Demon Blood

it.
    She was staring straight up at his face, thick lashes spiked around eyes glowing like the sun—watching his reaction as her mouth slowly destroyed him. Her hair lay in a wet curtain over her breasts, with beaded nipples peeking through. Water streamed over her belly, running in rivulets to the slit between her thighs. Her arousal melted against his psychic shields like hot syrup.
    Fisting his hands against the tile, he battled for control, his labored breaths sounding like a choked-up steam engine. Control. Jesus, who was he kidding? She might be following his lead, taking direction—but there was no question who had more power here.
    Did she even know the hold she had over him?
    She took him deeper, her fingers digging into his ass, her eyes slowly closing as she drew harder on the length of his shaft. The suction seared up his spine. Need pounded through his cock. His fangs ached for the taste of blood, with the need to come. He needed to be inside her.
    “No more, Rosie.”
    He groaned as her mouth released him. The shower’s hot spray battered his stomach, his cock, painful against his sensitized shaft. She looked up, her eyelids heavy and irises glowing with her arousal, her lips swollen. He had to take her. Now.
    Catching her around the waist, he hauled her up, slammed his back against the tile, and shoved her over him. Her sex closed around him like a silken fist. Her nails clawed his shoulders. The scent of his blood exploded through his senses, making his head swim. God, she was losing her control. Knowing that almost destroyed his. He hefted her knees higher, forcing himself deeper. She clutched at his arms for balance.
    Her spine abruptly straightened. Her eyes widened with horror, trained on the marks of her nails.
    He palmed the back of her head, brought her lips to his. “I love being inside you. So rip me up, Rosie. Let me know you love it, too.”
    The way she kissed him, her mouth open and hungry, said that she did. He pumped deep, holding her still for each of his thrusts, until she was writhing and crying against his chest, her hips working in ragged circles. When she stiffened, began to come, he buried his face in her neck, stabbed his tongue against his fangs. Blood flooded his mouth, shot through him like an electric shock. He surged up, shook through his release.
    Slowly, he came back down. His legs wouldn’t hold. He slid to the wet marble floor, Rosalia limp against him. Her eyes were glazed, their glow fading. The water ran cold. Neither made a move to turn it off.
    “Christ, Rosie. What you did to me.”
    “Just following orders,” she mumbled against his shoulder.
    Though completely wrung, he managed to laugh. “You took revenge for this morning.”
    “Not revenge. Therapy. Really good therapy.”
    For him or for her? He didn’t ask. Lifting her up, he headed for the bed.
    Now it was time to savor her.

    She felt wonderful.
    Rosalia didn’t know how. Deacon was the source of so much turmoil within her. But the simple truth was . . . she loved being with him. Loved lying against his shoulder as she lazily explored the ridges of his muscles with her fingertips. Loved the deep sound of his heartbeat when she pressed her ear to his chest. Loved that the heat of her body and his sweat had strengthened his scent, until hers was a faint undertone.
    He lay at ease beside her, his thumb traveling up and down the length of her spine. His eyes were closed, as if he was resting, and a faint smile softened the corners of his mouth.
    She wouldn’t let herself hope this would last. But for now, for this moment, everything was perfect. It was everything she’d imagined.
    Her fingers passed over a long, thin scar above his pectoral. Oh, how she remembered that fight. Another boxer had taken a grudge into the ring. Only a few seconds after the opening bell, the boxer had pulled out a razor hidden in his boot. Horrified, Rosalia had jumped to her feet, yelling out a warning that was lost amid the shouts of the crowd, and the man had lunged forward and slashed Deacon open. Deacon had simply looked down at his bleeding chest, then hammered a knockout blow to the bastard’s jaw.
    Though no one would have blamed him if he’d taken it further, he’d stopped after that one hit. She’d admired him for that—his control, his restraint. He’d done what he’d needed to do, and left it there.
    A sigh escaped her. She had things that needed to be done, too.
    His eyes opened. “Does that sigh