Demon Angel

relationship between nosferatu, demons, and halflings to make Lilith wonder.
    Had he told Savitri the truth? How deep did the trust between them run? And, given the girl's age, why? Theirs wasn't a lovers' bond.
    The soft, rhythmic pad of his bare feet against the dark hardwood floors was muffled as he entered the living room and stepped onto the thick rug at its center. Unlike the mess upstairs, everything here was uncluttered, minimalist. She would have thought it sterile, if not for the colors. Bright jewel tones and dark woods warmed the room: a rich blue sofa, a supple leather ottoman in chocolate brown, gold paint on the walls. Behind her, the kitchen boasted more wood, stainless steel, and a deep, luxurious red.
    Apparently, he abhorred white.
    He picked up a remote control, and she snorted in surprise. Did he intend to sit down and watch football next? "You've become quite the domestic, haven't you?"
    A smile played around his mouth. "I can even program a VCR."
    She couldn't. Suddenly feeling out of place in her demonic guise, she turned toward the bookshelves and forced herself to ignore the heavy settling of her stomach. "At least you still read," she muttered. She glanced at a title and rolled her eyes. " The American Ideal: Literary History as a Worldly Activity !"
    "Too domestic?" he asked, and she heard the amusement in his voice. He knew she was uncomfortable, and he was enjoying it.
    She could return the favor. Running her hand along a row of books, she said, "I think it'll be a soft kiss, at first. I won't touch you anywhere but your mouth. Fangs or no fangs?"
    He grinned. "No fangs, please."
    She nodded solemnly. "I'll keep the horns, though. They make wonderful handholds. When you are overcome with desire, you can pull me closer with them."
    The television illuminated his features with a soft blue light; his lips were pressed tightly together, and he shook with silent laughter.
    "I'll be certain to remember that," he finally said.
    "It wouldn't be gentle for long, would it?" she mused. "It never is with us. I'd have to touch you. I didn't force you when you were human before, but perhaps I would now. Do you remember the temple and Mandeville?" Her voice deepened, deliberately sensuous. "Would be simple to do the same to you—but I would not leave you waiting for more. I'd wrap my hands around you, stroke you until you begged. Taste you until you were weak. Ride you until you could no longer stand."
    He drew in a ragged breath, as if the air around him had thickened. Only with effort could she keep herself from betraying a similar arousal; the images her words conjured gathered like liquid fire beneath her belly.
    His throat worked, but she anticipated his response. "It would be free will, Hugh. You already want it." She slid the flat of her palm up a book spine, imagined the hardness and heat of his erection. The rigid shaft strained against its denim confines; the racing of his pulse matched hers.
    Unable to resist, she approached him, ran her fingers down the front of his shirt. He stopped breathing. The flesh under his clothing was taut, hard. She wanted to rip it away, smooth her hands over the skin beneath. Run her tongue over the ridges of muscle in his chest and abdomen, licking and tasting. She settled for flattening her palm against his pectoral, relishing the tension she could feel coursing through him, the beating of his heart.
    He caught her wrist as she began to slide down to his stomach, lower. Immediately releasing her, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if to steady himself, then let his hand drop to his side. He looked at her without expression. "I'll oblige you then. Vanish your clothing, lie down on the sofa and spread your legs."
    Her mouth fell open. "What?"
    "I'll admit, I want to fuck you. So we will fuck." His hands went to his waistband, and he began to unbutton his fly.
    As if mesmerized, she stared at his fingers as they worked at the fastenings. The tails of his shirt covered him, but the movement of his hands allowed her glimpses of white cotton briefs stretched tight by his cock. She swallowed and glanced at the sofa.
    Did he really mean for her to do as he'd commanded? The way he'd commanded it?
    Despite the hardness etched across his features, his control, she could feel his heart pounding, smell the perspiration tinged by sexual arousal—but also by unease and determination.
    He desired her, would fuck her if she complied with his demand… but he didn't want it