Demon Forged

infused his every inhalation.
    Irena’s breath hitched. She rose up on her toes, poised and shaking. Her orgasm slammed through her psychic scent like the strike of a hammer against glass, shattering into bright, sharp slices.
    With heaving chest, she sagged back against the statue. “Again,” Alejandro demanded.
    She shook her head. “You. Now. Both hands.”
    He cupped his sac, pulled at his shaft. This pleased her, so he intended to draw it out—but he imagined the clasp of her slick heat, her strong thighs wrapping around his waist. He pushed the image away, too late. Tension twisted through his spine, into his cock. His hips jerked as he erupted into his hand.
    He felt the color in his face as she strode toward him. He vanished his seed, unsettled by his loss of control—and by the need that still raged through him. The challenge he’d issued and the release he’d found had not been enough. It would never, he feared, be enough.
    She reached for his hand. Her fingers pressed into his palm, the oil rolling against the tips of her fingernails. Without her Gift, he no longer sensed her emotions, but he could see his release pleased her, too. She looked up at him, her mouth in a faint curve.
    “We have not learned today what we should have, Olek.”
    Perhaps not. But he found he could not regret it. “I thought the lesson was satisfactory.” Even if it had not taken them as far as he wished.
    “I could not tell.” She let go of his hand. “Next time, you will be as open to me as I was to you.”
    His shields down and his emotions bare? Uncertainty crawled through his stomach. He did not know if he could. Stroking himself in front of the entire Guardian corps seemed less daunting a challenge.
    Yet if Irena needed it . . .
    “I will try.” He lifted his hand to the narrow braids dancing beside her cheek. He’d used them to his advantage while they’d sparred, grabbing handfuls to hold her or throw her—but he’d never touched them like this. Despite their coarse appearance, they were silken ropes beneath his fingers.
    With a frustrated sigh, Irena pulled away. Her white mantle appeared on her shoulders.
    “We are leaving?” With some relief, he formed his clothes.
    “I am. I go hunting.” She put the hood up. “I am a woman of deep hungers, Olek—but my hunger for you is too close to the surface, and a metal hand will not satisfy it.”
    “You will be satisfied. One day.” He was hungry, too. And if she was leaving to bury her need, he did no harm to say, “Next time, it will not be my hands, but my mouth. I will push your legs apart and taste you, and I will not stop even if you beg.”
    Her eyes glowed before she looked to the door. “I will be gone three or four days. You may return to Caelum during my absence, or find a city to visit. With your shields up,” she stressed.
    Now he did feel regret, for that would be three or four days away from her. Perhaps it showed; she stopped in front of him and raised a palm to his cheek.
    “When you win your fight to understand me, perhaps you will tell me why, after all of these years, it is you.” Her face hardened. Her hand slid from his cheek to his hair and fisted. She yanked him closer, until his eyes were level with hers, and he saw the pain she caused was deliberate. “You, with your way of looking down upon me, and with your raw pride. A part of me would like to destroy you. Rip you apart, so that I never imagine how you see me from your great height. Each time you wonder how it is possible that you feel anything for me, I pray I never regret the day I did not fight my own feelings for a man such as you.”
    It was not his pride scraped raw, but his heart. He had not fought his feelings for her, but he had questioned them. And in doing so, gave insult. Hoarsely, he said, “Why do you not destroy me?”
    Her expression opened, softened. “Because I can hardly think of anything without wondering what your opinion is, and I take as much pleasure in your agreements as your arguments. Every weapon and sculpture I create, I want to show you. I look forward to our quiet moments and our battles. And there is the hunger, which even now I fight. There is no part of you I do not want, no part I will leave untouched.” Her fingers loosened and slid down to cup the back of his neck. “And, because I am old, I know this feeling is rare—so there is no part of you I do not fear losing.”
    She never had to fear that. “You could not lose me