Demon Moon

avoiding unfamiliar furniture, and that the heat of his arms warmed her thighs and back.
    She thought she’d resent it, feel like a little girl caged in by him, but somewhere between the stairs and the piano she was let out instead.
    Falling, but she didn’t have to hit bottom. Surely she couldn’t with him holding her like this.
    “The music room,” he confirmed with a press of his lips against her temple. “Your rooms are just past it; my studio lies at the opposite end of this floor.”
    “ My rooms?” She lowered her shields, felt the rumble of his approving groan against her cheek.
    He stopped in front of a pair of floor-to-ceiling doors, adjusting his grip on her legs to reach down and depress the handle. His breath came more quickly now, and she smiled and tipped her head back to see him better.
    “Yours. There is a practical reason for it.”
    “Because you rarely sleep?”
    “No, I have a suite upstairs. This used to be mine, before I tore out the third floor and attic to make the new one.” Shouldering through the entry, he glanced down at her. “But the open design makes it difficult to use the shields in that room, and the bed is directly above my studio. I fear I am very loud when I paint. There are likely vibrations.”
    She bit her lower lip before she ventured, “Opera?”
    “If it strikes my mood. Lights on?”
    “Yes. Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?”
    “Only if I pretended to be something I’m not.” He moved to the wall, and she used the toe of her boot to tap the switch up. “It’s not a cliché if you live it, Savitri.”
    The glow from the recessed lighting was soft, but still she had to blink her eyes, wait for them to adjust. He strode quickly through a sitting room: silk-papered walls in rich burgundy, graceful sofas, and upholstered, deep-cushioned chairs. She tilted her head back; an array of blues and golds in geometrical shapes decorated the tray ceiling.
    “This is amazing. Gorgeous.” Had it been the same before the fire had destroyed all of it? Had he tried to re-create the original décor, or started over?
    “You can change anything you like; make it your own. In any room,” he said, and his arm slid from beneath her thighs, his hand catching her left knee and turning her, hooking it over his hip. She wrapped her right around his waist, moaned softly as the new position stroked his erection against her sex with each step.
    A huge canopied bed with royal blue satin draped on the corners filled the circular room—the tower room. The matching bedspread was cool beneath her bottom, then her back, as he bore her down into the mattress. Surrounded by him.
    He kissed her neck, her jaw. Quick, chaste kisses, if not for the insistent presence of his rigid shaft between her legs. A shiver tightened her skin, left her taut with need. She couldn’t see him, only the broad line of his back; she wanted to see him. To feel his skin against hers.
    She pushed at his shoulders, tried to pull up his sweater to run her palms over his flesh; he drew her hands over her head and held them there.
    “Let me touch you.” Her back arched, and she dug her heels into the mattress, tried to dislodge him.
    And only succeeded in driving herself mad when the movement of her hips ground her clit against his thick length. She did it again, whimpering in sudden, desperate frustration.
    Colin began laughing softly against her neck. “Another of my intentions, gone to hell.”
    “What did you intend?” Her breath caught as he nipped the skin above her pulse and his tongue ran a wet trail from her throat to the point of her shoulder. Finally, she could see him. His eyes, glittering with amusement and need; his blond hair, darkened by the rain; his tanned skin against her golden brown; the angular line of his jaw, and his soft, incredible lips.
    “To do it your way first: directly to the fucking, if that gives you the most pleasure.”
    Her only answer was an incoherent groan as he rocked against her in demonstration. Releasing her left hand, he brought his down to cup her bottom, to prevent her from thrusting against him in turn.
    “Then slower, later. Tasting you all over.”
    Fire slipped through her as he changed his rhythm, each languid roll of his hips taking her close to the edge. The delicious rub of fabric. Heat. His fingers slid beneath the seam of her panties, the lace soaked with her arousal. She gasped his name, a plea for mercy.
    Much longer, and she would be the