Demon Blood

cupped fingers. Though untouched, her nipple contracted into a dark bead. The ache between her legs intensified. She squeezed her thighs together, feeling the moisture there, the dampness of her panties against her core.
    The sweep of his tongue around her nipple made her tighten. The soft scrape of fangs made her gasp. His strong hands held her steady when his lips closed over her nipple. She felt his tongue flick, then soft suction that drew her deep into his mouth. Overwhelmed, she began trembling. Her hips pushed against his, seeking pressure where she needed it most. She imagined his mouth there, licking and sucking, and the need rushed over her in a hot wave, filled her voice when she moaned his name.
    Without warning, he brought her up and claimed her mouth again. Lost, drowning, she wound her arms around his neck and held on. She loved this. Loved his urgent murmurs between hot, wet kisses. Loved the muscles that bunched in his shoulders, loved the feel of his erection straining against her belly, the incredible anticipation. His hands slid up her front, cupping, then pinching and pulling at her nipples, until the bedchamber echoed with her cries for more.
    Deacon gave her more. His hand stroked down, pushed inside her panties. She moaned into his mouth as his fingers teased, circling her entrance but never penetrating.
    He broke their kiss, his breaths labored across her moist lips. “When you come, Rosalia, hold your psychic shields. Hold them tight.”
    She hadn’t even considered that danger. This hadn’t been her intention when she’d joined him in the bed. Yet he’d remembered, and hadn’t made it a request. She would hold them.
    “Yes,” she said. No question.
    He kissed her again, deep and quick. “Lie back.”
    She sank into the pillows, her feet against the mattress, her knees bent. Deacon reached beneath her skirts, hooked the waist of her panties. He dragged the scrap of silk down, lifting her legs until her toes pointed at the ceiling as he pulled them off. Her skirt slipped up her thighs, bunching on her stomach and baring her sex to his gaze.
    “Oh, Christ. Rosie, you’re so . . .” Staring, he turned his head and pressed his mouth to her ankle—to kiss or to bite, she wasn’t certain. Instead he closed his eyes, gathering his control. After a moment he swallowed and placed her heels on his shoulders. “Vanish your dress.”
    She did, knowing he felt the tremor in her legs.
    His gaze held hers. “I won’t bite you. I won’t risk the bloodlust taking over. Trust me on that.”
    She didn’t need the reassurance—but perhaps he needed it as a reminder to hold on to his own control. “Yes,” she said.
    He leaned forward, reaching for a pillow. Weight against her lower belly made her glance down. Oh, God. Between her thighs, his engorged shaft extended upward from the apex of her sex, a graphic representation of how deeply she’d take him into her body. Anticipation wound tight. Her fingers dug into the mattress, holding herself still.
    Deacon reared back and pushed the pillow beneath her hips. With a soft kiss to each of her ankles, he lowered her feet from his shoulders. “Hands on your knees, Rosie. Hold yourself open to me.”
    With trembling hands, she pulled her knees up and apart. She looked down at herself, her legs spread, her pink flesh flushed and wet. Open was too simple a word. She felt exposed. Displayed.
    Until she saw his face. Then she was wanted. Worshipped.
    She pulled her legs wider and was rewarded by a growl. Deacon bent, pressed his lips against the inside of her knee. The wet brush of his tongue shivered over her skin. His fangs grazed her inner thigh.
    His bloodlust flared hot, an explosion against her psychic shields. Deacon froze. He gazed down at her exposed sex, his hunger burning hotter, his expression predatory. His mouth opened over her thigh.
    Oh, God. “Deacon?”
    “You’re so wet, Rosie. So ready to be eaten. One lick, and I’d bury my fangs into you—” He broke off, closing his eyes.
    The image of that gripped her mind, whipped along every nerve. She couldn’t breathe. She wanted that so much. She couldn’t have it yet.
    “Soon,” he said, and she wasn’t certain whether he made the rough promise to her or himself. Rising up between her thighs, he wrapped his fist around his shaft. His tendons stood out in sharp relief beneath his skin, the effort of holding back. “We’re going to take it slow. I’ll take care of you,