Demon Angel

work."
    "Only because you make it impossible to ignore you. And I daresay you would have been provoked even if I had given you notice."
    Smiling, she rested her hip on the edge of his desk, thumbed through the papers and books spread across the surface. He continued typing. A paperback selection of poems stood on edge next to his monitor; she picked it up. "Donne?"
    Hugh only grunted an assent.
    Lilith pursed her lips. "He was fun when he was young. Then he met me, and he only wrote sermons after." A glimmer of a smile around his mouth. Much better. "You, too, have become something of a monk in a man's clothing. You may have discarded your robe, but this…" She gestured to the Spartan office, the stack of student essays—and remembered the description of Caelum in his book, its white sterility. "You've exchanged one monastery for another," she realized.
    An infinitesimal flinch, as if her comment had struck something painful within him; but still, he did not turn to face her. "And what have you become?"
    "Certainly more patient," she muttered.
    "Yes." He paused, and finally looked at her. "I fear I am less."
    "You could only be less patient than you were as a Guardian. Though imagine my surprise, when I discover that so much of it is false." With a sarcastic lift of her eyebrow, she quoted, " ' Demons remain a stranger to physical need; like a demon, deceptive and concealed, remained I .'"
    "This is why you were angry," he said slowly. "Because you learned I used my Guardian powers to hide my body's response to you."
    "You lied." Even as she said it, color washed her face. They revealed too much, those two words. How she had depended on his unfailing honesty; how she had desired—needed—his attention.
    Worse, she was a demon making an accusation of a lie; it would have been laughable, had it not been so humiliating.
    And he seemed to understand, damn him. His gaze softened. "I didn't know. I felt it, Lilith. I just didn't allow it to show. Demons don't experience physical desire; I protected myself as best I could. If I'd known you weren't… if I had guessed…" He trailed off. "But I didn't know it could be anything other than a game for you."
    She averted her eyes. It shouldn't have been. The sense of betrayal she felt was a result of her vanity, her certainty that had he desired her as strongly as she had him, he couldn't have held his glamours. Shrugging, she said, "It was nothing."
    His mouth thinned. "Was it?"
    "Yes," she said, and he relaxed into his chair as if she'd said the opposite, turning back to the computer screen. Suddenly, she didn't care if he intended to or not: she was provoked. She unclenched her teeth, her voice low and silky. "Though I'm pleased, knowing you have no defense against me now. That I could come over there and have you begging for me within moments."
    "Let me finish this e-mail first." His tone was mild, disinterested.
    Her breath hissed out. She launched herself over his desk, landed behind him, and caught a glimpse of her human name and a mention of swords before he hit Send.
    Slowly, he swiveled his chair around, tilted it back to look up at her. "Will you materialize your horns?" he said, his expression unreadable. "If you are here to lead me to prison by my cock, I'd like something to grab onto in turn."
    Prison? Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed away her disappointment that he hadn't seen the truth behind her ruse with the detectives. But how could he have? "That's what my tits are for, you imbecile." Planting her foot on the seat between his thighs, she gave his chair a shove.
    Stupid, to unbalance herself like that. Quickly—he was faster than she'd thought he'd be, but when had she last fought a human?—he pulled on her knee and rose up and bent her back over his desk. Books and her gun jammed against her spine and shoulders, his hips wedged between her thighs.
    How the hell had that happened? He'd planned it, that was certain. But she couldn't question him, didn't have any breath except to laugh when he grinned and said, "Good-bye, monk" and lowered his head to her breast, pushed aside her vest and began suckling her through her shirt.
    Her arms rose of their own accord and she slipped her fingers into his thick hair, her nails against his scalp. She meant to shove him away, but her back arched and she pulled him closer.
    His teeth caught her nipple. Oh, God, if the pain in Hell was anything like the torturous pleasure of that bite, humans would be lining up to