Demon Blood

small, slippery bud beneath her fingers. Then Deacon pushed forward, so deep inside. The pressure within her contracted before exploding outward. Caught up in it, her back bowed. Her flesh pulsed beneath her fingertips, and now Deacon was kissing her, his tongue not mimicking her fingers but his turgid length, driving into her deep and hard.
    Her body had locked, shaking, but now she was all in motion, clenching and releasing, her breaths sobbing. Deacon slowed, his kiss gentling again. Her tears fell faster.
    Her limbs felt weak as he turned her over onto her stomach. He moved to the end of the bed and urged her to her knees, raising her bottom into the air. Her head swimming, she complied.
    His hand smoothed over her cheek, followed by a sharp nip from his teeth. Surprised, she started to come up, but at the pressure of his hand on the small of her back, she lowered her torso again, pillowing her head in her arms.
    The shocking feel of his tongue lapping slowly through her core brought Rosalia out of her skin. She jolted forward, her hands fisting in the sheets. That was too much. Too much. Deacon caught her hips, hauled her back against his mouth. His tongue plunged between her folds, licking deep. Unable to help herself, she rocked toward him, her wordless moans muffled by her arms. Yellow light from her eyes spilled across white linen. Oh, God. She’d known being with him would feel good. She hadn’t known it would be like this, so destructive to her senses. She couldn’t get enough of his touch. She’d thought she’d reached the edge, the high, and yet when his lips surrounded her clitoris and suckled, she came again, screaming into the mattress. The explosion and release was so fast, so easy—and shook her just as powerfully.
    Aftershocks rippled through her flesh. The mattress shifted. Deacon kneeled behind her, pushed deep with one stroke.
    Her body clenched around him. Struggling for breath, for thought, Rosalia came up, her back against his chest. His left arm wrapped around her, his forearm buoying her left breast, his large hand cupping her right, catching her nipple between his middle fingers. His right hand slid between her thighs, stroking her as he drove up into her core, as if Rosalia’s pleasure was his only goal.
    It must have been—he could have taken his pleasure already. He needed blood to come, but it didn’t have to be hers. A drop of his own would do it.
    But if he didn’t finish, she could hold him inside her forever. She would love to.
    With his jaw, Deacon pushed her hair away from her neck, placed gentle kisses to her shoulder, the side of her throat. Emotion welled up, choking her. Though his hunger burned hot against her senses, he kissed her with tenderness.
    Slipping her arms up around his neck, she held on. His movements became more desperate, his muscles slick with sweat. Her back arched as he struck deep within her, a different angle, just right. And when she shook for the third time, Deacon joined her, with the scent of his own blood on his kiss.

    When Rosalia’s shudders faded, Deacon slipped out of her warmth and eased her forward, laying her on the bed. He kissed the small of her back, the indentation of her spine, the beautiful curve of her waist. She turned her face into the pillow, softly weeping.
    Not bad crying, he understood. He still wanted to get up and walk away. Her tears were ripping out his heart. But walking away now would make him more of a bastard than he was—and more of a bastard than he wanted to be.
    He lay next to her, stroking his hand through her hair. Her pulse still pounded in his ears. The bloodlust raged a storm in his veins. His body had been sated, but his hunger continued to rise. He wanted to go at her now like a ravening beast.
    He’d be a bastard for that, too. She’d given him a taste of heaven. She’d been so sweet, so trusting—as if she’d been with a better man than he was, when it had been all that he could do to maintain his control. He’d wanted to mark her, to taste her. To brand her as his.
    She wasn’t, though. He had her now, but it wouldn’t last forever. He’d be gone once she no longer had a use for him. He hoped that happened before going meant ripping out his soul.
    And he was afraid it might be too late.
    She lifted her head, and he had a glimpse of her smile, her wet cheeks, and her eyes—brown again, instead of glowing yellow—before she buried her face in his shoulder.
    “You’re hiding?”