Immortals After Dark 10 - Demon From the Dark

with hundreds of females, as most demons his age would have been. She likely believed he was skilled at drawing pleasure from females.
    I have no skill and nearly as little knowledge about her body . Yet when a large drop of water coursed from her chest down one of her proud breasts, his apprehensions grew dim. Have to touch them ...
    But as he reached for her, she eased away, shaking her head. No, he wanted to touch--
    "Malkom, please."
    He hesitated. She wanted something of him now. You have had your turn--now it is hers. At length, he gave a nod, allowing her to lead him beside a fall of water. He even knelt when she did, though that put the water as high as his navel.
    He remained tense when she moved behind him, running the cloth over his back and neck with deliberate strokes. His arms were next as she worked all the way down to his fingers and claws.
    When she grazed her fingertips over the scars on his wrists, he recalled her reaction as she'd stripped him of his cuffs. Oh, yes, she'd known what those scars meant. He'd seen the pity in her expressive eyes. Which had shamed him. And those scars marked the least demeaning way he'd been used.
    How would she react to learning the rest?
    As she ran that soapy cloth over any part of him that she could reach, he decided that this bath was markedly different from what he'd remembered. There was no pain or strangling panic. He was still on edge, but his mind was filled with thoughts of her, wondering where she would touch him next, in what way she would touch him.
    When she looped her arms around him to wash his chest, her bared breasts slipped across his back, rendering him dizzy with pleasure. The feel of those pink tips against him made his cock throb so intensely, he was tempted to begin masturbating under the water to assuage it--
    The pad of her forefinger rubbed his pierced nipple. "Ah, Carrow ..." Just when he was about to snatch her into his arms, she stood and began washing his hair, running her nails along his scalp.
    For some reason this relaxed him, weakening him until he could barely keep his head lifted. Yet when she all but polished his horns, his shaft pulsed impossibly harder.
    How much longer could he endure the building pressure? Had he not come earlier, there'd have been no withstanding this.
    But if he touched her, he could hurt her, justifying her fears about his claiming. If he hurt her, then he'd never have this again--attention, care, interest .
    He'd neverknow what thing she would do next.
    With that in mind, he let her guide him to stand, cooperating when she coaxed him to lift his arms, palms against the rock face so water from above would run down over his head.
    She knelt behind him, then took the cloth to his feet, working her way up his calves, her destination unmistakable. Would she touch his member? Run her hot, soapy hands over it? When her breast rubbed against his leg, his claws dug deep into the stone beside his head.
    This position reminded him of being flogged--or worse. But the torture he'd known before merely had to be endured. Now he had to deny what he wanted more than anything he'd ever known.
    Each of her touches made his cock strain painfully, every graze as tormenting to him as the bite of a whip.
    His seed was rising, feeling like it would erupt against his will. And with it, his demon instinct began burning inside him again. Thoughts of tossing her to the ground ran riot. Of pinning her arms over her head as he plunged his cock betwixt her legs. He imagined tying her wrists behind her back, then laving her sex like an animal at drink....
    When her hands reached above his knees, he gnashed his teeth and rammed one of his horns against the rock. Pain tempered his pleasure, buying him precious seconds.
    A week ago, if someone had told Carrow that she'd be worshipping a wild-man vemon's naked body, kneeling before it, she'd have laughed.
    But worshipping was exactly what she was doing, entranced by every rigid inch of him.
    At first, she'd been methodical. Yet then she'd slowed her movements, helpless not to appreciate the masculine perfection of his body--the hollows at the sides of his rock-hard ass, the corded thigh muscles, the sharp rises and falls of his chiseled abs. Those pecs were made for a woman's nails to dig into.
    His tan skin was dusted with golden-blond hair on his chest, arms, and legs. A trail of it descended from his navel to the slightly darker hair at his groin.
    His shaft protruded from between his