Demon Moon (38 page)

Nodding tightly in agreement, he drew her mouth down to his. Her eyes closed as he kissed her; the soft clinging of her lips, her breath, wrapped around him and rooted themselves deep. The rough stroke of her tongue across his. The play of her hands over his skin.

He eased her onto her back; her neck arched, and he licked a trail down her chin, her throat. Her muscles tensed beneath his hands, as if in anticipation of his bite. But he had not finished.

Allow me to give this to you
.

She moaned as his lips closed over her breast, as he tugged her nipple between his teeth, as he licked and suckled the taut peak. Her fingers threaded into his hair, urged him to its opposite, and he eagerly followed her direction.

Anything you ask of me
.

“I'm sorry,” she gasped, and sweet, warm flavor flooded into his mouth through her skin. “I forgot.”

He had, too. Hadn't cared for his pleasure over hers.

When had she effected this change in him?

Standing in the middle of a park, fearless and aroused? Across a restaurant, with her laugh and her playful smile? In a parking lot, her bleeding hand over his mouth? Outside a mirrored room, a kiss from her lips? Holding a sword over a wyrmwolf's neck, terrified yet determined to see it through?

Caelum?

I've fallen in love with you
.

Of course he had.

“Don't apologize, sweet,” he said against her belly. His tongue flicked into her navel. “It happens to the best of us.”

With a strangled laugh she looked away from him, turning her cheek against the pillow. “Are you the best?”

“I'm exponentially greater than that.”

As he'd hoped, she raised her head. Her warm, liquid brown gaze met his; her lips trembled. She blinked quickly, her eyes glistening. “You remember me saying that?”

“Yes. And you've enthralled me again, my sweet Savitri.” He lowered his mouth, watched her face as he licked through her moist heat. Soft, slippery. Cinnamon and peach, the psychic scent of her arousal and the flavor that might have been from Heaven or Hell or Chaos, but that he would always associate with Savi.

Her thighs clenched beside his shoulders. She whimpered from between her teeth. She was tight around his fingers. Hot. He slid them deep. Closed his lips over her clitoris, stroked his tongue, firm, rough.

“It's too much,” she whispered brokenly.

His fangs scraped alongside her sex as he dragged his tongue down to his fingers; she keened softly. No pain, no blood, only her surprise.

Her head tilted back, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Her small breasts rose and fell with each panting breath.

He stopped.

She looked at him. Released her lip. “I didn't bite—”

Colin did, gently. Soothed it with a lick. She cried out and her hips rocked, a hard involuntary thrust. Again. Her moisture slicked his palm, his mouth. His cock ached with need; his tongue didn't care.

Only for her. Always for her, everything for her, from this moment.

“Oh, god. Ohmygod.” She averted her face, her hands twisting on the sheets.

Perhaps a little for him. He ceased all movement, waited.

With a frustrated laugh, she glanced back at him. He curled his fingers, angling up to rub against sensitive inner muscle. Her lids lowered. He stopped, hid his grin. She looked at him, then away so quickly he was caught in the midst of another lick.

“You ass!” she gasped, but she was laughing, and she held his gaze now, only glancing away from his eyes to refocus on the whole of his face, his mouth, the slide of his tongue. Then her laughter broke and ebbed into desperate cries as he pulled her closer, her thigh over his shoulder, and he tasted, fed from her, but hungered for more.

Her pleas took on a sharp edge; he bit but still drew no blood. He didn't need it, only the shuddering release that rolled through her, his name from her lips.

And this, too: he rose up, slid deep before the orgasm eased from her. Her sheath surrounded him, tiny contractions fluttering over his length.

Her lips parted beneath his. “I want to see you.”

“I'm not yet done.” A soft, drugging kiss. Another, taking her lips and body in the same unhurried rhythm, until she was moaning low in her throat and the sound filled his mouth, a dulcet echo of the flavor on his tongue.

Slower now. An immortal man could take his pleasure quickly, knowing there would always be time for more. But a dying man lingered, uncertain of another opportunity.

And if not death, this exquisite slow fall into oblivion, then love.

Longer. Watching as ecstasy coiled beneath her skin, watching as she watched him. Her rapid breathing matched his, paced the pounding of his heart. But outwardly he moved leisurely, each languorous thrust pushing him toward rapture.

Pulling her along with him.

Her feet rubbed flat against the sheets, her legs trembled. Her fingers clawed at his back, urged him faster, harder. “Colin. Please.”

“Not yet. Don't run.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn't look away. “It's too much.”

He froze, a dark ache gnawing within him.
Too much
. He remembered that…here, in this bed, but by the fountain as well. “Don't cry. Am I hurting you?”

“No.” It sounded like a sob. Her back arched, her head tilted as if in invitation. She still watched him, sidelong, like an indirect look into the sun. “I thought it was the enthrallment. Caelum. But it's you.”

His throat closed, but he regained his measured pace. A great and terrible beauty. She hadn't looked at him in Caelum, never for very long. Did it remind her of what he'd done
now
?

“Are you frightened?” How could he bear it if she was?

“No,” she breathed. Her hips rose to meet his again, her feet halted their frantic movements. “Overcome.”

He laughed with relief, buried his face in her neck. Of course she wasn't afraid. “Oh, Savi. I am, too.”

Turning, carrying her with him, he leaned back against the pillows, settled her over him with a long upward stroke. She stared down at him, her hands braced on his shoulders, using her knees to lift and sink. Slowly.

Not afraid. What did she see then? His eyes searched hers. Passion, need—a reflection of his, though not of him. Yet it was easy to see his presence in the perspiration sheened across her cheekbones; her skin was flushed a deep caramel, her nipples hard and full. He leaned forward to taste them.

She rose, dropped, and he groaned against her breast. “Do you want me to tell you?”

Good God. Was he so transparent with her? “Yes.”

She moved more quickly, but he was too far gone to protest. Dying, yes. In love, yes. But never an idiot. His teeth closed gently over her nipple. Each heated wet slide over his cock wound him tighter, threatened to pull him apart.

“You cover your mouth when you laugh,” she said, her voice carried on panting breaths. “In public. Yet you never hide anything else.”

Startled, his gaze flew to hers, his lips unmoving around her breast. She rocked from her waist, holding her torso still, her chin tucked against her throat as she watched him in turn.

“Not your vanity. It's out in the open, for anyone to take as they wish. I never thought I'd want to take it. That you'd make me laugh with it.” Her fingers clenched on his shoulders, and she made a tight swivel of her hips. “And the way you move, as if the world is your ballroom. Oh, god.”

His hands caught her waist, and he held her as he thrust deep, took over. Not what she saw. She was telling him why she was falling in love with him.

Don't stop, Savi. Please don't stop
.

“And you live exactly as you are, without apology. I can trust your appearance; I thought I couldn't, but I can.”

Only because she saw him as he was. Her hands cradled his head, and she suddenly pulled him forward, arched her back. His fangs scraped the upper swell of her breast.

Blood.

A drop against his tongue, but it hit him like a flood, a powerful deluge through his veins, repeated in the surge of his hips, of his cock. Pulsing, flowing. His eyes widened, held hers through sheer will. The rest of him was beyond his control.

I won't let you go
.

“You're so beautiful,” she whispered, and lowered her mouth to his, her flavor ripening and rushing headlong into him with the last traces of her blood, sending him over.

Incoherent with need, with love, with astonishment.

And still in his trousers.

Savi neatly avoided the morning after by sleeping through it. Was it possible to have the same awkwardness, rolling out of bed at four in the afternoon? It helped that Colin wasn't there; she could groan and shuffle and pretend later that she'd awoken fresh. Maybe even perky.

She stood under the shower spray for an eternity, letting the hot water ease some of her soreness, then stretching carefully against the tile to work out the remaining ache in her muscles. A citrus-scented soap helped invigorate the rest of her, though not as miraculously as television commercials suggested, and she discovered she was still tender.

It had been worth it.

There weren't any mirrors in the bathroom, but she didn't need one to see the silly, satisfied smile that wouldn't leave her lips as she brushed her teeth. Didn't need one to know that the thick blue towel left her hair a spiky mess, and that Colin wouldn't care. Didn't need one to see how well the scrape on her breast had healed, along with the tiny bite on the inside of her thigh.

She would have liked some clothes, though. The oversized towel worked well enough, covered her from chest to knees, but wouldn't make a fantastic afternoon-after impression.

At least she was warm; the marble floors in the bathroom were heated, her feet almost toasty. A strange luxury for a vampire who kept his house the temperature of a meat locker. Had he simply agreed to a suggestion by the contractor, or intended it for guests? She'd had the impression he didn't invite many people here—even before the fire had destroyed a good portion of it.

She sighed, unable to figure it out. She'd just have to ask him.

Weak afternoon sunlight spilled through the main rooms; he'd left the drapes pulled back. She found a white silk robe folded on the bench at the foot of the bed, and she slipped it on, studying the layout of the suite.

The windows faced east, out over the park. She'd fallen asleep in his arms, but he must have risen before dawn to avoid the sun. To paint? Evidence of it surrounded her, filled the walls. Portraits of men, women, and children in varying modes of fashion, though none of Colin. Landscapes. All photorealistic in their attention to detail, the execution. Absolutely incredible.

She rolled up the sleeves of the robe as she walked toward the door and brushed away the dried blood over the symbols. Rock music thrummed through the room.

If that came from his studio on the other end of the house, he hadn't been lying. He
was
loud.

She almost stumbled over Sir Pup, stretched out on his belly in front of her door, his paws over his ears. He looked up at her mournfully, then trailed behind her as she followed the pounding bass. The music room, with walls a soft tangerine, wooden floors, and thick rugs. More paintings. Another room, papered in lemon yellow—perhaps a parlor, as it seemed to have no use but to look beautiful, with spindly legged furniture upholstered with ivory damask. High, airy ceilings arched over delicate chandeliers. Though a side door, a glimpse of a billiards room.

Her feet padded against the hardwood floors, across a rug, quicker now that she approached the tall doors. Not running, though the beat of her heart and the music seemed to hurry her along. One of the wide doors was open—only an inch or two, but she took it as an invitation.

Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness. The windows in the music room and parlor had been uncovered; here, heavy drapes blocked the sunlight, left the studio in shadow. She hesitated, until movement and a red blinking light at the far end of the room caught her attention.

Colin sat atop a five-foot stepladder. The volume of the music fell—he'd turned to lower it with a remote control. The snowy white of his shirt shone through the dark, but the rest of him was in silhouette.

And the awkwardness she'd hoped to avoid descended over her, left her floundering for something to say. It would have been easier if she could see him, read his expression—easier if she wasn't aware of how he could see hers. She wrapped her arms around her middle, tried not to fidget, and was relieved when the click of the remote being set down against the ladder gave her something to latch on to: his recent obsession with British punk, but particularly this group. It seemed another contradiction that she couldn't parse into components that made sense.

“I wouldn't have thought you a fan of The Clash.”

And the instant it came from her mouth she wanted to take it back. There was only one way he would interpret her comment.

“Because I'm everything they abhorred? An aristocrat who owns a large international corporation, exploiting the poor and underprivileged?” He said it lightly, but without seeing his face she couldn't tell if she'd offended him.

She closed her eyes. It didn't only sound insulting, but also hypocritical. Internally berating herself for her stupidity wouldn't accomplish anything, though, and she strove to match his tone as she replied, “I suppose I am, too. Of the Boston Murrays, creator of a game that I licensed to a corporation larger than yours—a game that rots young American minds, even as outsourced and underpaid foreign employees toil away to manufacture it. I may be worse, actually; no one has died because of Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals.” She took a deep breath when he didn't respond. “I just meant it's something unexpected. And that I don't have you figured out yet.”

She waited for what seemed forever, but must have only been a few seconds before he said, “And you surprise me as well, my sweet Savitri. I wouldn't have thought you'd be aware of their social agenda, as they disbanded when you were all of twelve years old.”

“Well, I've been with a lot of guys.” Oh, god.
Stop, Savi
. That wasn't exactly the best thing to say the afternoon-after. She rushed to explain. “I don't know why, but men seem driven to educate women about ‘real' music, and to push their tastes on to our poor little brains. The Clash has been pushed on to my brain since I first started dating, and depending on the guy, warring with The Sex Pistols for The Greatest Punk Group Ever.”

“I've no intention of—” His voice shook with laughter, and he broke off. Brief silence filled the room as the song track switched from “London Calling” to “Straight to Hell.” “I vow not to push my tastes on to you,” he finished.

Relaxing back against the door, she smiled. “They'd have been horrified by you, anyway. Is this a compilation—and on random play? You've ruined the artistic integrity of the original album.” She rolled her eyes.

His teeth gleamed through the darkness. “I hardly give a thought to what another's artistic vision is. Ninety percent of every album is rubbish. I can't carry everything forward, or I'd have a basement full of vinyl trash. So I keep only what speaks to me, and only the best of it.”

“Ah, the price of immortality: a music library stocked with Greatest Hits albums. Do you paint in the dark?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I open the lights?” Perhaps he preferred to keep his work hidden until it was finished. She knew a few digital artists who couldn't tolerate anyone seeing a work in progress—to Savi's regret, as the process of it often interested her more than the product.

“Please do. I shall be down in a few moments.”

Anticipation quickened her heartbeat, and she found the switch in the same location as the one in her rooms. Were the upper floors of the house laid out symmetrically? This must have been a matching suite, before he'd renovated—

“Oh, holy shit.” She turned a slow spin, her mouth dropping open, her head tilting up. Caelum surrounded her, hung in multiple frames of varying sizes, but there were more. So many more—large canvases stacked six and seven deep around the room, leaning against the walls. And not all of Caelum.

Moving to the nearest, a wide landscape that stood as high as her chest, she pulled it forward, looked at the one behind it, and burst into laughter. Hugh and Lilith, as they'd been before she'd known them: a crimson-skinned Lilith in her horned and winged demonic form, standing next to Hugh, her forked tongue snaking out to tease his ear. Hugh, appearing all of seventeen but for the long-suffering expression on his face, wearing a brown robe belted with a rope, his arms crossed over his chest.

Her laughter died. She
had
seen him like this, and with his wings. Once, when he'd thrown himself in front of her, then flown with her to the hospital, leaving her parents and her brother behind. There'd been nothing that he could have done to help them.

She forced that memory away.

“I'd intended to give it to Castleford,” Colin said from beside her, wiping his hands on a towel. Attired in a white dress shirt and black trousers, he gave the impression of immaculate elegance—despite the casual touches in the two buttons undone at his collar, the unfastened sleeve cuffs, and his bare feet. “But I'm not certain if Lilith would kill me.”

She tore her gaze from the hollow of his throat. “You're incredibly good,” she said, and moved on to the next. A smiling woman with coiled blond hair and an empire-waisted dress, holding a baby on her lap.

“I ought to be after two hundred years. That's Emily and their first boy, Hugh. I protested the name; I thought it should be mine.” Amusement deepened his voice.

“You didn't paint this in the nineteenth century.” The edge of the canvas was brilliantly white, the staples shining.

“No. Most were destroyed; this is what I've managed to produce since the fire. Some others, as well, but the majority of the paintings in the house I had shipped from the attics at Beaumont Court. These have been brought from Polidori's and storage in the past week; I've not yet sorted through them.”

Her eyes widened, and she glanced around the room again. “All of this in eight months?”

“I'm limited only by the oils' drying time. I can paint very quickly. But most of these I'll toss; they aren't worth keeping. Even I can produce rubbish.”

She shook her head in disbelief as he gestured to the next canvas. It seemed perfect to her. “That's the house at your family's estate; I've seen pictures of it on the tourist website.” A stately mansion, set behind rolling lawns and framed by gardens. “Nani's going to love it.”

“Yes. It's difficult to do otherwise.”

Swallowing, she said, “I'm sorry about what I suggested last night.”

“As you should be. It is my nature to be vain and selfish, but it is not a reflection of my family or my class. I would have been the same had I been born in a poorhouse.”

“How do you know that?”

His brows drew together. “Look at me.”

She grinned, but still felt the need to explain, “The one time we ever visited my grandparents, it was only because my grandfather laid a guilt trip on my dad because of all the money spent on his med school, the nice living he'd received. And the visit was a disaster—they had this huge place, but we got stuck in the guest house, and only my dad was invited up to the main house. My dad was infuriated by the insult to my mom; it was one of the few times I'd seen him really pissed.”

“So you assumed my family would only accept Auntie into their home out of obligation for my financial support, resent it, and then—unwittingly or deliberately—insult her? Savitri,” he said, “for all of your intelligence, you can be incredibly blind where your
nani
is concerned.”

“I know. I should have remembered what you'd said: That you're their beloved Uncle Colin. That it wasn't obligation, but a willingness to assist a member of the family when he asked them for help.”

“Just as you would for Auntie.”

“Yeah.” With a sigh, she pushed the canvases forward. “I need to call her, let her know we're okay, and make sure she's settled.”

“I did this morning; it's after midnight in Derbyshire now. She's well.” A triumphant smile played around his mouth. “You recognized the house; you've searched the Internet for information related to me?”

She refused to blush. “Yes. If you can eavesdrop, then I can use Google.”

“It seems a fair trade. Though I would answer anything you ask; you need not turn to a computer.”

“I wasn't exactly happy with you at the time; a computer was safer.”

“Yet you still looked.”

“Yes.” She met his gaze. “I couldn't help myself.”

His eyes closed. The hand towel dropped to the floor, and his palm cupped her chin, tilted her mouth up. His left arm wrapped around her waist. “Neither could I, Savi.” A soft kiss to her forehead. “Each visit to Castleford's was a new torment. How you ran the moment I arrived.” Her cheek. “I could hear you in your flat when you didn't leave, and how I listened for your return when you did.” Her lips. “Your scent everywhere. Torture, but I couldn't stay away.”

Her chest aching, she caught his mouth before he could say more; it would be worse after a month of this. Much worse. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, too.

Think, Savi
. But she didn't see a way out of it. Nor did she want to waste this opportunity, live with the regret. What was she going to do when the month was up, if they survived the demon?