Demon Angel

Hugh followed her, unable to tear his eyes from the dip of her spine, the sway of her hips. The ends of her midnight hair brushed against the small of her back with each step, and the rhythm seemed to echo the heavy pulse of his blood.
    He swallowed, and gestured to the cat, lounging on the top shelf of the empty bookcase. "I believe he and Emilia have called a truce; she will take the upper regions of the house, and he will reign over the lower."
    The condoms had been an excuse; no reason he couldn't withdraw before spilling his seed. He had that much control, didn't he? A medieval method of contraception, certainly, but—
    "We need weapons." She slipped into the stool at the breakfast bar, brought one knee up against her chest, her heel at the edge of the seat. Not a perch, but close.
    "I don't think we will be able to access your apartment or Colin's house without drawing attention to ourselves." Grateful that the granite counter concealed his erection—now he was hiding, he realized with chagrin—he began unloading plastic takeout containers from a paper bag. "Unless attention is what we want."
    She shook her head. "Beelzebub must know I am here, but—" Breaking off, she looked at Sir Pup. "Are there any near to hear us?" When the hound flapped his ears, she continued, "I prefer they think I'm going to kill you. What is this?"
    A bit of eagerness in her voice that she couldn't hide; Hugh smiled and began loading dolmathes on a plate. "Greek. I ordered when you were in the shower." He raised a brow. "You were in there quite some time."
    "Masturbating," she said, her tone matter-of-fact, and the container he'd been holding skidded across the counter. It was a lie, but the image the words conjured—Lilith, dripping with warm water, her hand between her thighs—was as powerful as if it'd been truth.
    "Lilith," he said, and he couldn't contain his laughter, nor the harshness arousal lent to his words. "Have pity."
    In a slow, deliberate movement, she unzipped one of the pockets at her thigh. Slapped a handful of square foil packages onto the granite. His breath stopped. "I have pity. Seven pities. I remember seeing them when I searched the upstairs apartment last time, and despite her rebellion, she has not used them since then. But you said food first."
    "I am an idiot."
    "I am hungry."
    She bit her lip, as if to ward off the grin he could see pulling at the corners of her mouth. His cock ached. He made a mess of the Iamb moussaka, in such a hurry was he to scoop it onto the plate.
    Her gaze fell to the dish, and her smile faded. "I can't eat anything that has bled."
    He froze and looked up. Seeing the fleeting shame, the horror, he took out a clean plate and began filling it with more dolmathes, horiatiki, and then poured lentil soup into a bowl. "Does it bother you if I do?"
    She shook her head, but he set the first plate on the floor, along with the remaining moussaka. Sir Pup rose immediately, devoured it within moments. She pursed her lips, watching the hellhound. "I didn't lie."
    "I don't eat meat with Savi or Auntie, either," he said with a shrug. He passed her the food and began piling his plate high. Deciding it would be easier to get through the meal without her pity staring him in the face, he slid the condoms off the breakfast bar, stuffed them into his pocket.
    She watched him, laughing with her eyes. A flush rose over his neck, and he turned to the utensil drawer. "Fork?" When she answered him by scooping up feta cheese and olives with her fingers, he collected glasses from another cupboard and a bottle of wine from the icebox.
    "I was right; you have been completely domesticated." But there was appreciation in her voice as he opened the bottle, filled her glass with the pale golden liquid. She took a bite of a dolma, closed her eyes. "Oh, these are good."
    "Aye," he agreed, tearing his gaze from her mouth. His own food didn't appeal to him nearly as much, though he hadn't eaten since the previous evening.
    She didn't notice his distraction; she was examining the grape leaf and its contents. "My favorite treat when I was a girl was something very similar to this."
    Silence fell as she took another bite. Standing with the counter between them, he stared at her, unwilling to ask, though curiosity burned within him—he had forced enough from her.
    Lifting her wineglass, she took a sip and looked over the rim at him, her eyes dark and amused. "I've been married twice."
    His fingers clenched; aside