Demon Blood

began to walk, his arousal nudging her core with every step. Seawater splashed around his feet, then his knees. When the swirling water swept around the underside of her thighs, tickling the edges of her panties, he dove and took them both under.
    The world filled in with a dark rush, stinging her eyes. His mouth found hers, a salty heaven. She tasted him, took him. Kissing him was a pleasure unlike any other she’d known, a twisting ecstasy within her that seemed to break for the surface and dive in deep. He kicked at the water, and then they were arrowing forward beneath the waves, following the path of the moonlight.
    His hand slipped between her thighs, where she was as wet as the ocean, and she wondered if he knew that the wetness was her and not the sea. Then his kiss deepened, as if he sought her flavor, and his fingers brushed and teased her sex before withdrawing and leaving her aching.
    After a few minutes, he stopped kicking, and they drifted. Rosalia pulled back. Deacon’s face was in shadow, his green eyes dark. His shirt collar floated up against his neck, the points touching his jaw. She smoothed it back down.
    His slow grin appeared. His eyes seemed to challenge her. Flipping his collar up again, he cocked a brow.
    Her laugh bubbled out on her last bit of air. She knew Deacon, but not like this. She enjoyed this side of him: hungry, playful.
    And it was difficult not to straighten that collar.
    Kicking away from him, she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her elbows. She hoped her smile looked smug; it wasn’t an expression she had reason to use often. He began to circle her, swimming close, keeping her off balance and turning in the water, a shark after his prey.
    Two could play that game. With a back somersault to help her gain momentum, she kicked for the surface. She swept her arms down just before she broke through, a powerful stroke that brought her fully out of the water. Monte Carlo glittered in the distance; they’d come too far for anyone to see her. She formed her wings, flew high, and waited.
    Below, Deacon’s dark head broke the surface of the waves—looking up, but in the wrong direction. Rosalia tucked her wings against her back and dove.
    The wind twisted her hair into a wet whip. She timed her speed against the swell of a wave. It lifted just as he turned her direction. She swooped, sliding her hands beneath Deacon’s arms and scooping him up.
    He shouted a curse, shedding water. Rosalia couldn’t stop her wild laughter. She hauled him up, caught her arm beneath his legs, and brought him against her chest. There was no way to carry a man as large as Deacon that wasn’t awkward or that produced too much drag, but they’d managed the flight here with him cradled against her.
    When she banked southwest, he asked, “Back to Rome, then?”
    Eventually, yes. “We can go slowly.”
    She caught his smile from the corner of her eye, was aware of him watching her face. A strange anticipation filled her, her heart at once heavy and light—half dread, half hope. Dread that she’d fail at this, too. Hope that they could begin to build something.
    She vanished the water from his clothes. Her skin had dried, and she created new trousers, a shirt, and boots. Deacon made a disappointed sound.
    When her laughter ended, she searched for something to say. On the journey to Monaco, they’d discussed his upcoming fight and the personalities of the vampires within the community. Now . . . Lord, she’d imagined conversations with him so many times. Never had they been fraught with this nervousness. Every topic seemed too trivial and too important.
    Deacon had no such trouble. “Your son says you have a file—a story—on every vampire in Europe.”
    And she overcompensated. Lovely. “He said entirely too much.”
    “Is he usually that indiscreet?”
    “No. But he knows you’re different from other visitors.” Now she had said too much. She saw Deacon’s frown and hurried to add, “So you want to know what story I have for you?”
    “I know mine. I want to know yours.”
    That shook her. He was the only one who’d ever asked hers. She’d told it before. But no one else had ever cared to ask.
    “Wrong question?”
    Her reaction must have shown. She shook her head. “No. It’s just not a question I’m accustomed to hearing.” When his brows rose, as if he doubted that, she explained, “I’m not out much—not as myself. And I make a point of not drawing attention. So