Demon Angel

of disaster again, but I prefer four days with you than another thousand years as a demon." Her voice broke; she hadn't meant to say it, but now that it had been spoken she would not retract it. "That is the choice I make now. And to fight; there is little else to do."
    She stopped, suddenly embarrassed by the vehemence of her speech. Though she knew he would not accept all she had said, some of the tension faded from him. He lowered his head, rested his forehead against hers. "Michael said the same thing: that there is naught to do but fight," he said, and laughed when she made a sound of dismay.
    She closed her eyes, grateful he'd let her escape into humor. "Shit. The next time I sound like him, stab me."
    "I will," he said, and brushed his lips over hers. "I love you."
    She'd known—she'd known and yet had no idea that hearing the words would burst within her as it did, a release, a freedom. She trailed kisses quick and hard over his lips, missing his mouth more often that not. He was a fool to love her—she'd not known anything of love but to twist and ruin it. And it was only fair that she warned him.
    "Imbecile," she said between his jaw and his neck, and he laughed again and lifted her against him, half-dragging her out of the kitchen. The bedroom—he was headed to the bedroom. Too far. Impatient, she twisted and tripped him, fell atop him on the corner of the living room rug, a tangle of legs and tongues. His hands were on her breasts, plucking at her nipples through thin cotton.
    "Take it off," he commanded, but didn't wait for her and began pulling up her shirt. He paused for an infinitesimal moment, as if drinking in the sight of her—then his mouth was on her, suckling and licking before the T-shirt cleared her head, and she was caught in darkness, the black material trapping her arms and covering her face. Wordlessly, he reached up, fisted his hand in the shirt and hair, held her immobile.
    And there was only his lips and tongue on the aching peaks. The scrape of his whiskered jaw on her skin. The thick ridge of his cock beneath her. Her spine arched, and she gasped as he captured her nipple between his teeth, not enough to hurt but to make her fall silent, still.
    Blind, she waited breathlessly as he unfastened her pants and slid his hand inside. As he cupped her sex. Then moaned as he let go of her nipple and slowly, slowly swirled his tongue around the taut flesh.
    She heard the smile in his voice, felt it against her breast. "Do you want kindness, Lily?" He pushed a finger inside her, and she pressed her bottom lip between her teeth to stay her cry of need. More, more . As if he heard that silent plea, he drew her nipple deeply into his mouth. Her blood seemed to carry fire through her veins. She panted, the small confines of the shirt hot and humid.
    Another finger, stretching and thrusting, and she grunted with frustration and rocked against him, trying to spread her thighs wider, grind herself closer to him, needing more.
    "What would be kindness now? Do you want to look?" He pumped his fingers, his palm slick with her arousal, gliding over her clit. "Do you want to see that I'm inside you? But not enough." His voice was hoarse. "I'd have to let go your shirt, free my hand to unzip. And you would see. Would that be a kindness? You wouldn't see what I do."
    "What would I see?" she whispered, the words ragged.
    His tongue began to trace a pattern on her skin. Realization struck, and she shivered, tried to pull away from his mouth. Didn't want him touching what Lucifer had put on her.
    "No!" His harsh denial surprised her, the desperation and anger behind it. "Don't hide from me now, Lilith. I see it, but it's not all that I see. I'm not a fool in this. I can take it all. There's nothing you have been—or could do—that would make me reject you." His grip loosened on the shirt. Quickly, she ripped it the rest of the way off. And caught her breath at the stark beauty of him, the emotion that rilled his eyes.
    Unwilling to have anything between that expression and her, she leaned forward and removed his glasses. Tossed them on the sofa cushion. "What do you see?"
    "Look."
    And she rose up, looked down between them. He was fully dressed, she half-dressed—it should have been a wanton and sinful display. Perhaps it was. She couldn't care. She only saw her dark-tipped breasts, the nipples drawn tight. The whisker-reddened skin. The spread of her thighs over him, his fingers buried in her glistening