My Dangerous Pleasure (22 page)

He supported his weight on his hands while she arched toward him, and then he pulled out of her and slowly drew his body downward, along hers, nipping at her legs, her thighs, and then between her legs, and he was wicked, so wicked. She screamed his name and called on God and came so hard she lost all sense of herself.

Then he raised himself the rest of the way up, and he was inside her again, thrusting, and she could feel muscles flexing beneath her hands. When he was close, he cursed under his breath and he froze, and then his body changed, and for some reason that made her shout again. She came again, and then he did, too.

Afterward, he held her close and kissed her and tangled his fingers in her hair and whispered, “Let’s find a bed and do that again, Paisley.”

C
HAPTER 19

6:35
A.M.
,
the next day

P
aisley wanted to run but she didn’t, even though the back of her head was cold and her chest hummed from a source deep in the center of her body. “He’s here,” she whispered.

Iskander had woken her from a sound sleep about an hour ago to tell her Nikodemus and Carson were on their way to the farmhouse. They’d showered and dressed, and she went downstairs to make a breakfast of eggs, doughnuts, and muffins.

Both she and Iskander came to their feet at almost the same time, Iskander a bit sooner. From where she stood, she had a view of the hallway and most of the front door, with its boarded-over windows. Her pulse thumped in her ears.

Iskander opened the door and stepped aside, the first three fingers of his hand pressed to his bowed head. “Carson.” He repeated the gesture. “Warlord.”

A petite woman with black hair walked in, a witch, judging from the way Paisley’s head stayed so cold. Carson held hands with a tall man—a demon—whose sandy blond hair was a bit shaggy. A jade-green box about half the size of a brick was tucked under one arm. He held out a fist and Iskander bumped it with his.

After the men fist-bumped, Iskander bent to kiss the cheek Carson offered him. She had to be
the
Carson. The woman who had severed the bond between Iskander and Fen. Nikodemus’s witch. She wasn’t a screamer, thank God, and like Nikodemus, she didn’t look very scary at first glance. Paisley liked her on sight.

Carson put out a hand and blocked the warlord’s progress into the house before he and Iskander got out of the entryway. Paisley had the distinct impression Carson was the one controlling things right now. No one was going anywhere or doing anything until the witch said so.

The woman walked to the edge of the living room and scanned the room with a pair of brilliant green eyes. She paused at Paisley, who felt the merest whisper of something pressing in on her, but Carson did not acknowledge her in any way. The woman’s attention moved on. She walked farther in while Nikodemus and Iskander waited by the door.

“I vouch for her, Carson,” Iskander said, his voice raised. He propped one hand on the wall. “She’s no danger to us.”

Carson lifted a hand before she disappeared down the hall. She went upstairs next. Before much longer, she returned and addressed herself to Nikodemus and Iskander. “Clear.”

Nikodemus strolled the rest of the way in. He wore faded jeans and a red T-shirt that read
The Apocalypse was yesterday. Where were you?
His cowboy boots were scuffed, and he could use a haircut, but there was no denying he was a good-looking man.

Appearances were definitely deceiving. Nikodemus didn’t look scary at all. Not until Paisley got a closer look at his eyes. They were a medium blue-gray, nothing special at first, but when his gaze meet hers, she felt like she’d been scoured clean. And that was with him smiling. He joined Carson, and the two linked hands again.

Iskander followed them into the living room. The demon warlord looked her up and down and at the end of his disquieting perusal of her, quirked his eyebrows. “Paisley Nichols,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her mouth went dry. “Sir.”

He walked toward her, letting go of Carson’s hand to offer his hand to her. Carson came along, staying close. “Nikodemus,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” His shake was firm, his skin cooler than she expected. “This is Carson Phillips.”

Paisley shot Iskander a look. His smile wasn’t back yet, but he didn’t warn her against touching the witch, so she clasped hands with Carson, too. Nothing happened to her. There wasn’t any blast of energy, no pain, just a normal everyday handshake from a woman who looked too dainty to be dangerous. “Sir. Ma’am. Pleased to meet you both. Iskander’s told me about you, of course.”

“Please, call me Carson.” She had a pretty smile, but it didn’t make Paisley feel any safer. Her soft voice wasn’t girly. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, and you?”

Like Nikodemus, Carson was wearing jeans, but the rest was less casual—a pink button-down blouse, diamond earrings, a matching bracelet, and a pair of bejeweled sandals. Her toenails were a frosty purple.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Paisley asked.

“Do you have coffee?” Carson asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I do. Regular or espresso?”

She gave Paisley a quick grin. “Espresso for us both, if you have it.”

“I do. I’d be happy to make some for you. Iskander?” She kept her voice formal. “Coffee for you?”

He nodded, stretching his long body out on the sofa where, not so long ago, she’d been flat on her back and screaming Iskander’s name. Better than chocolate. “The usual, cupcake.”

Carson cocked her head and looked from Iskander to her. Great. Just great.

“I’ll be just a minute, then.” She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans while she walked to the kitchen. She hoped to God there wasn’t going to be trouble over him using that offhand endearment. She set herself to making espresso and setting up a plate with the muffins and doughnuts she’d made this morning, along with fresh butter and jam. She added the remaining soufflés.

Iskander came in while she was arranging the food and trying not to stress over all the horrible outcomes she kept imagining. He didn’t say anything at first; he just stood close to her, one hand on the cabinet above him. Too close if they were just friends. Maybe not quite close enough for two people who’d been to bed together.

“It’s not even seven in the morning.” She snapped the first serving of the ground espresso into place and flipped the
START
switch. Two hours of sleep. “Don’t you people ever sleep?” she asked.

“No.”

“Shit,” she whispered. She didn’t know anything. Not a darn thing about mages, witches, or demons, all of whom had, at some point, threatened her life. She rubbed the scar on her wrist.

“That bothering you again?” he asked in a low voice.

“Sometimes it itches.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. A little.”

He took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb over the scar. The streak of pain up her arm helped block the sensation of someone pressing on her head. “I know it’s early for you, but Nikodemus needs to talk to us. He understands if you can’t, but it would be better to get this done with.”

“Fine.” Her stomach hurt.

“I promise I’ll get you to work on time.”

“They can’t fire me if I’m late. I’m the boss.” She leaned against the counter while the espresso machine burbled. “Are you in trouble because of me?”

“I would be if you were dead.” He snatched one of the doughnuts off the plate and ate it. “But you’re not, so we’re good.”

“Am I in trouble because of what happened with the witch? Or because of Rasmus?”

“No.” He leaned in and picked up the plate that held a haphazard jumble of food. “How about we distract them with this?”

“You can’t serve them food like that. We need plates, Iskander. Napkins. Silverware, too.”

“The food looks great. Nikodemus loves doughnuts almost as much as I do. You deal with the coffee. I’ll take this and come back for the rest, all right?”

He’d been naked with her, inside her. Both of them desperate for each other. He’d made her come apart in his arms, and she would have done anything he asked. Anything at all.

Iskander didn’t come back for the other things, so she stacked plates, napkins, and silverware on a tray with the coffee, cream, and sugar. When she came in, Nikodemus and Carson were on the couch, the demon with his arm around the witch’s waist.

Serious inroads had been made in the plate of food, and the table was covered with crumbs. The soufflés were gone and so were the doughnuts. There was one muffin left. She put down the tray and handed out coffee, plates, and the like. Iskander scooted over on a love seat. When everyone had their coffee, she used one of the napkins to brush up crumbs.

“Not necessary,” Iskander said. He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her onto the love seat with him. “Your coffee’s going to get cold.” He stretched for her demitasse and handed it to her. “Relax,” he said in a low voice. “Everything’s cool. I promise you.” He stretched an arm across the top of the love seat. His fingertips just brushed her shoulder.

Nikodemus added several sugars to his espresso. The green box he’d been holding was on the coffee table, and from here, it looked to her like it was real jade. Powdered sugar dotted the lid. Her reaction to them wasn’t settling down the way she’d hoped, and it was disconcerting to say the least. This close, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever think Nikodemus wasn’t dangerous.

“So, Paisley—can I call you that?”

She nodded.

“Iskander says you own a bakery.”

She had the feeling Nikodemus knew all about her, but she answered just the same. “Yes, sir, I do. It’s downtown. Paisley Bakery and Café. We’ve been open about two years now.”

The warlord fell silent, looking between Iskander and Paisley. He frowned, and it sent a chill through her to see that speculative look. “What I heard, Iskander,” he said, “was that she was vanilla. What happened to change that?”

Iskander’s fingers brushed the back of her neck. He told Nikodemus about Rasmus touching her and about the reaction she’d had that she barely remembered. She stretched out her arm to show them the scar.

“Well, shit.” There wasn’t any question he knew what he was looking at. Nikodemus’s eyes speared her. “Where were you when that happened?”

“My bakery.”

“Huh,” Nikodemus said. “That’s interesting. And it was Rasmus Kessler who did that to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me Nikodemus.” His mouth curved up. “
Warlord
, if you feel the need to be formal.”

“Yes, sir.”

He picked up the last muffin. “This is really good. Where’s your bakery again?”

“Kearney, near Clay Street, sir.” She wished he’d get to the point instead of making all this small talk.

“The food was delicious,” Carson said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” She heard her accent coming on strong and closed her mouth.

With a glance at Nikodemus, Carson said, “We should go there, right, sweetie?”

“Sure.” His attention swung back to her, and the tension ratcheted up. “Tell me about the screaming Iskander says you hear.”

While she talked, Nikodemus finished his espresso. She described touching the witch and the way she’d just known how to make the screaming stop. When she finished, he put a finger on the jade box and pushed it toward her. “Do you think you could do that again?”

Paisley stared at the box. “I don’t know.”

“Would you try?” He rested his palm on the box and watched her. “Please?”

“How? There aren’t any screamers here.” She met Nikodemus’s gaze. “And why? If I’m allowed to ask that question…”

“Because if you can do that again, I need your help.” He tapped the box. His nails were on the long side for a man. Nothing outlandish. But was that a suggestion of a talon? “We need your help.”

She noticed the dragon carved into the box. Stylized curls of smoke wisped from its mouth and nostrils. “Is it true? About the screaming I hear?”

Carson leaned forward. “It’s true that some of the magekind murder the kin for their magic. I’ve seen it done. Personally. You have my word it’s true.”