Demon Angel

original is very good."
    "You wish another version? A new translation?" He was shaking, with laughter and frustration.
    Her eyes narrowed. "You're allowing me to punish you this way, so that you feel less guilty for it."
    "I hardly think"—he broke off on a gasp, clenched his teeth as she stroked down his length with pressure that bordered on the painful—"this is punishment."
    "No." She released him, stepped back. If her grin was strained, she doubted he would notice. "This is."
    She was disappointed, however, when he only stood stiffly, staring at her with amusement. As if his cock didn't strain and pulse, as if he weren't moments from release—she knew he was.
    "I think I finally understand why Mandeville allowed himself to be tied to that wall. You make a man nearly desperate enough to drill a hole into a stone and rut."
    "You aren't." He didn't even touch himself.
    "I'm well-versed in this kind of frustration." He tilted his head. "My hand has been my only companion these eight hundred years. I'm glad this time it is yours."
    He smiled as he approached her, lifted her palm to place a kiss in the center. Her breath caught, strangling her laughter.
    "Mine are rough," he said, his voice low. "When I served d'Aulnoy, I always had a sword in my hand, practicing so that I'd be ready if he needed my weapon. And I carried the calluses with me into death, though I had not arms nor armor to take."
    He smoothed his thumb across the heel of her hand, and she shivered. He still had a warrior's calluses, though he'd not lifted a weapon in years. As if divining her thoughts, he shook his head.
    "These are not the same. Falling leaves its mark, but this is not one of them. This is the result of trying to forget—trying to understand—what I've done to you. And I have done naught but think of it these sixteen years. So, yes, I'm glad of your touch. Not only because it is soft, but because it is. I should never have rejected it."
    Her gaze traced the line of his fingers, studied the contrast of tanned skin against red. He'd not been the only one who'd needed protection. She had, too—from his touch, from his kindness. There'd been safety in his rejection of her; and though she'd not known the truth behind his ability to resist her, she knew her weakness: she'd craved his touch as much as she had feared it would be her undoing. As a Guardian, he'd been safe.
    But now he did not hide from her, could not hide—and the humanity that denied his protection denied hers as well. And this kindness would destroy her.
    She pulled back her hand and looked away. Methodically, she began calling in weapons from her cache, placing them on the table. A sword, crossbow, rifle. She nodded toward the files. "Those are all related to the investigation." Daggers, a pair of semiautomatic pistols. Another sword. "There isn't much you don't know—except that Sanchez's mother told Preston and Taylor that she saw him leaving with you the night before she reported him missing. At least, with someone who matched your description and had a slight accent of indeterminate origin. Probably a demon. But it was reason enough for them to focus on you." She unloaded more weapons. "Take the reports with you."
    "I will." He stood behind her, but she could hear the frustration in his voice. "Quite the arsenal."
    "Yes." She paused, let her mind run over the remaining weapons. Took out a few more, then located her badge and ID. Her suit was on the back of the chair; she slid them inside the pocket and hung it in the closet.
    When she returned to the table, Hugh was studying the pile of weapons on its surface. He reached down, slid his finger along the barrel of a pistol. "You don't need this many guns for work."
    "No. I like them. And I've found they are effective against the nosferatu, as well."
    "Slows them down?"
    "Not much, but enough to help." She met his eyes, had to bite back a smile. "When I was allowed, that is."
    "May I?" He picked up the pistol at her nod. "Michael and I used to practice with a flintlock revolver, but found it was too unreliable, and the damage too minimal to be of use." He blinked. "That was two hundred years ago."
    "You should have tried them again."
    He chuckled, set it back down. "The corps does not readily accept change."
    "They should. Take it." She called in an extra clip. "But if you have to use it, make certain there isn't any evidence. It's registered to a man I arrested seven years ago."
    Laughing softly, he shook his head.