Demon Forged

to cut your legs off tomorrow. I could not train you as you need to be trained. And so I bury it, and I wait.” Her fingers explored a metal flank. “Some days it is not buried as deeply as others.”
    Her Gift stroked over his flesh. His cock responded, rising like a burning brand against his lower abdomen. Irena moved aside, revealing the front of the statue. With shock, he saw the thick erection she’d formed from its flaccid member.
    Her fingers slipped up the cleft of the statue’s buttocks; her Gift lifted its erection to match his.
    Holy Mother of God. He almost protested when she ran the tip of her forefinger up the length of straining flesh.
    But its flesh did not strain; his did. The statue was only his reflection. He clenched his jaw and bore the exquisite ache of another pulse of her Gift, ripe with her need.
    Why did she do this now? So that he would learn to fight his need and the effect of her Gift? To bury it as she did?
    Never.
    He gripped the base of his shaft. His cock felt as heavy as heated iron. On the next pulse of her Gift, he stroked his way up.
    Irena froze, her gaze locked on his hand. After a long moment, she looked at his face.
    He knew his challenge was written there. He would not allow her to teach him this lesson. He refused to learn to bury his need. If she used her Gift, he would move his hand. If she stopped, he would not.
    Her lips curved. “You will regret it.”
    “So be it.”
    She turned her back to him, and for a second he was light-headed with the rush of anticipation—then discomfort brought him crashing down.
    Dear God, he hadn’t thought this through. Rarely had he touched himself this way. Not since he’d been young, and never in front of someone. Now he was utterly aware that he stood on flagrant display, and that when he spent, she would witness the crude emission of seed.
    But Irena did not appear uncomfortable. No, she walked toward him, a small pot in her hand. When she lifted the lid, the scent of almond filled the air.
    “Oil,” she told him. “To make it easier.”
    He’d only just fathomed her meaning when she tipped the pot, spilling the silky liquid over his shaft and his fist. Alejandro sucked in a breath; his hips jerked toward her. Dear God, the sensation was incredible. He slid up through his fingers and had to clench his teeth against a shout.
    “Better, yes?”
    He gave a harsh laugh. “Better.”
    He did not recognize his voice, the low growl of pained pleasure it had become. And when he stroked his cock again, unprompted by surprise or her Gift, he did not recognize any of himself.
    She gave him a wry smile. “I have learned the difficult way. Some of my bed-partners were more eager than skilled.”
    Her bed-partners? As if she’d struck him, he recoiled and stared at her in disbelief. She would mention them now? Good God. He knew she wasn’t a virgin, as his wife had been. He’d taken other lovers during his century in Caelum, and hadn’t been the first for any of them. But none of them had flung their former bed-partners in his face, either.
    Irena’s smile vanished. Without a word, she returned to the statue and poured the remaining oil over the bronze penis.
    Her expression was hard when she looked at Alejandro again. Holding his gaze, she backed up against the statue’s thighs and bent over, her braids swinging forward. Her hands went to the waist of her breeches. She nodded at his fist, motionless around his cock.
    “Will you begin this? And we will have fucking today, after all.”
    His disbelief swelled. She would not do that.
    But she would, he realized. She would. And with every stroke of his hand, she’d make the statue penetrate her.
    His disbelief was shattered, replaced by desperation. “You cannot, Irena.”
    “I said you will regret it.”
    But this had not been her meaning then. He’d altered the game between them when he’d rejected her frank words—and rejected so much of her life. And he knew she would not back down. But he could not, either. If he did, whatever admiration she’d felt for him, whatever desire she’d buried . . . it would all be destroyed.
    If he hadn’t already destroyed it.
    His heart constricted painfully. Her bed-partners did not matter so much. And the only thing he should have taken from her words was the knowledge that they hadn’t all prepared her properly. That she’d used oil with other lovers didn’t matter—only that she’d had to use it.
    “No,” he said hoarsely.