Demon Bound (40 page)

Whoa boy.
She was already naked underneath those skirts, and rubbing against him.

His brain should have exploded. Instead, the flippin' thing started working.

What the hell was she doing?

The thought stuttered to a halt as she reached between them, tucked the head of his cock against moist heat, and bore down. Jake staggered forward. Her back hit the wide trunk of the marble tree. Stone leaves shivered above them.

She squeezed her legs, drawing him in. Oh, fuck. This wasn't right. He was halfway inside her, she was hot and tight, but this wasn't feeling anywhere near as good as it should have. The flesh gripping him—
resisting
him—was moist, not wet.

She wasn't ready. She'd jumped him, but she wasn't even aroused.

Yet.

He grabbed her hips, held her still. A growly sound came from her throat—frustration, discomfort. Well, hell yeah there was discomfort. So he just needed a second to figure this out, to think, and he'd get them rocking.

Okay. He understood this. A trip to Hell+Belial+crazy Guardian woman + getting home safe + a healing more painful than the injury + crap news about the prophecy = a mindless fuck against a tree. Affirmation of life or some shit like that, and with the bonus of not thinking about her bargain while he screwed her silly.

And he was on board for that, but Jesus—he thought he'd get a chance to kiss her ear first, or get a look under her dress, maybe cop a couple of feels.

The pressure of her legs increased. Her kiss became more frantic.

Okay, then. So this time, a quick bang. And next time . . . He just had to make sure there was one. He couldn't fuck this up, and hope for a chance to fix it. He'd prove he cared for her pleasure as much as his own—more than his own—and next time, she'd let him take her dress off. So he'd get this right the first time.

He
had
to get this right.

Best-case scenario for that was: he withdrew and started over. That wasn't happening here. So he'd go for option two.

Slowing her down.

Her tongue was drilling past his lips. Her palm clapped over the back of his neck when he pulled away, but he got the space he needed. He closed his lips around her tongue, sucked lightly.

When she shivered, he licked his way back into her mouth. He hadn't forgotten the last time he'd done that, and her reaction was exactly what he'd been hoping for. She made a little sound of surprise and need, arching toward him. Meeting him lick for lick.

Her legs still wrapped him tight, but she forgot about pulling. He was sliding in anyway, her weight doing the job. But the going was easier, and by the time her hands were moving up the back of his head, her mouth sweetly devouring his, she was slick enough.

He pushed deep. Alice gasped; her lips and hands stilled.

Yeah, he wasn't going to move either. One little thrust and he'd probably come, and that wasn't on his list of priorities right now. And he wasn't going to think about how wet she was getting, or listen to that funny stuttered noise she began making, like a desperate keening that she repeatedly tried to swallow, or the way she began to buck, as if testing out the feel of him stuffed inside her.

The bucks became thrusts, the noises more demanding. Oh, Jesus. It'd be over in two seconds if he fucked her with the fast, hard strokes she apparently wanted.

All right. This called for diversionary tactics. He leaned in, pressing her heavily against the tree with the bulk of his weight. His hips ground in wide circles. It'd feel deep and rough, but there was more rolling than in-and-out. Good for him, because just thinking of baseball wasn't going to keep him sane, and he'd be rubbing up against her clit once he got her pelvis tilted at the right angle.

Her fingers caught on his collar. He vanished his shirt, and instantly regretted it when her teeth dug into his shoulder, biting him. Her tongue worked frantically against his skin. Oh, fuck fuck. Her mouth was as hot and wet as the rest of her, and now he was thinking of his cock inside her instead of trying to forget that he had one.

Angles,
he reminded himself, desperate. She was pinned against the tree, so he let go of her hips and reached back. Her boots were still laced up to her shins, her silk stockings covered her knees and were held up by a ribbon tied around her lower thigh. His balls tightened as his fingers found the edges of her stockings, and beyond that, warm smooth skin—

Oh, Jesus. Mickey Mantle's career batting average was two ninety-eight. DiMaggio, three twenty-five. Willie Shoemaker's was . . . was . . .

Shit, oh shit. Shoemaker was a jockey. He rode—

No. No thinking about riding anything here. He needed to focus. Or
not
focus. Christ, he couldn't think.

He filled his hands with her bare ass. Lifted her higher, until her lower back curved and the base of his cock ground against her clitoris.

Alice cried out, panted. She bit and licked his neck. Baseball wasn't going to work anymore. Jake blanked his mind. That didn't do it. He tried to imagine what was happening to the jeans he'd left with Sir Pup.

That helped, a little.

So did Alice, when her legs began trembling and tightened. When the erratic push of her hips told him she was close. When she stiffened, reaching for orgasm. Her head fell back, and she strained and dug her nails into his arms, and he thanked God and began to fuck her as she'd wanted, as he'd wanted, long, deep strokes that made the leaves shiver and clink.

Until she made another sound, of disappointment and loss. He saw her frown in confusion, felt the tension leave her muscles.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

He tried to push it back, began to grind again, to bring her up with him again. He buried his face in her neck, felt the warmth of her skin through her thin silk collar. But it was like holding back the ocean; though he clenched his teeth and stopped moving, it boiled up through him, spilled over.

Shock and horror held him motionless, until Alice dropped her legs from around his waist, pushed at his shoulders. The hitch of her breath tore at him. He pulled back, and the sheen of tears in her eyes ripped out his heart.

He'd fix it. Jesus, please let him fix it.

He fell to his knees. Gathered the skirts bunched at her waist in his fists. She batted sharply at his hands, yanked the silk from his grip.

And walked away.

Jake stared at the twisting roots in front of him, the cracked pavers. Somehow, his blood wasn't all over them. There was a hole in his chest, but somehow, that marble was still white.

He turned. To beg, maybe. She'd reached her doors, but he caught the shattered look she sent after him. That wasn't disappointment.

That was failure.

That was the same damn thing he was feeling. But why the hell was she—

God. Because she hadn't come?

And he'd bet anything that was why she'd swatted him away; she was afraid it would happen again. That she'd get close and lose it a second time.

Stupid, both of them. Fucking stupid. She hadn't had sex in a century, and he'd been jerking off to pinups for more than a decade. What'd she think, that he just had to stick it in and she'd get off? Did
he
think he could stick it in and
not
? It was a miracle he hadn't blown his load the second she'd touched him.

That hadn't been a fuckup, and he was damn well going to get a next time.

Alice closed her doors.

Jake took two steps, and jumped.

 

She walked right into him. Jake cupped her face in his hands and had his mouth over hers before she could say a word. His thumbs wiped the tears she'd allowed to fall. She sagged against him. She'd begun buckling, he realized, the moment she'd shut her doors.

When her lips opened beneath his, he jumped again.

 

The air was humid and perfumed by strawberry, but the sweet psychic flavor once permeating this chamber had faded. She'd been absent too long, and although she'd bathed after they'd returned, she hadn't used her tub in the usual way.

He saw her look at it now in confusion. He brought her hand to her thighs and rubbed lightly, watching her face.

No talking, he thought, but he needed her to understand. His fingers pressed against hers.
Teach me.

Her eyes widened, and his heart sank when she pulled away. But she didn't let go of his hand.

She led him through a library that was a mess of papers and books, thick rugs and low, cushioned furniture. With her every stride, her steps firmed and quickened, until she was gliding. The tip of her heavy braid barely swayed. He caught the ribbon, tugged, and vanished the looping black satin into his hammerspace.

They climbed stairs. The top floor was one large, empty room. No windows opened the walls; the roof peaked like an attic. Alice came to a halt.

A thick, pillowy mattress appeared in the center of the bare floor. Cushions and sheets of sapphire silk covered it a moment later.

Jake scrubbed the heel of his free hand over his chest, trying to rub out the ache that had been building since they'd left her bathing chamber. And to think he'd considered taking her back to his place and the cot he used when he drifted. Alice apparently drifted more comfortably than he did.

She pulled him forward. She didn't seem as tall now, and he caught a glimpse of her stockinged toes. He followed, vanishing his boots.

His heart was about to pound through his rib cage.

She let go of his hand and stepped onto the mattress. Her dress flared around her when she dropped to her knees in the middle. With abrupt movements, she arranged the cushions at the head of the bed.

She didn't meet his eyes as she turned and lay back on the cushions, her body as rigid as if she lay on a board. Her fingers seemed to walk along a moving plane of silk as she rucked her skirts at her waist. Her heartbeat raced as her hem drew up over her knees, her thighs.

Nervous as hell, he realized. Afraid, maybe. But fighting it so that she could do what he'd asked.

Jake slid onto the mattress beside her before she exposed any more. He didn't look down. He kissed her softly, slowly, until the stiffness left her.

The nervousness didn't. But his didn't either, so they were even.

He lifted his head, held her gaze. When she shifted her focus to the ceiling, his chest constricted. But she touched his cheek, and he realized she wasn't trying to shut him out.

She just couldn't watch him watch
her
. She could expose herself now, but only because she wouldn't see him looking at her.

Okay, then. He was all right with anything she had to do. He moved down the sapphire sheets, breathing again, inhaling that sweet berry scent. Her fingers rested at the small patch of dark curls that didn't quite hide her clitoris, though he couldn't see any more of her sex. She wasn't stiff now, but her thighs were locked together.

And they weren't wet. At some point, she'd vanished his semen.

Jesus. His cheeks heated. He should have done that for her.

She let out a shuddering breath. Her left hand fisted in her skirts, and her right moved through her curls. Her fore and middle fingers slid to either side of her hooded clitoris, and she began to rub with tiny strokes.

Jake didn't move. She must still be feeling nervous, shy. But as the seconds passed and she didn't change her rhythm, didn't delve deeper past her clit, open her legs or touch any other part of herself, he came to a different conclusion.

This wasn't the effect of shyness; this was efficiency.

And habit. Christ. When he'd been fifteen, he'd gotten so good at whacking off he could be out of the bathroom within a minute or two. But that speedy orgasm—release, without any good buildup of tension—had eventually lost its appeal. Thing was, he'd had a hair trigger after that, and he'd pretty much had to relearn how to stroke one out.

Alice's lips parted. Her thighs tightened, trembled. Her back arched. Her clitoris pulsed gently between her fingers.

She lay back against the mattress and sighed. Smiling now.

Jesus,
he thought.
Jesus.

One hundred years. More than one hundred years.

He wanted to cry. Then go back to Hell and kill Henry Grey and her fucking doctor.

Alice lifted her hand, and he pushed her fingers back down.

She glanced at him, frowning. Irritation sparked in her pale eyes when he nodded for her to do it again. He grinned, and she looked up at the ceiling, her lips in a prim line.

Jake leaned over, let his mouth hover above her moving fingers. Let her feel his breath.

Yeah. Not so steady now, not so rhythmic. The hand fisted in her skirts flexed open. Her clit flushed a deep pink, peeked out from the protective hood.

Tension, arousal.

Moisture glistened. He licked it away, left his own. Alice dragged in a halting breath. His cock hardened to steel when he saw her use the pad of her finger to swipe across the flesh he'd just licked. Her speed increased.

Not so fast. Not this time.

He closed his lips around her, began to suck. Her hips jerked and she pushed at him reflexively, before making a low noise and running her fingers over his hair.

God, his dick ached from that rasping touch, like she was rubbing his cock instead of his head. His hand slid to her locked knees. He pressed lightly, and she let them separate.

Barely
separate. But it was enough to work his hand up between her thighs, testing her responses as he went higher. All good. All good. She was slippery beneath his tongue now. Every time she twisted away, as if she couldn't bear it anymore, she came right back.