Demon Bound

She’d been absent too long, and although she’d bathed after they’d returned, she hadn’t used her tub in the usual way.
    He saw her look at it now in confusion. He brought her hand to her thighs and rubbed lightly, watching her face.
    No talking, he thought, but he needed her to understand. His fingers pressed against hers. Teach me.
    Her eyes widened, and his heart sank when she pulled away. But she didn’t let go of his hand.
    She led him through a library that was a mess of papers and books, thick rugs and low, cushioned furniture. With her every stride, her steps firmed and quickened, until she was gliding. The tip of her heavy braid barely swayed. He caught the ribbon, tugged, and vanished the looping black satin into his hammerspace.
    They climbed stairs. The top floor was one large, empty room. No windows opened the walls; the roof peaked like an attic. Alice came to a halt.
    A thick, pillowy mattress appeared in the center of the bare floor. Cushions and sheets of sapphire silk covered it a moment later.
    Jake scrubbed the heel of his free hand over his chest, trying to rub out the ache that had been building since they’d left her bathing chamber. And to think he’d considered taking her back to his place and the cot he used when he drifted. Alice apparently drifted more comfortably than he did.
    She pulled him forward. She didn’t seem as tall now, and he caught a glimpse of her stockinged toes. He followed, vanishing his boots.
    His heart was about to pound through his rib cage.
    She let go of his hand and stepped onto the mattress. Her dress flared around her when she dropped to her knees in the middle. With abrupt movements, she arranged the cushions at the head of the bed.
    She didn’t meet his eyes as she turned and lay back on the cushions, her body as rigid as if she lay on a board. Her fingers seemed to walk along a moving plane of silk as she rucked her skirts at her waist. Her heartbeat raced as her hem drew up over her knees, her thighs.
    Nervous as hell, he realized. Afraid, maybe. But fighting it so that she could do what he’d asked.
    Jake slid onto the mattress beside her before she exposed any more. He didn’t look down. He kissed her softly, slowly, until the stiffness left her.
    The nervousness didn’t. But his didn’t either, so they were even.
    He lifted his head, held her gaze. When she shifted her focus to the ceiling, his chest constricted. But she touched his cheek, and he realized she wasn’t trying to shut him out.
    She just couldn’t watch him watch her . She could expose herself now, but only because she wouldn’t see him looking at her.
    Okay, then. He was all right with anything she had to do. He moved down the sapphire sheets, breathing again, inhaling that sweet berry scent. Her fingers rested at the small patch of dark curls that didn’t quite hide her clitoris, though he couldn’t see any more of her sex. She wasn’t stiff now, but her thighs were locked together.
    And they weren’t wet. At some point, she’d vanished his semen.
    Jesus. His cheeks heated. He should have done that for her.
    She let out a shuddering breath. Her left hand fisted in her skirts, and her right moved through her curls. Her fore and middle fingers slid to either side of her hooded clitoris, and she began to rub with tiny strokes.
    Jake didn’t move. She must still be feeling nervous, shy. But as the seconds passed and she didn’t change her rhythm, didn’t delve deeper past her clit, open her legs or touch any other part of herself, he came to a different conclusion.
    This wasn’t the effect of shyness; this was efficiency.
    And habit. Christ. When he’d been fifteen, he’d gotten so good at whacking off he could be out of the bathroom within a minute or two. But that speedy orgasm—release, without any good buildup of tension—had eventually lost its appeal. Thing was, he’d had a hair trigger after that, and he’d pretty much had to relearn how to stroke one out.
    Alice’s lips parted. Her thighs tightened, trembled. Her back arched. Her clitoris pulsed gently between her fingers.
    She lay back against the mattress and sighed. Smiling now.
    Jesus, he thought. Jesus.
    One hundred years. More than one hundred years.
    He wanted to cry. Then go back to Hell and kill Henry Grey and her fucking doctor.
    Alice lifted her hand, and he pushed her fingers back down.
    She glanced at him, frowning. Irritation sparked in her pale eyes when he nodded for her to do it again.