Wicked Game (2 page)

             
Instead of harming her he guided her hand towards one of his perfect pecks, just above the nipple. His skin was so soft, like that of a new-born infant, so silky beneath her fingertips and oddly warm, not cold and callous as she had anticipated demon flesh to be. It was flawless, without the freckles, moles and scars that marred human flesh and his natural scent was strong and masculine, almost intoxicating.

             
He released her hand and she was free to explore him herself, and explore she did, sliding her hand over his tawny skin, her fingers itching to stroke his hair, to see if it was as soft as it looked. She allowed herself some license and he didn't try and stop her. She reached up tentatively to his face and her fingertips hovered over his luscious lips, his sultry breath warming her skin, making it tingle.

             
“Do you believe me now?” he asked huskily, his voice thick with repressed lust.

             
She nodded, her throat dry, retracting her hand. She had been so captivated, enchanted by the light in his ever-changing eyes, so enthralled by the enigma of him that she had forgotten herself for a moment, forgotten what he was and where he came from. He was everything her dream man should have been, tall, athletic, witty, devilishly handsome, well endowed and reeking of sensuality and sex. He was everything she could have asked for, and much more.

             
“So my mistress, what would you like to do with me first?”

             
“
Do
with you?” she asked, horrified, “And please don't call me that. It makes me sound like a kinky hooker. My name is Hazelle.”

             
“Hazelle,” he purred slowly, as if savouring the taste of it on his tongue. She shivered with something between terror and delight when he said her name.

             
“And I don't want to
do
anything with you,” she told him indignantly, “I never believed that this would actually work. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't even exist.”

             
He shrugged.

             
“But alas, I do, as we have already proved. Would you like me to prove it to you in another way?” he asked shamelessly, his eyes flashing with hunger. She knew it wasn't a hunger for food, or at least not any sort of flesh he'd find in her freezer.

             
“No. No I don't. I don't want anymore demonstrations. I want you to leave. Now,” she said firmly, and for some reason she was pointing to the door at the top of the stairs, even though she knew that wasn't the way he had entered by.

             
“That isn't how it works, sweetheart,” he drawled, folding his arms arrogantly across his chest.

             
She picked up the spell book, flicking through it urgently.

             
“There must be something in here to send you back to...to wherever it is you came from,” she finished lamely, chewing on her bottom lip.             

             
“Hell, darling,” he said pompously, before narrowing his eyes at her, “And you won't find the answer in any book. I was summoned here for a reason, a purpose, and I won't be able to return home until that purpose is fulfilled.”

             
“And how long will that be?” she asked, exasperated, still skimming the book for an answer that might leap out at her.

             
“That all depends on you, babe.”

             
She glanced up at him and cringed.

             
“Please stop with the pet names. I can't abide them.”

             
He smirked and then shrugged again, nonchalant. “You're the boss.”

             
She closed the book forlornly and set it down on the floor. She had read the chapter on invoking an incubus several times prior to doing the spell, though it hadn't gone into any specifics about what would happen after. It did say that because she had summoned him with her blood he was bound to her, that she would be able to control and manipulate him to a certain extent, that she would have the power to influence him, to rein him in if he became too passionate or violent.

             
He didn't look violent now, he looked lazy, sardonic and too sure about himself, about his own sexual prowess. But she knew it was a mask, an illusion, because she sensed the raw, untapped strength, the power he kept hidden from her for now, buried beneath his human disguise until he had a reason to use it. She wasn't going to give him that reason, nor any other.

             
“So,” she huffed, “I guess I'm stuck with you until I can figure out a way to send you back.”

             
“I told you...you are the only one with the answer to that...want me to offer you a few solutions?” he winked playfully at her and she blushed. She wasn't accustomed to flirting or men making sexual innuendos at her, let alone demons doing it, and she found his wandering eyes disconcerting, especially when they lingered on her small breasts and brightened with longing.

             
She sighed, suddenly very tired. The spell had drained most of her energy, she had a headache and he wasn't improving matters.

             
“Well, the first thing we need to do is find you some clothes. You'd draw far too much attention walking around like...well...like
that
...”

             
She gestured to his generous member and then averted her eyes, feeling the heat creep into her cheeks, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole, sparing her anymore embarrassment.

             
He didn't comment, only smirking as he followed her up out of the basement and into the house.

Chapter Two

The harsh, artificial lights in the kitchen did little to detract from his evocative beauty. It seemed nothing could. She had to resist the urge to pinch herself every time she looked at him, every time he didn't flicker away like a mirage or disappear in a puff of smoke.
              He was every inch the elegant enchantment, a dangerous demon in disguise who came sauntering naked and cocksure into her kitchen, like he owned the house and everything in it, including her.
Especially
her. He stood by the stove, checking his reflection in the shiny black tiles, fussing with his hair and turning to admire himself from different angles. Who would have thought demons could be so vain?

             
She didn't have much in the way of clothing for him. The only male clothes she owned were a pair of ratty old jeans belonging to one of her mom's previous, shorter boyfriends, ones she used for painting and decorating. She suspected they would be several sizes too small for the hunk of manhood lounging around her kitchen, flicking idly through a fashion magazine.

             
“I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere,” she told him sternly. He didn't give any indication he was listening to her, licking his fingers and turning the page. She doubted the exploits and scandals of celebrities interested much, and instead he was trying to push her buttons, to find out which ones would annoy her, which ones would excite her, which ones would make her fall for him.

             
Hazelle went to the spare bedroom and hunted through the wardrobe in there, allowing herself to imagine his face if she leant him one of her lacy nightgowns to wear instead. She didn't think he would look so smug then. As it was she didn't dare to disrespect a demon. He may seem placid now but she was willing to bet if she said the wrong thing at the wrong time he wouldn't hesitate to punish her.

             
All she could find in his size were a pair of leather pants from her mother's fling with a biker thug three months ago. She returned to the kitchen and held the pants out to him. He took them without comment and she started to turn away as he slipped them on.

             
“What's with the false modesty?” he sneered, “You've already seen all there is to see. Care to repay the favour?”

             
There was an earnest glint in his eyes and she wanted to shatter that beautiful, untouchable arrogance into dust.

             
“No,” she said sullenly, turning away. She didn't like the tone of voice he used when talking to her, as if he were mocking her, too sure of himself and his charms. It was so frustrating to be trapped in the company of such an egoistical, chauvinistic man, let alone one that came from the great black belly of the earth and probably partied with the devil on weekends.

             
She didn't turn back until she heard the sound of a zipper being pulled up. Leather clung to him like a second skin, allowing her to see every chorded muscle of his thighs, his sculptured chest still bare, gorgeous golden abs gleaming in the bright kitchen lights like a freshly oiled god. He looked down at himself and then back up at her, a roguish smile gracing his lips.

             
“Do you approve?”

             
“It’ll do for now,” she said, trying to act indifferent to his attractiveness, still very much on her guard.

             
As much as the book had told her that he was under her authority, as much as he had tried to reassure her that she was the one in control, she didn't trust him to behave. There was something about him, something wild and uncivilised, something savage and primitive, from his untameable red hair to the feral glimmer in his jet black eyes that made her stomach twist in knots every time she looked at him, every time she felt his warm breath on her cheek, or the back of her neck. No man, human or otherwise, had ever affected her this way. He wasn't human, had never been human, and she had always to remember that, no matter how convincing his act could be. She tried to convince herself that she was only afraid of him, and nothing more than that.

             
Mom was still gallivanting around town with her latest toy boy, a mechanic some twenty years her junior, almost the same age as her own daughter. It was a sad reflection on Hazelle's life when her mom was more successful at dating men her age than she actually was. Mom usually spurned older men, instead frequenting nightclubs and other such establishments were youth liked to congregate, where she could prey on them, as if she were trying to reclaim her own youth by living vicariously through them. Much like Hazelle mom didn't look her age, nor act it. Hazelle, once critical of her mom's antics, now simply let her do as she pleased and didn't make any sarcastic remarks the next morning about bed springs squeaking in the night.

             
This stranger, this man, this
demon,
looked like he had made more than a few beds squeak. There was a natural elegance to his every movement, smooth, cool and confident, yet so subtle and meant to allure, to hypnotise her, to tempt her into his embrace and make her forget herself so that he could take advantage of her.

             
It wouldn't work. She was not so easily swayed. She was more sensible than that, and far too stubborn. Regardless of what he thought she would find a way to send him back, his tail between his legs, even if it took all night.

             
“I'm hungry,” he announced, rubbing his stomach and looking at her expectantly.

             
“I'm not a slave,” she snapped, “There is food in the cupboards and the fridge. Eat whatever you want.”

             
“I'd rather eat you,” he said in a low, erotic voice that made her shiver all the way to her core. He was trying to tease her, entice her, and despite her determination and indignation she could feel herself blushing crimson.

             
Did he know the power he had over her?

             
He must do, or surely he wouldn't say such wicked things.

             
She made no retort, instead she descended to the basement to retrieve the book, leaving him to his own devices, whatever they might be for a demon. She blew out the candles one by one, hoping that might be the secret to sending him back to hell. No such luck. When she returned to the kitchen to her distress he was still there, topless and rummaging through the fridge, wiggling his perfect leather bound ass at her. She had to admit, he did look good in those pants, almost as good as he did out of them.

             
She sat at the breakfast bar, pouring over the spell-book while he made himself a ham, salami, mustard, pickle, jam and peanut butter sandwich. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the bizarre concoction, but when he turned around she pretended to be ignoring him. He took the stool next to her.

             
“Find anything?”

             
She looked up, long enough to glare. “Not yet.”

             
“That's because there is nothing to find,” he told her condescendingly, like he was explaining something complicated to a small child, “You're wasting your time. Actually, you're wasting my time too.”

             
She disregarded him and continued to read, revising how to do the spell, the purpose and consequences should anything go awry. Technically nothing had, the spell had done everything it promised. There was no advice on how to banish him back to the hell he had clawed his way from, no hint as to what would fulfil that purpose and set him free. She read the book from cover to cover, until her head ached and her eyes blurred, and found no answers, only more questions.

             
She closed the book, sighing, disappointed and disillusioned. He had finished eating his sandwich and had taken to watching her read, his peculiar, slightly disturbing eyes concentrated on her face, with such intensity and dark longing in them it made her shudder from time to time. Even though he had eaten there was still hunger in his gaze, his eyes ravenous.

             
“What?” she demanded, irritated. She didn't like being stared at during the best of times, and especially not by the sarcastic sex demon she had summoned on a silly whim.

             
“I was thinking how unlike you are from all the others that have summoned me over the centuries,” he muttered, scowling. Suddenly their situation didn't seem to so amusing to him anymore.

             
“Oh.”

             
Had she offended him? It shouldn't matter, but she found that it did. It did not to well to piss off a demon.

             
“What were they like?” she asked curiously, closing the book.

             
“Beautiful. Hideous. Rich. Poor. Lonely. Desperate. It was one end of the social and sexual spectrum to the other, with so many colours, so many shades of grey in-between, but I have never been with anyone so...so...ordinary.”

             
He didn't say it scornfully, or disrespectfully, as if he meant to insult her. He sounded intrigued, almost fascinated by her. Perhaps she was as much an enigma to him as he was to her?

             
“Well, don't get used to it. You're going home in the morning, just as soon as I find another spell to send you back,” she told him firmly, unruffled by her failure tonight. If there was something to find she was damn well going to make sure she found it.

             
“If you say so,” he murmured, though made no other remark.

             
She yawned and covered her mouth, not taking any chances when it came to old wives' tales about letting the devil in, especially now that she had irrefutable proof he existed, half-naked in her kitchen and clearly still aroused. She glanced up at the cat clock above the doorway that led into the hall and saw it was almost midnight. Mom wouldn't be home for a couple of hours yet.

             
The spell had definitely taken it out of Hazelle, she felt as if she hadn't slept in a week, she felt vulnerable, helpless, completely at the mercy of the demon by her side, if he even had any. Maybe he was waiting until she fell asleep so he could have his way with her. She should have picked up the dagger too, when she'd gone downstairs for the book. She would sleep with a knife under her pillow as an extra precaution, though she doubted she would be able to sleep at all.

             
“I want to go to bed,” she declared, leaping down from the stool haughtily, “And wake up in the morning and remember this all as a bad dream.”

             
“I'll still be here in the morning...waiting,” he added ominously, his eyes flashing with lust, making her shiver. Did he ever think of anything else?

             
From the prominent bulge in his pants, no, apparently not.

             
“Do what you want. Just stay away from me,” she warned him, and then marched out of the kitchen with her head held high.

             
To his credit he wasn't foolish enough to follow her as she trudged up the stairs, perhaps sensing the foul mood she was in, the foul mood he had put her in. He was everything she had always thought she wanted in a man, handsome, intelligent, desirable, determined and dedicated to her, and yet to have it waved in her face like that, knowing what he was, knowing where he came from, knowing she couldn't snatch him up in a heartbeat was so frustrating. He was incorrigible, insufferable, irresistible and a part of her didn't care, didn't care that he was bad, didn't care that he wasn’t human, didn't care that she wanted him.

             
She distracted herself with changing for bed, washing her face, combing her hair, brushing her teeth, all human habits. How did demons groom? Whatever he did it was working for him, with not a whisker on his chin or a blemish spoiling his skin. She was on edge, pausing occasionally and listening for the tell-tale creak of the stairs which meant he was coming to harass her some more.

             
He didn't. When she left the bathroom the hallway was deserted and so she slipped into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her, locking it for good measure. She'd forgotten to grab the butcher's knife from the wooden block in the kitchen, the one her mother used to slice steaks, and so she borrowed an antique silver letter opener from her desk, testing the sharpness against her thumb with a prick that made her gasp and bleed. Hopefully it would do the same to flawless demon flesh. She tucked the letter opener under her pillow and sucked her thumb, grimacing at the coppery taste of blood.

             
There was no noise from downstairs. Not a sound. Mom wasn't home yet, though it was still early for her. She rarely returned before two in the morning. Hazelle wondered how the demon was entertaining himself, she considered sneaking downstairs to spy on him before deciding it was none of her concern. Hopefully by morning he would have realised that she neither wanted nor needed him and would vanish, or slither back to hell, and she would be able to spend the rest of her life pretending it was all just a bad dream, a really, really vivid one.