Demon Angel

Yet he couldn't leave her alone. Searching for something trivial, something to make her smile, he glanced down at the uncluttered shelf beside the sink. "Throwing up will keep you thin, but if you are to completely indulge your vanity, we'll need lady-things: lotions, perfumes." Her profile was to him; her lashes were lowered, a thick sweep against her cheek. Her black hair tumbled the length of her back. "Cosmetics, though you don't need them. Brushes and jeweled combs. Spices and silks." He would gladly give her anything.
    "Another razor," she said, turning toward him. Selfconsciously, he touched his jaw, remembered the whisker burn on her skin. But she only pulled aside the bottom of the plaid robe, exposing the tops of her thighs, the length of her legs. "I dulled yours shaving."
    His gaze skimmed from thighs to feet, and he sighed. "So you truly weren't pleasuring yourself in the shower earlier."
    "My vanity could hardly bear you seeing stubble." Her hand slipped between her thighs, and she arched a brow. "But I couldn't finish the rest." She lifted the edge of the robe higher.
    "There are refills in the cabinet," he said, his mouth dry.
    She traced her fingers through the dark curls. "Shall I shape it like a heart?" Her eyes glittered with wicked laughter. "An arrow, pointing you in the right direction?"
    He choked, torn between amusement and arousal. Though his erection was suddenly painful in its intensity, straining against the front of his pajamas, he remained where he was and watched her play.
    How many times had he had her? He'd essentially spent the entire day within her, but it still wasn't enough—and the moonlight spilling through the room reminded him he had only three days left.
    He forced that sorrow away as she leaned back against the wall, raised her knee and braced it against the sink. She shrugged, and flannel whispered to the floor. "Look"—she exposed pink flesh, swollen with desire; her slim fingers slid down, then inside, and his entire body clenched with need—"at how wet I am."
    "Lilith—"
    Her back arched, and she licked her lips. "Am I a bad girl, Professor?"
    A change came over her, as if she'd said it in jest but it had struck a different note within her. Her mouth twisted, her eyes hardened. Hate and anger in that look—but not directed at him.
    Before she could twist it back at herself, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. "I haven't seen any evidence that you are, Lilith." Challenge in his voice. "Nothing that earns the reputation you've cultivated, anyway."
    She blinked, and her gaze refocused on him. Her foot dropped to the floor. Her smile was slow and dangerous. "You're going to pay for that."
    An hour later, his throat was raw, his voice all but gone. Two hours later, she finally let him come, and he went over soundlessly, certain his jaw would never unclench and his body would never have enough of her lips and tongue. Never enough of the scratch of her fingernails and grip of her hand. The bite of her teeth and the rasp of her voice. Or the slick, heated clasp of her sex.
    They had no more condoms; she'd taken him without barriers, and then used it against him, riding him to her climax several times though he could not take his own. And again, using her hands and lips and tongue until he was on the verge of orgasm, then sheathing him inside her body, forcing him to hold back. A sweet torment, to have what he most desired, but unable to have it in full. Exquisite agony to choose between the pleasure of being inside her, or release—and then to be denied choice. He had begged, but did not know what he begged for: both choices were torture, both mercy. Now she wiped the seed from his abdomen with a soft washcloth, and each stroke quivered through his sensitized flesh. He laughed silently; he'd thought his muscles were all but water, but they still responded to her touch.
    "This was stupid," she said, but her tone was smug. He would have argued—provoking her had been the smartest decision he'd ever made—but his voice didn't work.
    She tossed the cloth to the floor and untied his wrists. The bindings hadn't been tight, but it was a relief to lower his arms, to touch her as she lay down on her side next to him and propped her chin on her fist.
    She looked down at him and laid her other hand on his chest. "I don't know that I can have children, anyway. I didn't when I was alive before." She leaned over, kissed his eyelids. "And despite immortality leaving its mark, not