Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

contact thrilled Ashe, his heart racing in his chest. Xander raised his hands and buried them in Ashe's hair, trying to pull him even closer.
    As the carriage chugged through the quiet London streets, Ashe rolled them across the bench, coming to rest atop his thighs. He wanted to touch Xander, feel his skin against his own. Releasing the embrace, he scrabbled at Xander's clothes, untying his cravat and fumbling at the buttons of his waistcoat. He disposed of the tie over his shoulder and turned his attention to the studs of the young mortal's shirt. Frustrated, he simply tore open the clothing; one or two of the studs glinted in the lamplight as they sailed across the compartment.
    Ashtariel gasped. Hard and cold in the green light, three strands of silver beads shone against Xander's chest. A treminae! He had heard of such things, read about them in scrolls, but they had passed from human knowledge centuries ago. No wonder Xander— or whatever his name was— had such powerful protection. This man was a daemonolator!
    The shock of the discovery had driven the last of the liquor from Ashtariel's brain. In its place sprouted the germ of an idea— the perfect thing to present to his father and prove his ambition— a real live daemon-hunter! Ashe laughed at his own ingenuity.
    "What's wrong?" Xander mumbled.
    "Nothing, my precious." He leaned in and kissed the handsome daemon-hunter. "Nothing at all."
    He simply had to circumvent the most powerful magic he had ever encountered.
    ****
    Melizander awoke in his own bed, squinting in the pale light that struggled through the window. He reached to the side. Of course it was empty . He remembered Ashe leaving in the wee hours of the morning. That was not his only memory:
    He recalled his fingers coiled in Ashe's hair, the full dark curls like silk in his hands; Ashe's hands and mouth as they covered his body with soft, moist caresses; his body quickening when Ashe's mouth took him to the root, drawing his climax from him like molten lead. He remembered the scent of Ashe's skin, redolent of cinnamon and cloves, and the taste of the lord's seed as it sprayed across his face, suffusing his senses with a briny masculinity. He recollected the soft warmth as they lay together, their bodies recovering from the stress, their fingers intertwined and stroking.
    But a darkness clouded the memory. Ashe had been clearly disconcerted by the necklace. Melizander, fingers numb and awkward in his intoxication, had been unable to open the clasp and remove the piece. During their lovemaking, Lord deLancey had avoided touching the strange jewelry. Regret niggled at Melizander. He must think me odd and foolish.
    Strangely, the artificer felt no ill effects from too much brandy and too little sleep. In fact, he felt more clear-headed than he had in weeks. Stretching mightily, he rolled over and spied the calling card propped against the bedside lamp. It was Asher's; he had penned At your service, A . along its margin.
    Melizander smiled. I am not so foolish after all .
    He enjoyed another great stretch and then padded to make his morning toilet. It was going to be a wonderful day!
    CHAPTER III – All Hallow's Eve
    Ashe looked about his dungeon— all was in readiness. Beneath the banal perversity of his usual equipment lurked a deeper secret, the culmination of extensive research, the result of numerous called-in favors— both on the mortal plane and the Nine Hells. The entire room had been rebuilt from the ground up. What on the surface looked to be a typical playroom with its bench and chains, a thorough selection of ropes, whips and other implements was in actuality a three-dimensional binding. A binding designed to cancel out the considerable power of the treminae and to immobilize its master, Melizander Tristekedes.
    For two months Ashtariel had courted Xander, enjoying his company and encouraging his obvious attraction; all the while avoiding any contact with his bloody silver necklace. In the last month the man he had met as Xander had at last revealed his real name. Ashe smiled at his success; seducing Melizander and gaining the daemon-hunter's trust had hardly been unpleasant or distasteful. Ultimately, that trust and Melizander's native honesty had led the young mortal to tell his tale of degradation and notoriety at the hands of the Phoenix master, Percy Atherton. The story had aroused both Ashe's anger and his flesh. Sensitive to Ashe's physical excitement, Melizander had agreed