Demon of Vengeance: Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 4 (15 page)

She gathered a hank of wet hair in her hand, held it up. “You sure you don’t want to take care of this too?”

“No,” he drawled, eyeing her with that searing heat again. “I think I’d like to watch you take care of it.”

Really? He’d teased and tormented her from the moment she’d stepped inside this tent, really from the first moment she’d woken up…in his bed. Now he wanted to play this game, did he? She didn’t know where the thought came from, or why she wasn’t being smart enough not to give in to it, but she found herself turning the chair to face the tub, and sat down.

“Brush?” she asked.

One appeared beside her on the desk.

Smiling with—at least what she hoped came across as—serene nonchalance, Phoebe picked the brush up and began running it through her hair. Over and over, scalp to tip. She drew the long strands over her shoulder, down over her breast, slowly brushing. Drawing his eyes with every sweep. But tormenting him turned into a double-edged blade. Her tank top quickly became wet, and her nipples beaded in the cool air. When his knuckles turned white on the edge of the tub, and his eyes flickered black, she decided maybe she’d pushed things about as far as she dare.

Yawning, she set the brush aside and stood. As she climbed into bed, the water sloshed behind her.

“Can we lose the silk sheets?” she asked.

Red cotton sheets soft as clouds replaced the silk in a blink of the eye.

“Anything else I can do for you, love?”

His voice was too close. She glanced over, deliberately keeping her gaze on his face. He’d dried off. But he hadn’t dressed. She would not look. She would not look.

“Just stay on your side of the bed,” she said sweetly, and then promptly rolled over on her side, giving him her back.

The candles whispered out, plunging the room into darkness. The moment the bed dipped with his weight, she stiffened. Phoebe held herself still, barely breathing, as he settled. Even after he’d stopped moving, she couldn’t seem to relax.

A deep sigh ghosted through the tent. “Relax, Phoebe.”

“I am.”

“Uh-huh.” He shifted.

The bed dipped, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t touch her.

Why was she so disappointed? Wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this what she’d just told him she wanted?

“You trust me to keep my word?” His voice slid through the darkness, a caress. A temptation.

She hesitated.

“Phoebe,” he growled, his tone sharp.

“Yes,” she grudgingly admitted.

“Good. I promise you, I won’t touch you.”

She caught her breath as that stab of disappointment sharpened, catching her off guard.

“Not yet,” he added. Her breath caught. “But be warned, love. You are mine. I can wait till you’re ready to admit it, ready to accept me. So I won’t take you. Not until you ask me to. But it will happen. Soon.”

A rush of need scored her. She couldn’t answer right away, still hung up on the images his words had caused to flood into her mind.

Still, he didn’t touch her, didn’t reach for her. And yet the intensity of his words were as bold and possessive as if he’d run his hands all over her.

At her continued silence, he said sharply, “I thought you said you trust me.”

“I do.”

Uncomfortable. Silence.

“What?” she asked when she couldn’t take another second of waiting.

“If it’s not me that you’re worried about, then I can only assume you mean…” He drew a deep breath. “Oh.”

“What?” she demanded now, unsettled.

“Do you really want me to say it out loud?” His voice had gone soft, warm and wanting. Oh God, so sexy.

The reality of the situation, the knowledge that he’d uncovered the truth of her feelings before she had, made her clamp her teeth together.

“Oh, just shut up and go to sleep,” she snapped.

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Sweet dreams, Phoebe.”

Chapter Twelve

“Niña,”
Ricardo’s voice called from the other side of the tent flap. “The sun is soon to rise.”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Phoebe mumbled. She shoved the hair from her eyes, blinked blearily. “I’m up.”

It took a moment to get her bearings. She’d slept so soundly again. No nightmares, no jolting awake at tiny, imagined sounds.
How?

And then physical awareness began to take hold. Her front was cool, almost cold. But her backside, and a large area on her stomach, was toasty warm, tempting her to snuggle back and burrow in. She frowned when she tried to roll over and met with resistance, and then she stiffened, realizing that the warm spot on her belly was actually a hand.

A glance over her shoulder told her he was still asleep. And that he’d curled himself around her in the night, wrapping her up tight. His chest was glued to her back, and their legs were tangled. Phoebe managed to wiggle around, carefully worked her legs free. On her back now, she surveyed the situation.

Lord, she couldn’t even get mad at him, couldn’t claim he’d gone back on his word or took advantage of the situation.

She
was on
his
side of the bed.

Way
on his side.

Stifling a groan, she scootched and scooted, edging toward freedom. Sebastian murmured in his sleep, threw his leg over her thighs and, tucking his hand around her waist, dragged her back. He cuddled her close, nestling his cheek against her hair. And a very thick, very hard erection pressed against her hip.

Well, this is just great. Now what do I do?

Phoebe debated her best course of action, one that would allow her to slip from the bed without waking him. One that got her out of this situation without him realizing she’d snuck over to the dark side.

Well, she’d been sleeping, damn it. She couldn’t be held accountable, right? Besides, if there were no witnesses, she could pretend it never happened.

Right?

She glanced up.

Golden stubble covered the lower half of his face. He looked so…peaceful. She hesitated a moment too long, studying his face, watching him while he slept. Melting inside. And she let herself become ensnared. Knew it was happening, was completely cognizant. And she did nothing to stop it.

She’d had no nightmares again last night. Only sound, restful sleep. She eyed him, not liking where this train of thought was headed. Didn’t like it. But she didn’t stop it either.

The heavy, rigid length along her hip twitched. She glanced down. The sheet had slipped dangerously low. And, she remembered all too well, he wasn’t wearing anything under that sheet.

Did she dare? She licked her lips. She’d seen him before, when he’d stepped from the bathroom that first night, fresh from his shower, dripping wet, and very, very naked. Surely, her memory had to be faulty. She’d made a mountain out of a molehill, so to speak.

What could one little peek hurt?

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and, holding her breath, peered at his face to make sure he was still asleep. She pinched the sheet and slipped it down, one precious millimeter at a time. His breathing remained slow and even. Feeling bolder, she pulled the sheet down a little more, just a touch farther. Just a quick glance, she told herself. And then she’d cover him back up and get out of bed.

Only a peek.

The sheet slid down, and she caught sight of just the tip of him. A little more, and then she’d stop. His arousal slid fully into view, and she caught her breath. Nope. Her memory hadn’t been faulty.
Whoa mama.
Just as she nipped the sheet and eased it a touch farther, something made her stop and look up.

Sleepy blue eyes were watching her.

Busted. Again.

She didn’t know what to say. Oh God, he’d just caught her checking out his goods. Heat flooded her face.

But he didn’t leave her floundering in embarrassment for long. His focus dipped to her mouth, and his eyelids slid to half mast. His mouth was already so close. But he didn’t swoop, as she’d expected. As she’d hoped. Then she could have blamed the kiss on him.

No, he eased closer, his mouth hovering just fractions of an inch from the corner of hers. She would have to be the one to turn her head to initiate the kiss. And he waited, not moving, not grabbing, not pulling her closer, not taking the power from her.

He just waited.

The decision was hers.

And his words last night came back to her. He was going to make her ask.

She wanted to blame lack of alertness on a poor night’s sleep. Blame her impulsive reactions this morning on the curse of her own blood. Blame proximity. A moment of weakness. Or blame him for just being too damned sexy.

But there was no blame to place. Well, except for maybe the part about him being too sexy. They both wanted each other. She knew she wanted him. He’d told her, point blank, that he wanted her. There was no one else to worry about. No one would be hurt if they came together like this. As long as she could keep her reactions under control.

He brushed the tip of his nose against her cheek.

It would have taken a stronger woman than she to deny him. She was the one to close the distance, to turn her head, to pull him closer. And she knew it.

Yes, she cared. Yes, she worried.

But she wasn’t about to stop.

She could control her reaction, could manage the changes in her body, now that she knew to expect them. She could be with him and not give in to the urge to bite him. She could.

She was sure of it.

Well, almost sure of it.

But the wanting was so bad, the need for him so intense, she couldn’t deny it any longer.

His lips were warm silk against hers. Firm, demanding. Rubbing and sliding, slow and easy. Her heart stumbled. Fell. She tangled her fingers up in his hair. With a small sound, she turned her body into his.

Sebastian slid his hand around her waist, splayed it on her lower back. He rose over her, slipped his forearm beneath her head. And still he kept the kiss right there, floating at the edge of sensual, drifting just a sliver shy of devouring.

Again, she was the one who took it deeper. Phoebe, driven by a steadily building sense of urgency, angled her head and touched her tongue to his lips. The groan that rumbled in his chest sent heat and satisfaction soaring through her system. Emboldened, she pushed her way inside his mouth, swept her tongue along his, sampling, testing, gliding.

She could feel him holding back, waiting, questioning. She was having none of it. She angled her head a little more, slid her foot up the back of his calf. Hooking her knee over his hip, Phoebe arched her hips up to him and pressed herself against his straining arousal.

“Please,” she murmured against his lips. “Please, Sebastian.”

The moment his fingers dug into her bottom, flexed, squeezed, she knew she had him. He stole control of the kiss away, seizing what he wanted most. Her. And now he was the one devouring, ravenous. He pushed up over her, his mouth mastering hers. He wedged his hips between her thighs. His erection rubbed at her core, impeded by her shorts. Still, it was one of the most erotic things she’d experienced. The feel of him pushing his hand down the outside of her thigh, gripping her other knee and shoving it up, guiding it around his hip, worked a shudder through her system.

His mouth left hers, and he nipped his way along her jaw, scraping his teeth over her skin.

“Tell me, Phoebe. Tell me you want me to make love to you,” he urged, his cheek pressed to hers, his breath caressing her ear, his voice strained. “I need you so much, love. Please say yes.”

“Yes.” She moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulders. She was still in control of her body, no fangs, no aching gums or burning eyes. Oh, she wanted him. But she was prepared this time. She could handle it.

He reared back, peered down at her, his expression almost a comical mix of disbelief and hope. “Yeah?”

She looked up at him, and nodded, too overcome with need to offer a smile of reassurance. “Yes.”

His expression turned fierce, hinting at the floodgate of desire breaking within him. Phoebe reveled in it.

Now he swooped. Now he took. Now he demanded.

Her clothing was suddenly gone, vanished in the blink of an eye. Nothing separated them now, and the smooth heat of him pressing all along her body sent the last of her thoughts winging away.

This.
This
was need.
This
was desire. This was
life
.

Passion rode her, swept her up, sent her soaring. His mouth seized hers, laid claim to her soul, as he urged her legs to tighten around him. He rocked his hips against her, sliding the thick head of his erection along her damp cleft, back and forth, teasing her. But she was already wet, already eager, and his gliding thrust was slick. He moaned, deep in this throat, the sound rumbling up to caress her lips.

As the broad head of his arousal poised right at her entrance, he stopped. “Phoebe.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she stared up into brilliant blue.

“Remember what I said last night,” he prompted. She swallowed, struggling to think, struggling to push beyond the primal hunger driving her now. “You are mine, yeah?”

She searched his eyes. He was resolved in this. He would go no further until he was satisfied with her answer.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you want this?”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. His face was beginning to show the strain, but he wouldn’t relent. “Ask.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. But she couldn’t look away. He flexed his hips, and his rigid flesh nudged at her. She quivered.

“That’s not fair,” she complained.

“Ask,” Sebastian insisted.

She narrowed her eyes. But when he began to pull back, she tightened her arms and legs around him and growled.
Her
terms, she told herself. “Take me,” she demanded.

One corner of his lips curled up. “We’re gonna have to work on those manners, love.”

“Sebastian,” she snapped.

His jaw tightened. His eyes flickered black. The scent of blood took her by surprise. Gasping, she gently pulled her claws from his shoulders. “Oh, Sebastian! I didn’t mean to—”

He captured her mouth, searing her with a staggering kiss. For a moment, he let her surface. Just long enough to growl, “Never apologize for your passion, Phoebe. I want it all.” And then he dragged her back under.

Sebastian slowly began to fill her then, inch by unhurried inch. And, once he’d seated himself as deep as he could go, he gave one last push.

“
Qui et illisium speccaté
,” he vowed, solemn.
Now and forevermore.

Phoebe’s eyes all but rolled back in her head. And then he began to move. Not a pounding, slamming urgency as she’d expected. As she’d thought she’d needed. But languorous, decadent thrusts designed to build pressure, build and build and build until a conflagration erupted to brand her as his and to consume her.

He captured her left wrist, pushed it slightly above her head on the bed. His hips continued to pump, his strong back to flex in long, slow, wondrously sensual thrusts. As he moved deep inside her, relentless and demanding, he slid his hand over her palm, laced their fingers together, and held tight. His big body flexed and moved over hers, sinuous and powerful. He left off kissing her, but only for a moment, only long enough to sample her chin or nip below her ear. But then he’d be right back, drinking in her soft cries, like a greedy man happily drowning in the finest wine.

His kisses were addictive. She couldn’t get enough. She rocked her hips in time with his, so close to tipping over that glorious edge. So close she thought she might lose her mind. Yet not quite there.

With his free hand, starting at her jaw, Sebastian caressed his way down her side, pausing at the drugged pulse at her throat, at the curve of her collarbone, at the smooth skin over her heart. He teased her nipple, rolled it, rasped his thumb over it, and then danced his fingertips over her ribs. He explored the sensitive spot at the front of her hip, and slid his hand along the top of her leg, smoothed it over her knee, then swept up the back to grip her thigh. The heat of his palm sent tingles rushing through her. The calluses on his hands abraded her nerves and made her blood sing.

And all the while he continued to move inside her. Sure, masterful strokes. Melding them together in an undeniable bond of intimacy she was sure she would take to her grave. Fanning the flames, feeding the fire. He murmured words of encouragement and praise against her lips, her neck, her shoulder. The scent of him intoxicated her, so masculine. Spicy and seductive.

Phoebe teetered closer and closer to losing control. She tried to hang on, struggled desperately for purchase on the slippery slopes of her hunger. But it was no use. Just when she thought she could ease back, just when she thought she’d be able to steal a second to level out and think, or catch her breath, Sebastian would twist his hips just right, or push particularly deep, deep enough to drive her into the mattress and send a cascade of sparks showering through her belly. He’d thrum her nipple again, or…or dear heaven, he’d caress her in the hundred and one other ways he seemed to savor. Seemed to crave.

He demanded a response from her with every touch, wouldn’t relent until he’d wrung something from her. A moan. A gasp. A sigh. A whimper. A shiver.

And all the while, he maintained the contact of their clasped hands. Like a lifeline. Like a focal point that kept her grounded, kept her hyper aware of everything else he was doing to her body.

His hot, ragged breath puffed in her ear. He nipped her earlobe into his mouth, raked his teeth over it, suckled it.

“Damn it, Phoebe,” he growled, hoarse, his breathing heavy. “Don’t hold back. Give me everything. I want
all
of you!”

He reached between them then, and set to stroking the tiny nub of sensitive nerves, pressing it against his cock where it drove in and out of her, unrelenting in his seduction. He rubbed that pleasure point as if it had become the center of his world, gentle but ruthless, with exquisite care but with relentless determination.