Demon Bound

attempted to pinch the taut skin below his navel. She couldn’t be sorry that her fingers didn’t find any extra flesh to squeeze. She settled for tugging hair, then traveled lower when he pretended a wince.
    “You are a little evil.”
    “Mmm,” she agreed, in the moment before her fingers encountered the bulb of hot flesh that protruded above his waistband. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh.”
    “Yeah,” Jake said, his voice strained. “I’m about to do that, too.”
    Heat roared through her as she swept her thumb over the broad head of his penis. So unexpected. She’d anticipated unfastening a button, lowering a zipper, teasing, then finally touching.
    Now she ripped open his jeans to fill her hands with him. Oh, dear heavens. How incredible. The few times she’d practiced shape-shifting into a male form, the genitals had always produced the most acute discomfort, as if an alien appendage grew from her form—a discomfort that had intensified if the flesh hadn’t remained flaccid. She’d certainly felt nothing like this fascination now, as she explored Jake’s rampant erection.
    Jake groaned through each tentative stroke, locking his fingers together behind his head as if forcing himself to let her touch him as she willed, without direction or interruption.
    And once her initial curiosity had passed, there was so much more to learn. A firm grip made his knuckles whiten, and if she went fast, his head fell forward and he gritted his teeth.
    Oh, why hadn’t she done this before? Why hadn’t she known she would love this—that simply by touching him, her center would be wet and her nipples aching, as if he’d taken his tongue to both.
    She pictured that, tried to imagine his reaction, and her need wound tighter, until she could think of nothing but tasting him .
    Slowly, she drew her left hand up the length of his rod and collected the moisture at the head against her forefinger. Her right hand continued stroking him as she brought her finger to her mouth.
    “Alice, Alice, Alice,” he chanted, shaking. “What are you doing?”
    Her lips closed over her finger, and she knew he would hear the slide of her tongue as she licked the salty drop. Odd, but not unpleasant, and her excitement heightened when he stiffened.
    “Oh, God.” He bent forward a little, as if in pain. “Don’t do that again.”
    She took him firmly in both her hands again. “Shall I do this?”
    “Yes. No—not like that. Hard’s only for emergencies.”
    Her touch lightened. “Such as?”
    “Such as: my head will explode if I don’t come in three seconds.”
    “I see. And if I cannot bring your wetness to my mouth again, shall I come around and taste it directly?”
    His ragged groan might have been a denial or a plea.
    “May I? My tongue here”—her fingers danced over his crown—“and here, and suckling you, and when you finish, I will drink—”
    His hands clamped over hers, stroked hard once, twice. A rough sound vibrated through his chest; his shaft pulsed beneath her hands. He shuddered. The next stroke was slick, and the slide of her palm easier.
    Yes, she decided. Next time, she would use her mouth.
    Jake weaved on his feet. She licked the nape of his neck, then caught the chain in her teeth, drawing it back, letting it fall in a loop between his shoulder blades.
    When he took her face-to-face, those tags would jingle between her breasts.
    Her skin flushed with heat. Her gaze fell to the gap between his backside and his jeans, and her lips parted. She tugged at his belt loops and exposed just enough to see the Vietnamese characters tattooed on his right buttock.
    She read the black lines, frowning. No fear but fear.
    “Oh, no.” Jake groaned, then added in a rush, “Okay, so I was in Saigon, and walked into this place, asked the guy there to do it. I was trying to inspire myself, right? I was thinking that if I actually made it a part of me, I’d be able to accept everything.”
    Oh, she realized. Nothing to fear but fear itself. The translation was imprecise, and she could easily imagine him in a small parlor, trying to communicate exactly what he’d wanted the tattoo to say. Attempting to make sense of where he’d ended up and why he was there, and how he would get through it.
    She smoothed her fingers over it. No, a tattoo would not magically change him—but over the years, this had become a part of him.
    “Anyway.” He shrugged, still vaguely embarrassed. “It made sense when I did