Demon Bound

me?”
    “I’m hoping it won’t be an issue.”
    “Optimism, once again.” Yet she appreciated it; she had so little of her own. “I will try to keep it from becoming an issue.”
    He nodded and released a heavy sigh, sliding his hand over his head. Her gaze followed the movement, then returned to his when he paused.
    He let out a short laugh. “Go ahead.”
    “What?”
    Jake stood, strode the length of the table, then crouched beside her chair. “Rub it.” When her mouth fell open, he shrugged. “Women want to. I don’t know why, and I don’t think anyone asks Michael as often as they ask me. Maybe it’s the puppy thing. Dunno. But feel free.”
    She curled her fingers. Unto death, she would deny how very much she wanted to. “That’s ridiculous. I could shape-shift and have my own hair as short in an instant.”
    “You could.” He grabbed the front legs of her armchair. Wood scraped over marble as he hauled her around to face him. “But then you’d have to redo your braid when you shape-shifted back.”
    Oh, dear. She was either going to laugh or throw herself onto his head. But, she reasoned, there was no need to admit she wanted to. “It does seem an unnecessary effort when yours is right here.”
    “That’s right, goddess. Talk yourself into it. I’ll just sit and try to keep myself from jumping your bones.”
    Some of her amusement dissolved. She wished he wouldn’t watch her, but she couldn’t order him to look away. Thank heavens he closed his eyes. He was probably imagining that her widened fingers were creepy spider legs, she mused, and pushed their tips from his hairline to the back of his head, until she was cupping it in her palms.
    That was all she’d meant to do. But his short hair was so surprisingly soft—she’d thought it would be as coarse as whiskers. She drew her fingers back up. Not rubbing, but stroking—yet Jake didn’t object. He bent his head over her lap, and the hollow at the base of his skull was revealed to her, looking oddly vulnerable despite the severity of his haircut, the strength of his neck. She trailed the pad of her thumb through the hollow. Like silk on the downstroke, and slightly abrasive coming up.
    A shudder wracked his body. Alice froze, but he didn’t move. He was still looking down, a hand on each of the chair’s front legs, and his muscles were as rigid as hers when he said, “You’re not wearing your boots.”
    She resisted the urge to curl her toes, to pull them back beneath her skirts. Her stockings were adequate covering. “I vanished them an hour ago.”
    And if she’d been alone, she’d have tucked her legs beneath her as she worked. She’d have let her spine touch the cushioned back of her chair.
    His hair skimmed deliciously beneath her fingers when he lifted his head. Her breath caught, and his eyes locked with hers. They burned, as if lit from behind by a blue flame.
    Were hers? Oh, dear heavens—did hers look the same? It felt like they must.
    His breathing was harsh and shallow. “Alice. I’m trying very hard not to.” His jaw clenched and released. “But I’m afraid I’m going to jump—”
    Jake disappeared—and took her chair with him. Alice cried out in surprise, but it was cut off as her bottom thumped against the marble floor. Pain shot up her tailbone.
    Oh, but she would kill him. Alice stared at her skirts hitched up around her bent knees, and hastily closed her splayed legs. Kill him, and then . . . and then . . .
    She didn’t know what. Shove his head between her thighs and rub herself raw, most likely. She contemplated that, and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to slide her hands down and use them as a replacement.
    But what a strange picture she would make if he returned to find her settling her nerves on the floor—or if anyone else should happen by.
    No, she thought. That would not do at all. So perhaps she would go home and attend to a few things after all.

    Goddamn. Jake lay facedown on a wooden floor, his cock painfully stiff beneath him, his hands still locked on the chair legs.
    Alice was going to kill him. Or feed him to her giant spider.
    And had she really looked like she’d wanted to eat him? Sweet floating Moses, let it be true.
    But maybe it had just been wishful thinking. And it would be best not to think that way at all, or he’d end up humping the floor instead of figuring out where the hell he’d landed.
    The room smelled clean, powdery. Beside him, ruffled white cotton