Demon Moon

settled her over him with a long upward stroke. She stared down at him, her hands braced on his shoulders, using her knees to lift and sink. Slowly.
    Not afraid. What did she see then? His eyes searched hers. Passion, need—a reflection of his, though not of him. Yet it was easy to see his presence in the perspiration sheened across her cheekbones; her skin was flushed a deep caramel, her nipples hard and full. He leaned forward to taste them.
    She rose, dropped, and he groaned against her breast. “Do you want me to tell you?”
    Good God. Was he so transparent with her? “Yes.”
    She moved more quickly, but he was too far gone to protest. Dying, yes. In love, yes. But never an idiot. His teeth closed gently over her nipple. Each heated wet slide over his cock wound him tighter, threatened to pull him apart.
    “You cover your mouth when you laugh,” she said, her voice carried on panting breaths. “In public. Yet you never hide anything else.”
    Startled, his gaze flew to hers, his lips unmoving around her breast. She rocked from her waist, holding her torso still, her chin tucked against her throat as she watched him in turn.
    “Not your vanity. It’s out in the open, for anyone to take as they wish. I never thought I’d want to take it. That you’d make me laugh with it.” Her fingers clenched on his shoulders, and she made a tight swivel of her hips. “And the way you move, as if the world is your ballroom. Oh, god.”
    His hands caught her waist, and he held her as he thrust deep, took over. Not what she saw. She was telling him why she was falling in love with him.
    Don’t stop, Savi. Please don’t stop .
    “And you live exactly as you are, without apology. I can trust your appearance; I thought I couldn’t, but I can.”
    Only because she saw him as he was. Her hands cradled his head, and she suddenly pulled him forward, arched her back. His fangs scraped the upper swell of her breast.
    Blood.
    A drop against his tongue, but it hit him like a flood, a powerful deluge through his veins, repeated in the surge of his hips, of his cock. Pulsing, flowing. His eyes widened, held hers through sheer will. The rest of him was beyond his control.
    I won’t let you go .
    “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, and lowered her mouth to his, her flavor ripening and rushing headlong into him with the last traces of her blood, sending him over.
    Incoherent with need, with love, with astonishment.
    And still in his trousers.



CHAPTER 20

    The Scrolls are in Latin, and contained in a library in Caelum. They contain information about each nonhuman race and a history of the Guardian corps, but I’ve only heard of them secondhand. I’ve never seen them .
    —Savi to Taylor, 2007

    Savi neatly avoided the morning after by sleeping through it. Was it possible to have the same awkwardness, rolling out of bed at four in the afternoon? It helped that Colin wasn’t there; she could groan and shuffle and pretend later that she’d awoken fresh. Maybe even perky.
    She stood under the shower spray for an eternity, letting the hot water ease some of her soreness, then stretching carefully against the tile to work out the remaining ache in her muscles. A citrus-scented soap helped invigorate the rest of her, though not as miraculously as television commercials suggested, and she discovered she was still tender.
    It had been worth it.
    There weren’t any mirrors in the bathroom, but she didn’t need one to see the silly, satisfied smile that wouldn’t leave her lips as she brushed her teeth. Didn’t need one to know that the thick blue towel left her hair a spiky mess, and that Colin wouldn’t care. Didn’t need one to see how well the scrape on her breast had healed, along with the tiny bite on the inside of her thigh.
    She would have liked some clothes, though. The oversized towel worked well enough, covered her from chest to knees, but wouldn’t make a fantastic afternoon-after impression.
    At least she was warm; the marble floors in the bathroom were heated, her feet almost toasty. A strange luxury for a vampire who kept his house the temperature of a meat locker. Had he simply agreed to a suggestion by the contractor, or intended it for guests? She’d had the impression he didn’t invite many people here—even before the fire had destroyed a good portion of it.
    She sighed, unable to figure it out. She’d just have to ask him.
    Weak afternoon sunlight spilled through the main rooms; he’d left