Unknown - Scorched

If I do as he wishes, will he rescue my boy? It was an old bargain—a woman’s body for a man’s strength. Would a creature like him understand the trade? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure that was why she was doing this.

He kissed her again, leaving her breathless. That’s why.

Their previous encounter had wakened desire, brought her to an unfamiliar peak of need. Even though he couldn’t Turn her anymore, even though he didn’t smell like prey, that didn’t dampen her urgency. She wanted more than blood. She wanted the sensual womanhood too long denied her. It’s the magic of the room. The loss of control. It’s making me want him.

But she knew it couldn’t give her appetites. Only free them. The desires were in herself.

Centuries ago, Constance had prayed for a passionate lover, one who wanted her for more than just blood. Her wish had finally been granted. Overabundantly. He was unlacing her underthings right then and there, his big, square fingers as careful and efficient as a watchmaker adjusting a spring.

Without warning, desire flipped back to apprehension. He was too big, too male, and he was touching her in places no man had ever been. Holy Mother, how do I get out of here?

She couldn’t do this. She’d never done this, not really, and it terrified her—even worse than the door to the outside world. This was a door to someplace even more fraught with danger.

Vertigo seized her, dragging her down some hellish drain.

“Let me go,” she ordered again, putting a waspish sting to the words. She started worming her hands free, only to realize they weren’t trapped at all.

“No,” he replied, giving her one of his fleeting smiles. “If you really wanted me gone, you would have poked me in the eye by now.”

“Are you sure you want to give me ideas?”

He bent and kissed her. Gently. Reassuringly. Confused by his tenderness, she nearly burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“I think I might. Don’t worry. I’ll make everything all right.”

“But...”

“Shh.” He put a finger on her lips. “Your son. Your dog. Everything. My word on it.”

Kissing her again before she could reply, he gently dragged the second lace away and sunk his hands beneath the layers of cloth to caress her through the thin fabric of her shift. Trembling, she dragged in a breath. She was unarmored, helpless, her defenses gone. Traitor that it was, her body arched to meet him.

He was a demon. The fact didn’t matter. Or that he was magnificently, bizarrely changed. Mac had reached the core of her yearning the way no one else ever had.

He’d been so gentle with her clothes. No man had ever taken that much care of what was hers. No man had ever wanted her enough to peel back the layers around her. Not in any sense of the words. And his kiss ...

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, in a thick, husky voice.

Tentatively, she lifted her hands to his face, digging her fingers into his thick, wavy hair. “Liar,” she said, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

“Far from it,” he murmured just before their lips collided.

The kiss was long and leisurely, and they barely moved apart when it was finally done. For a long moment they stayed, noses almost touching, sharing the same breath. The bones behind her fangs began to ache, waking her own sleeping beast. She had been too shy, too shocked by this unexpected tryst for her own hungers to fully rise before this. He didn’t smell like food, but desire and biting went hand-in-hand. Still, Constance held back, swallowing the saliva pooling in her mouth. She didn’t want anything to spoil the moment.

Slowly, he sank down beside her, stroking her hair back from her face. Stroking her arms. Drawing the long tendrils of her hair through his fingers. Loving her. For all the impatience she could feel radiating from his big body, he was going at a cautious pace. His dark eyes hadn’t changed— outside of a slight smolder of demon fire—and for that she was glad. His gaze was what had called to her when they first met. Despite the wildness of his demon nature, those eyes were still wise and mischievous and kind. The look of someone who had seen more than they should have, but had survived to jest about it.

Feeling less intimidated, she rose and shed the garments he had unlaced, leaving nothing but the flimsy, shabby shift. She unhooked her skirt and pushed it off, but left her petticoats. She wasn’t ready to part with them yet.

As she shed her layers, he stripped down to his skin, but slid under the covers before she could get more than a glimpse of his male parts. They were like the rest of him. Distressingly large.

Bloody hell.

He sat up and pulled her under the covers, steering her into the circle of his arms. He smelled like spice. Resin. Dark, fragrant woods. Musk. This new form of his was exotic and unfamiliar. Hot to the touch.

Kissing her again, he plundered her mouth with the gusto of a pirate. Her resistance melted in all that heat. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the play of strength beneath his skin. That weak feeling swamped her once more, followed by a wave of her own slick fire:

“Connie?”

Connie? No one had ever called her that. “What?”

“Have you ...” He gave a little lift of the eyebrows. One thing hadn’t changed over the centuries. Men still had problems with some words. “No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

She would have said more, but that was all the informa tion he seemed to need. He had given her the chance to back away from this encounter, but now he was back in control. One hand reached around her waist, untying the tapes of her petticoats. She kicked them free.

She lay half on top of him, captured by his strong arm. His mouth quested down her neck, his hands circling her breasts. His teeth dragged against their peaks, teasing through the thin fabric of her shift. She felt them harden, aching and tight. He suckled through the cloth, sending a stab of pleasure right down to her belly. She gasped, her back arching, pushing her farther into his embrace.

As they moved, Constance slid her hands down the ridges of his stomach, around his hips, over the cresting arch of his backside. Her mouth found his flesh, tasting, savoring, but keeping her fangs from seeking the sweetness below the skin. Her teeth ached, but the discomfort only made her more eager. She tentatively ran her fingers over the hair that curled low on him, and the hard, long, thick evidence of his pleasure. It was unexpectedly smooth, in places soft.

As she fondled it, a sound came from him, half rumble, half moan. She filed that information away, and slipped off her shift.

A soft gasp came from Mac, and his hands were on her breasts. Then his mouth. Then his fingers reached between her legs, finding the hot, wet secrets there. Instinctively, her knees drew up, parting to give him access. A restless pressure built in her stomach as he stroked her, finding places no one but she had ever touched. Pleasure coiled through her, pooling like oil in her belly, in the hard nubs of her nipples. She began to feel like she might burst, all her desire leaking from her, sweet and sticky.

A convulsive stab of wanting wracked her. And again. He kept up the questing, teasing, pushing, caressing until the stabs became a single, uncontrollable gasp of pleasure that ground her pelvis beneath his hand. Her vision blurred and meaningless, the candlelight melted into a single sunburst as waves of heat seared her.

She came out of it panting like she’d run a race. “Holy Mother,” she murmured.

“That’s just the beginning,” he murmured in her ear. The demon was in his eyes, sparking scarlet. She was starting to like that demon.