Demon Blood

hands pinned to the bed. Her nipples brushed his broad chest, and heat blossomed through her stomach, between her legs. She delighted in the sensation before fitting her lips to his.
    This time, she took it slow. He wouldn’t reject her. She could explore the shape of his lips, firm and cool. She breathed in, found the fragrance of her soap. Her scent. With a possessive thrust of her tongue, she deepened the kiss. Deacon’s groan rumbled in the quiet chamber. She lifted herself higher, her breasts flattening against the solid wall of his chest, and shivered when he penetrated her lips in return. A give and take, each taste deeper, more vital than the last.
    A new anticipation filled her, an urgent, expanding hunger. His weight was a solid pressure between her legs, no longer rocking, yet she was so aware of him, and so wet. This would lead to Deacon inside her. Making love with her. That would be . . . different. She didn’t yet know how. But she would know.
    Releasing her hands, his callused palms slid from her wrists, up her arms. When his weight eased away from her, she threw her leg around his back, tried to lock him against her.
    “Rosie . . .” He looked down at her, trailing off—and whatever he saw in her face brought him back for another kiss, then another, before finally breaking away.
    She let him go this time, letting her arms fall back over her head. There was urgency in this, but also a wonderful decadence that needed to be savored. While he lifted away from her, she luxuriated in her body’s arousal, the liquid heat that her skin couldn’t seem to contain. Every sensation seemed like another caress: the linen wrapped around her thigh, her skirt hem flirting at her knees, the warm air rushing in where he’d been hard and cool against her only moments before.
    His breathing ragged, Deacon sat back on his heels, his knees spread and the sheet pulled taut over the bulge of his erection. She watched him, the movements that seemed too fluid for such heavy musculature. His pale skin glistened from the heat of her body. Dark hair roughened his chest, and narrowed into a thin line from his navel to the edge of the sheet.
    She reached out to follow that trail with her fingers. He caught her hand.
    “Come up on your knees.”
    The low rasp of his voice drew her gaze to his face. His jaw was clenched, the strain visible on his face. Need clouded his eyes like a summer storm. Though he’d taken control, he walked on the edge of his.
    Her heart hammering, she rose up, folding her sheet-wrapped leg beneath her. The movement dislodged the cover from his groin, exposing his organ. Rosalia stared. Jutting downward, as if weighted by its heavy length, the wide tip rested against the sheets. She looked at his large fingers still holding her wrist, remembering how big they’d felt inside her—how she’d barely been able to stop herself from riding him, the curling tension that hadn’t wanted to let her go. Her hands began to shake.
    Deacon nudged her chin up. “Eyes up, princess. On mine. Are you all right?”
    She swallowed. “Yes.”
    “Good.” He skimmed his fingers over her shoulder, catching on the halter strap of her dress. “Take this off for me.”
    Holding his gaze, she reached behind her nape to untie the knotted silk. She knew he liked her breasts, but anxiety and arousal made her clumsy. The strap tore. The bodice skimmed over her nipples, falling to her waist.
    She didn’t glance away from his face, and watched as his gaze drank her in. Need hardened his expression. She recalled the sweltering night in Greece, that same hungry look
    Feed them to me.
    She wanted to again. How she’d loved offering herself. Feeling bold, she cupped their soft weight.
    “Look at you.” It tore from him. Not a command. Something out of his control. “You’re beautiful, Rosie.”
    She’d known she was, but it hadn’t mattered. A Guardian could look like anyone. But she felt beautiful now, when he looked at her.
    He rose up, his hands sliding around her waist and drawing her forward, chests almost touching, his erection a solid weight against her stomach. “Lean back.”
    Still cupping her breasts, she arched back. Her hair brushed the mattress. His hands flattened along her spine, supporting her upper body almost parallel to the bed. A feast spread out before him, given by her hands.
    With a soft growl, he lowered his head. His tongue traced the lower curve of her right breast, wetting the seam of her