Demon Blood (34 page)

Her body had locked, shaking, but now she was all in motion, clenching and releasing, her breaths sobbing. Deacon slowed, his kiss gentling again. Her tears fell faster.

Her limbs felt weak as he turned her over onto her stomach. He moved to the end of the bed and urged her to her knees, raising her bottom into the air. Her head swimming, she complied.

His hand smoothed over her cheek, followed by a sharp nip from his teeth. Surprised, she started to come up, but at the pressure of his hand on the small of her back, she lowered her torso again, pillowing her head in her arms.

The shocking feel of his tongue lapping slowly through her core brought Rosalia out of her skin. She jolted forward, her hands fisting in the sheets. That was too much.
Too much.
Deacon caught her hips, hauled her back against his mouth. His tongue plunged between her folds, licking deep. Unable to help herself, she rocked toward him, her wordless moans muffled by her arms. Yellow light from her eyes spilled across white linen. Oh, God. She’d known being with him would feel good. She hadn’t known it would be like this, so destructive to her senses. She couldn’t get enough of his touch. She’d thought she’d reached the edge, the high, and yet when his lips surrounded her clitoris and suckled, she came again, screaming into the mattress. The explosion and release was so fast, so easy—and shook her just as powerfully.

Aftershocks rippled through her flesh. The mattress shifted. Deacon kneeled behind her, pushed deep with one stroke.

Her body clenched around him. Struggling for breath, for thought, Rosalia came up, her back against his chest. His left arm wrapped around her, his forearm buoying her left breast, his large hand cupping her right, catching her nipple between his middle fingers. His right hand slid between her thighs, stroking her as he drove up into her core, as if Rosalia’s pleasure was his only goal.

It must have been—he could have taken his pleasure already. He needed blood to come, but it didn’t have to be hers. A drop of his own would do it.

But if he didn’t finish, she could hold him inside her forever. She would love to.

With his jaw, Deacon pushed her hair away from her neck, placed gentle kisses to her shoulder, the side of her throat. Emotion welled up, choking her. Though his hunger burned hot against her senses, he kissed her with tenderness.

Slipping her arms up around his neck, she held on. His movements became more desperate, his muscles slick with sweat. Her back arched as he struck deep within her, a different angle, just right. And when she shook for the third time, Deacon joined her, with the scent of his own blood on his kiss.

When Rosalia’s shudders faded, Deacon slipped out of her warmth and eased her forward, laying her on the bed. He kissed the small of her back, the indentation of her spine, the beautiful curve of her waist. She turned her face into the pillow, softly weeping.

Not bad crying, he understood. He still wanted to get up and walk away. Her tears were ripping out his heart. But walking away now would make him more of a bastard than he was—and more of a bastard than he wanted to be.

He lay next to her, stroking his hand through her hair. Her pulse still pounded in his ears. The bloodlust raged a storm in his veins. His body had been sated, but his hunger continued to rise. He wanted to go at her now like a ravening beast.

He’d be a bastard for that, too. She’d given him a taste of heaven. She’d been so sweet, so trusting—as if she’d been with a better man than he was, when it had been all that he could do to maintain his control. He’d wanted to mark her, to taste her. To brand her as his.

She wasn’t, though. He had her now, but it wouldn’t last forever. He’d be gone once she no longer had a use for him. He hoped that happened before going meant ripping out his soul.

And he was afraid it might be too late.

She lifted her head, and he had a glimpse of her smile, her wet cheeks, and her eyes—brown again, instead of glowing yellow—before she buried her face in his shoulder.

“You’re hiding?” Battling his hunger, he pulled her astride him. “It was that bad?”

Laughing, she looked up at him and shook her head. “I knew it would feel good, but I didn’t know it would be . . .
that
.” Her fingers rose to his hair. She began smoothing as she continued. “I thought it might be another failure, that it wouldn’t live up to my expectations. But it was
nothing
like them—and so much more.”

Another failure? What had her life been, always expecting the shit end of a stick? “You imagined being with me before?”

“Oh, yes.” Her grin warned him that it wouldn’t be good. “I thought it would just be a suck, a thrust, and a ‘Haul off, sister.’”

He pretended to lunge for her. She scrambled away from his grabbing hands, dragging the sheet with her, laughing wildly. He stopped halfway across the bed, staring at her. God, she was so beautiful.

Her laugh faded, and she stared at him as if thinking the same about him. Leaning closer, her mouth touched his in a soft, searching kiss.

He should have left. Now it was too damn late.

She lay down again, snuggling up against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Christ, she was so soft. He wanted his hands all over her, his fangs buried deep. He forced himself just to hold her.

“But it’s not ‘sister’ now,” she said. “Why ‘princess’?”

Shit. That wasn’t for her, but for him. But he couldn’t avoid answering.

“It’s a reminder,” he said gruffly.

“To be careful?” she guessed, and sighed. “I’m not delicate, Deacon. Not—what is that story?—the girl on a pea.”

No. A reminder that she deserved something a hell of a lot better than the man she was snuggled up against. Someone who hadn’t fucked over his own community and his friends—and
her
friends.

But whatever he was, he still had too much pride to lay that out. “You’re soft all over,” he said.

“I could shape-shift and change that—”

“Don’t change a damn thing.”

Altering her perfect breasts, her little belly, her curvy ass would be akin to burning a Botticelli. Hell, it’d be worse.

She was quiet, and when he glanced down at her, she was smiling against his shoulder. When she caught his look, she rose up, propped on her elbow. “I was just thinking . . . About thirty years ago, two vampires disappeared from their community. I was worried, so I tracked them down—and when I found them, they were doing this.
Just
this. They went to bed and they never got out of it. They’d already spent a year like that, locked up together.”

With two vampires, that was possible. They could feed from each other. As long as they had shelter, they wouldn’t need anything else. But there was more to this, Deacon realized, as Rosalia’s expression became pensive.

“It’s been a long time now since I’ve subscribed to some of the teachings of the Church—particularly their views on sin. But when I found them, I was appalled. Not by the lust. Their devotion, their need for each other was . . . beautiful, in truth. But the gluttony of it, and the manner in which they’d excluded everyone and everything else from their life . . . I was disgusted.” With a sigh, she began to trace her fingers over his chest. “Now I see why it might be so appealing.”

Hell, yes. He could stand to be locked up with her for a year. “But?”

“I’d be disgusted with myself. I have too much to do. Too many people who depend on me.”

No, she would never withdraw from her life, from her responsibilities. No matter how often she thought she failed, Rosalia would keep going.

“And if you didn’t have too much to do?”

“I admit the thought of them doesn’t bother me so much now. They have no responsibility to anyone else, so they’ve hurt no one.” She looked up at him. “They are still at it.”

For thirty years? Deacon frowned.

She nodded, as if reading his expression and agreeing with him. “It’s uncomfortable to be around. It’s primal, it’s exciting . . . and there’s almost no thought left between them. I couldn’t do that. A day, perhaps, or even a week. But I could not close myself off from the world for so long.”

And she’d already lost more than one year beneath the catacombs. Coming back, seeing the changes that had taken place and how many of her friends were dead, must have been like a smack to the face followed by a full-body beatdown.

“I could not anyway,” she added softly. “That’s not what a Guardian does. And I have already done—and
will
do—too many other things that a Guardian shouldn’t.”

“Like using vampires as a means to an end?”

He wished he hadn’t said anything when that familiar sadness darkened her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “I could start with that. Do you want a list?”

So now she was hating on herself. Maybe he wanted to, too—and find any reason that would make it easier to walk away when it was time to go.

“Lay them on me, princess.”

She pulled back with a half smile that didn’t erase the shadows in her eyes. “I’ll give you one a day.”

Just like his reasons to stay. Now she was giving him reasons to go. Which would run out first?

He suddenly wished to hell he hadn’t asked. But it was too late. She was turning away from him, sitting up.

“Since you’re awake, we should find out whether you’re vulnerable to the sun.”

No. Since he was awake, he should throw her back down on the bed, get his fangs in her. But she was already up, shutting him out. Suppressing a frustrated growl, he grabbed for his pants.

She clothed her body in that black outfit—the one he thought of as her Zorro getup, complete with cloak. Maybe she didn’t lock herself away, but hidden within its folds, she sure as hell put as many layers between herself and the world as she could.

And after convincing her to hold on to him, to trust him, he was doing a damn good job of pushing her away.

Deacon was shrugging into his shirt when Rosalia opened the door. Instinctively, he stepped to the side to avoid any light falling into the room, but the corridor was in shadow. She looked back at him.

“There’s no direct sunlight beyond the gallery.”

So he wouldn’t know if he’d burn until they reached the walkway overlooking the courtyard. And he didn’t need to jump into it. Pushing a fingertip into the sun’s path would do.

He stepped through the doorway. The bright fall of golden light at the end of the corridor was stunning. His eyes stung. Blinking rapidly, he said, “I once knew a vampire who got caught outside near dawn, so he climbed into the trunk of his car.”

He walked toward Rosalia, waiting at the intersection of the corridor and gallery. She lifted her fingers into the sun. The light formed a brilliant corona around her pale hand, but he could hardly focus on it. The burning rays overwhelmed his field of vision.

“When he woke up,” Deacon continued, “his legs had been cut through below the ankles. The seam of the trunk lid hadn’t been tight, and the light had sliced through like a laser scalpel.”

Rosalia’s face was in shadow, but he could barely see her. Her features were darkening, fading away. “He is fortunate he was not facing the other direction.”

“Yes.” If it had cut through his neck, the vampire wouldn’t have been waking up. Crazily enough, though, if it had cut through
half
his head, slicing his brain in two, he’d have eventually healed. “I don’t need to stick my hand out there to see that the sun will fry me, Rosie.”

He heard the frown in her voice. “Why?”

“Because I can’t see anything now.”

In an instant she was touching his face, his eyes. The warmth of the sun still lingered on her right hand. “It blinded you?”

He’d barely finished nodding before she was leading him back into her room. She steered him to a chair, sat him down. He felt her breath on his face, her gentle fingers around his eyes.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

By her silence, he knew she was looking for evidence that he’d lied. In a few seconds, he thought he’d be able to see her, too. A blurry image was already returning.

“It’s healing,” he said.

“That quickly?” Now that he could almost focus on her, he didn’t just hear the concern in her tone, but saw it in her eyes. Her hands ran down his shoulders. A note of realization entered her voice. “You healed quickly last night, too. And you’re stronger. Faster.”

She’d begun to frown. As everything she’d just said sounded damn good, Deacon couldn’t see what there was to frown about.

“That’s a problem?”

“No,” she said, though her expression disputed her reply. Deacon wondered if she’d realized yet that he could see her again. “You’ll be safer. The demons will know why you’re coming now, and they won’t let you talk first. But they still won’t anticipate your speed. Especially now.”

“But?”

“But you might have to lower your shields. The vampires who see you need to know you’re a vampire, not just masquerading as one.”