though she was willing to bet anything would look good on him. He had such a rare, innate, formidable masculinity that nobody could fail to notice his presence or admire him, even if it was from afar, even if he never noticed them. As far as she knew she was currently the only one who got to look
and
touch.

             
He watched her every move, like a tiger stalking its prey, his face half in shadow and unfathomable as she moved around the room, tidying. When she drew back the blankets on her bed he stepped forwards eagerly.

             
“Oh, I don't think so buddy,” she scoffed, plumping one of her pillows, “You can sleep in the spare room. By yourself.”

             
He glowered at her, rage crackling in his eyes like a living thing, like electricity, like something that was about to be evoked, a power he had, thus far, left untapped. The atmosphere in the room changed suddenly, drastically, and her heart beat faster from it, pounding like the drums before a great battle which made the difference between life and death. Until now he had behaved, as best a demon could. Was he about to give her a demonstration of his true power?

             
Apparently not.

             
With a growl of frustration he turned away abruptly and marched from the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with such force the glass in the window panes rattled. She rushed to the door, locking it, and with an afterthought locked her window too.

             
She switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. She tried to expel him from her mind, and ignore the guilt gestating in her gut. She might as well have tried flying to the moon or walking on the ceiling. Every time she closed her eyes she saw him. He was weaved into her thoughts, interlaced with her dreams and desires, making it impossible to focus on anything else, especially when she could feel the flutter of his heightened emotions coming from across the hall. She anticipated that this wouldn't be the last she heard about the sleeping arrangements that seemed to aggravate him so.

             
She flipped over onto her stomach and saw that he wasn't as close as he had been that morning. He was topless again, but kept his distance, whether because he didn't want to alarm her or because he didn't want to incur her wrath and be kicked out of bed, she didn't know.

             
“How do you do that?” she whispered, mesmerised and terrified, knowing instinctively that both door and window were still locked.

             
His eyes flashed entirely black. It must have been a trick of the night.

             
“Magic.”

             
But she didn't believe in magic, or at least she hadn't until this handsome, frustrating stranger, this jaw-droppingly gorgeous demon had been dumped, naked and aroused, in her basement.             

             
“What do you want from me?” she asked tersely, turning over, tears starting to sting her eyes. Everything she had shunned, everything she had bottled up, everything she had kept hidden from her mom and tried to ignore was coming to the surface, bubbling up like boiling water, fresh and painful and inescapable.

             
He cocked his head to the side.

             
“What do you want from me?” he reciprocated, his voice oddly emotionless, his whole face alien and inhuman.              

             
She wasn't in the mood for playing games, though she suspected he wasn't playing any.

             
“Nothing.”

             
They both knew it was a lie.

             
They lay in silence, she not flinching or recoiling when his hand began to stroke the curve of her cheek, his skin as soft as satin on silk. There was something strangely calming and yet devastatingly soul destroying in such a simple action, an affectionate gesture that would have meant so much coming from a human, that meant so much more coming from a demon.

             
“Why are you here?” she asked despondently, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the hot tears sliding down her cheeks.

             
“I may be the answer,” he spoke solemnly, sitting up and staring down into her eyes. His swallowed the darkness, though for once they were open, truthful and honest.

             
“But only you have the question.”

Chapter Four

It was the tingling sensation that made Hazelle stir, the deep, dissatisfying ache down below that brought her back to the brink of consciousness. She didn't open her eyes, instead she lay in darkness, letting her other senses expand and guide her, relying on touch, taste and smell, enjoying the intimate sensation of something hot, wet and firm between her legs, probing her most precious of places.

              She'd never felt the touch of a man there before but had always daydreamed what it would be like to do so. Whoever this was, whoever touched her so profoundly was practised at the art of pleasing, knowing exactly where to touch her, knowing precisely how much pressure to apply to make her gasp, to make her whole body beg for more. The way his tongue ran subtly over her sensitive skin, the way it teased her clit, the way it stimulated her passion made her breasts heave and her body breathless with arousal. She bit her lip, savouring the silky sweeps of his talented tongue across her sex, his steady, strong hands gripping her thighs, holding her legs apart, exposing her womanhood to him.

             
He increased the speed, as if sensing she was conscious now, his tongue flicking across her clit, harder, stronger, faster, bringing her closer and closer to the point of no return. She was panting, burning, writhing with desire that was about to be unleashed, and she wanted nothing more than to open her eyes and see the man who gave her such pleasure, to look into his eyes as she climaxed.

             
Something warned her against that, whispering to her, telling her to stay in the darkness where it was safe, where she belonged. But she didn't believe that, disregarding it, and opened her eyes anyway.

             
The first thing she saw was the mane of wavy, glossy auburn hair between her legs and the long fingered hands holding her, bronze skin contrasting with her fair flesh. She moaned helplessly, so vulnerable in such a precarious position, and he glanced up, relishing in her reaction, licking the inside of her leg as his dark eyes burrowed into her, much the way his tongue had. For the first time she felt fear, deep and instinctive, reaching down inside of her and plucking chords his tongue couldn't reach. He gave a savage smile, lips skimming back from teeth sharp and stained with blood, before his tongue infiltrated her sex again. She didn't know of it was his blood or hers but she couldn't fight, too distracted by the mounting pressure mingled with pleasure, and could only scream as the world shattered around her in an explosion of colour before darkness claimed her once again.

*~*~*

Hazelle jolted awake, immediately aware of the tanned arm lying possessively across her stomach, the hand hanging off her hip. Her pyjama top had ridden up while tossing and turning in sleep, exposing her navel and midriff, a bit of breast peaking out from beneath the material. She cursed the fact that she didn't sleep with a bra on but knew it wasn't the warm, male skin on hers that had roused her.

             
She shuddered, both frightened and fascinated by the dream. It was like no dream she'd ever had before. It had seemed so real, so tangible, so sensual and she could still feel his long tongue licking between her legs, taking her into his mouth. Turning her head she saw his eyes were still closed, his hair tousled from sleep and not from sex, undisturbed by her rude awakening. There was something angelic and almost innocent in his features, something vulnerable about his face when his eyes were not dark with disdain or flickering with lust, and she had to wonder what he dreamt of, if demons could indeed dream, and whether his dreams were as vicarious as hers.

             
“Good morning,” he mumbled, smiling slightly, without opening his eyes. She wanted to hit him with her pillow, wondering for how long he had been feigning sleep.

             
She didn't reciprocate, instead she shoved his arm away and pushed back the duvet, hopping from the bed, glad she had not fallen out this time. Her hipbone was bruised from the tumble she had taken yesterday, as was her confidence. She made sure her stomach was completely covered and there was no hint of breast before she busied herself, hastily tidying her room before jumping into the shower, standing under the steaming jet of hot water, washing her hair and scrubbing her thighs to remove the sensation of his fingers from there. She could still feel the ghost of his tongue, hot and demanding, luxuriously exploring her sex and tasting her juices. Her skin was red and smarting by the time she'd finished.

             
He was still lazing in bed when she returned to her room, one arm thrown carelessly over his head and the other still beneath blankets. She didn't like to think what his other hand might be doing. Her hair was still dripping and she'd wrapped a long beach towel tightly around her, ensuring he wouldn't get a peek of any private flesh, wishing she had least remembered to take underwear into the bathroom with her.

             
Kaden gave a smug smirk and sat up, his eyes smouldering. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it, making him look more rugged and less refined, like a wild, untamed animal. He was that, in a way, a ferocious, vivacious beast in the disguise of a handsome, civilised human.

             
But there was something peculiar about his eyes, something only she seemed to be capable of seeing, something inhumane, something incorrigible. To her horror she saw he was naked again and she turned away quickly nibbling her lip, remembering the dream. Had he sent it to her? Did it come as part and parcel of the black magic package? Or had her own conscience concocted it from the guilt of summoning him from the underworld and into her bed?

             
Well, she hadn't so much as invited him into her bed as he had infiltrated it.

             
“Penny for your thoughts,” he taunted her, and when she turned around again she was pleased to see he was zipping up the jeans she'd bought for him yesterday. He looked just as appetising in dark denim as he did in tight leather. His chest was still bare, still inviting, muscles dancing beneath flawless tawny flesh with all the promise of strength and agility, of primal, uncanny, undeniable power. She recalled the power and pleasure that had sent ripples through her when he'd teased her with his tongue.

             
Hazelle shook her head, disgusted with herself, and clutched the towel tighter around her like a protective shield, suddenly self conscious. She had never been particularly ashamed of her body, or embarrassed about it. She didn't have supermodel good looks and nor would she be foolish enough to want them but the way he looked at her, with his eyes smouldering, made her feel so much more desirable than she had ever felt before. No man had ever looked at her quite like that. He made her feel beautiful, special and unique, when she knew she was not.

             
“Bad dreams?” he inquired, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously.

             
She nodded, biting her lip again. How could he know? He'd told her before that he couldn't read minds, but how much could she trust him to tell the truth? He was a demon after all, and demons in myth and legend were well known for their deceit.

             
“It isn't uncommon for women to dream about me,” he said indifferently, and then smiled like a scoundrel, “But I would much rather do to them what they dream about.”

             
She blushed, realising that she had been watching his tongue move while he'd been speaking. She wondered if it would feel as good between her legs in real life as it had in the dream, and if she would ever find out.

             
“Why so shy?” he asked huskily, his voice deep with discernible desire, “Pray tell, what did I do in these dreams?”

             
“You...kissed me,” she confessed quickly. Technically it wasn't a lie.

             
His nostrils flared and something possessive flashed in his eyes.

             
“Where?”

             
She shook her head, her voice constrained by humiliation. He advanced on her with a predator's grace, letting her see every move he made, every gesture, every ripple of muscle, every step making her heart pound like a drum beneath her breast. She was trembling all over and breathing heavily, as she had been in the dream, and then an ache she recognised slowly crept through her, anticipating his next action.

             
“Here?” he murmured, his fingers hovering over her lips without touching them, “Or here?”

             
To her horror his hand dropped to her breast as the towel slipped, exposing it, his fingertips less than an inch from the nipple before she covered herself again.

             
He smirked evilly. “Or here?”

             
His hand dipped down low, disappearing behind the towel, touching her tenderly in the place where she throbbed with longing. She jerked away from his invasive fingers with a small cry, putting distance between them, wishing it was walls. He wasn't smiling anymore; instead he gazed at her with such raw, ravenous hunger, such obvious yearning, such a constant craving that it made her own body burn in response, his lust for her fanning the flames of her own arousal.

             
If he touched her like that again she couldn't be held responsible for the consequences.

             
“I have to get ready for work,” she muttered, “I'm going to be late.”

             
She grabbed her clothes and make-up bag, rushing back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her and locking it, for the little good it would do her. She leant against it, legs shaking, panting, still hot and aching for his intimate touch. What was it about him? Why did he affect her so? She didn't know him. She didn't even want to know him. He was a despicable demon, evil incarnate, the embodiment of lust and sin, and if she let him he would steal her soul along with her innocence. Yet at that moment in time, when he'd touched her, she hadn't cared much for her fate, she'd only wanted to feel more of his fingers inside of her.

             
Trying to rid herself of such debauched thoughts she dressed quickly for work and applied light make-up, twisting her hair into a knot and clipping it into place. She straightened the collar on her shirt and checked herself in the mirror. Very smart. Very respectable. Very ordinary. Nothing like how Kaden made her feel. His lust was infectious and if she wasn't careful it would consume her.

             
She unlocked the door and opened it, ready to face him, knowing that this time she wouldn't let him subjugate her.

             
He was wearing the leather pants again, apparently preferring them, and had put on a shirt and shoes. He'd borrowed one of her combs to tease the tangles from his thick, shiny hair that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a shampoo commercial. He was perfect in every way shape and form, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, but nobody could be that perfect, it wasn't possible, he had to have some flaw she couldn't yet see, some weakness she could exploit. No human could be so beautiful and no demon beneath the devil could be so untouchable.

             
“I'll be back around six. I have some errands to run after work,” she told him, not elaborating as she put in her diamanté earrings, “Help yourself to any food you like...and leave my mom alone.”

             
“And what am I do to for entertainment?”

             
“I don't know. Read a magazine or something. You make it sound as if I am forcing you to be here.”

             
Oh, you are. If you'd just fucked me I would have been long gone by now. Then again, you couldn't force me to do anything...at least not anything I wouldn't enjoy.”

             
He winked at her and something in her nether-regions fluttered.

             
She gave him a very unamused look. “Goodbye.”

             
The day was bright, the sky clear and the sunlight blinding, warming her skin and making her recall the sensation of Kaden's hot skin slick on hers. Despite his insufferable arrogance and crude remarks there was an allure to him that she couldn't deny, and as much as she tried to distract herself from thinking about him she could think of little else during the drive to work. It wasn't every young receptionist that had a drop dead demon hunk skulking around her bedroom, watching her while she slept, sending her kinky dreams, determined to have her. What would her colleagues say if they discovered she had invoked the black arts just to get a boyfriend? What would they say if she confessed that it had actually worked and he was here, in the flesh, in her house, looking at her like she was lunch?

             
She kept the secret to herself as she made coffee and delivered messages, minding her own business and going about her duties without much thought or dedicated behind them. She usually enjoyed her job but today it was more of a hindrance and she found herself daydreaming, curious about what Kaden was doing to amuse himself in her absence. Had he spent much time alone in the human world? Did he know how to work a TV, or a computer, or a microwave? She had visions of him accidentally setting the house alight, fire eating away his clothes, leaving him wearing nothing except that sultry smile.