Raising Hell (7 page)

She moved closer. And then—before she could talk herself out of it—she took his hand in hers and put it on her breast.

“Are you sure?” he asked, but he had to already know the answer, because her body was answering for her. Her nipple was peaking, her feet moving closer to press against him.

“I’m sure,” she said. “I want to go a little wild. Just once. Just with you.”

He didn’t require any more convincing. Instead, his mouth closed hungrily on hers, and she felt the low moan escape her and her knees go weak. His arm slid around her waist, holding her up. And then he picked her up, cradling her as he took her the short distance to the bed.

He made quick work of the rest of the buttons, pulling her shirt open and then unfastening her bra. Her breasts popped free, and his thumb found the nipple of one while his mouth closed over the other, sucking and licking and sending a hot wire of heat shooting through her body to tingle between her thighs.

She writhed against him, wanting to lose herself to sensation, but needing to say just one more thing first. Slowly, almost regretfully, she urged his head up, making him look at her.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t tell me to stop.”

“No,” she whispered. “But I need to hear something, even if it’s a lie. I need you tell me that I’m different. That I’m not like all the women before. The ones the magazines say are always in and out of your bed.”

Her words seemed to amuse him, and she fought not to blush. The request was idiotic, of course, but she still wanted the lie. She wasn’t different, and she knew it. But this night was about her. About taking this experience all the way. About being wild and letting go. She could be Delilah Burnett again tomorrow. Tonight, she was going to be the woman on the canvas.

“Nick?” she prodded.

“You’re nothing like the other women I’ve had,” he said, so earnestly that she almost believed him. “You’re special, Delilah. Let me show you just how special you are.”

‡
Chapter Six

L
ila was not a virgin,
a fact that would surely have shocked her father had the Reverend Burnett had a clue. But she might as well have been, because certainly she’d never felt before the way Nick made her feel now.

His hands stroked her body, which sounded simple enough. But there was nothing simple about the trill of electrical sparks that seemed to skip from his fingertips into her blood, firing her desire and loosening her inhibitions.

His kisses, too, were beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Deep and hot and all consuming, she thought she could get lost in them, and she writhed against him, desperate for that deep heat to fill her—and frustrated that he hadn’t simply ripped her clothes off and thrust himself into her.

“Patience,” he whispered, his voice laced with a small chuckle. “All in good time.”

“How can you do that? How can you know what I’m thinking?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a grin, and he urged the shirt off her body, leaving her clad only in her bra, and that hanging open, the cups lost somewhere under her arms. “Your body,” he said, pressing a kiss on her neck, and then moving down to kiss between her breasts. “It tells me.”

“Yeah? Well, good.” At least her body was still managing coherent thought. Her mind wasn’t doing nearly as well, dipping low as it was into the swirling abyss of pleasure.

True to his word, Nick understood what she craved even though she could never have voiced her needs, not in a million years. He trailed kisses down her belly, pausing to pay special attention to her navel, his tongue flicking in and out in a manner that hinted of similar attention to come just a bit farther to the south.

And oh, how she wanted that attention. Her back arched, and she bucked up in silent demand. Her body was on fire and right then, only Nick could quench it. Damn it all, though, the heathen was doing nothing more than tossing thimblefuls of water onto the inferno that raged in her. Dousing small bits of need, maybe, but sending up clouds of steam that sizzled and popped and seemed only to give the fire that much more room to grow.

“Nick,” she moaned, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Now.”

He just lifted his head and smiled. A slow, sultry smile that made perfectly clear that this was his show, and that he wasn’t going to move any faster than absolutely necessary.

She only hoped she didn’t die before he thought it necessary.

His body was tucked between her legs, as his mouth caressed her belly and his hands stroked her thighs. Shameless, she writhed against him, trying to get some friction between her legs to quench the red-hot need she felt there.

“Soon,” he said, as he slipped down lower and took her jeans with him.

He tugged her jeans off and tossed them onto the floor, then moved back up her body, this time trailing kisses up the inside of her legs. He paused only briefly to lick the inside of her knee, and the sensation was so wholly erotic that Lila’s entire body shook from the unbridled pleasure … and from the anticipation.

She held her breath, her body so tense and taut that she expected to snap in two at any moment. Nick took no mercy on her, though. He trailed soft kisses down the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his strong hands holding her down as her body bucked and trembled.

And then—when she swore she’d die if she didn’t find release—he stroked his finger against her slick, wet heat, slipping inside her with firm, even strokes. Her body spasmed, closing around his fingers, wanting to pull him inside her and yet still wanting more.

He gave it to her. With his finger still stroking inside her, he bent low and sent a whisper of breath to cool the heat between her legs. She whimpered, then nearly bit her lip when she felt his tongue caress her clit.

That was all it took. He’d wound her so tight that that one, tiny touch drove her over the edge. He held on, sucking and nipping, as she cried out with a pleasure so intense it could be mistaken for pain. She bucked and twisted, unable to stand it, desperate to get away now and at the same time never wanting it to end. It did end, though, and when her body finally went limp, he was right there beside her, his arms strong around her waist, pulling her close until he was kissing her, the taste of her sex still on his lips.

His hand crept down between them, and he stroked her. Her body fired in response, her limp, sleepy limbs coming alive with a passion that had been hiding only too close to the surface.

He’d taken her to wonderful, erotic places. Hell, he’d just
taken
her. And now, she thought, she wanted to return the favor. Reaching down, she stroked him, her hand not quite able to close around him as she slid up and down over the velvety shaft. “It’s your turn now,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, the heat in his eyes undeniable. “It is.”

Nick couldn’t remember
the last time he’d been this turned on. Even the countess he’d met in Venice three centuries ago hadn’t sent him spiraling so out of control. His hands roamed her body and her thrilled moans and excited whimpers fired his blood. He’d been with countless women, but none with such a mixture of fire and innocence. The combination was seductive; it had sure as hell seduced him, even as he’d been seducing her.

He kissed her, wanting nothing more than to consume her, to take her body the way he would take her soul. To make her
his.

Desperately, he nipped and suckled, losing himself to everything except the goal of pleasing her and his body’s ever-growing demand for release.

The silk of her skin burned under his fingers, the heat swelling to fill and surround him, burying him in a blaze of lust and greed. He wanted to hold out, to tease and pleasure this woman until she screamed for him. But she’d undone him, and he could stand it no more.

“Nick.”
Her voice, low and strangled, rasped over him as he pressed the tip of his cock to her core. “Oh,
yes.”

Nick groaned a response, then slid inside her with one strong thrust. She cried out, her back arching with pleasure and her fingernails digging deep into his shoulders. She was as warm and soft as he’d imagined, and he thrust again and again.

Their bodies sang together, an infinite wash of pleasure as they moved as one. Time seemed to stand still and to expand, and he was aware only of the velvety sensation of her body around him, counterbalanced by the sharp sting of her nails in his skin and her desperate moans in his ears.

The friction between their bodies sparked and sizzled, lighting a fuse that wouldn’t be extinguished until the violence of an explosion ripped through him. More and more and more until he cried out, his body yanked apart, then coming back together as he sagged against her.

She curled against him, her body as slick with sweat as his. Her cheek rested against his chest, and one finger lazily stroked his chest. “Wow,” she whispered.

Yes,
he thought.
Wow.

And not just from the intensity of his reaction when their bodies had been high on hormones and lust, sex and need. But from the pulse in him even now. A steady thrum that drew him to her, made him want to touch her. To keep a hand on her, possessive yet gentle.

To stay. To sleep.

And—for the first time in over a century—Nick felt absolutely no urge to slip out of bed and paint.

A burst of light
yanked Nick back to consciousness, and he sat up, irritated and mildly surprised that Delilah hadn’t moved at all. His confusion faded almost instantaneously, however, as his fuzzy mind took stock of the situation.

Nick’s father had arrived.

Slowly, Nick slid out of from under the covers, the cool air soothing his heated skin. “One of these days,” he said as he slipped on a robe, “you really need to learn to knock.”

His father actually laughed at that, his usually flat black eyes now flashing with glee. He waved a hand, indicating the image that was just starting to emerge from the canvas. “I’m pleased,” he said, running a hand over his goatee. “A single day and the woman is already in your bed. But it is not your pleasure I’m interested in, Nicholas. I want the woman’s soul.”

“You made that perfectly clear, Father.”

“Did I?” His father lifted an already-angled brow. “Good. Because your elder brother seemed incapable of following even the clearest of instructions. I trust I won’t find the same disappointment with you?”

“You won’t,” Nick said firmly.

Lucifer traced a finger over the lines of Delilah’s face, the form barely emerging from the canvas. “You’ve begun then? With this touch I’m caressing the soul that I covet?”

Nick hesitated, unsure of the best way to answer his father. With Lucifer, the question of temper was always at the forefront. Lying, however, was not an option. If his father ever learned the truth, the punishment would be exponentially increased. And Nick was many things, but a glutton for punishment was not one of them.

“There is no soul in that canvas,” he said, still not entirely sure what demon had stilled his hand, keeping him from infusing the canvas with her soul even from the first moment the bristles had stroked the canvas.

His father stiffened, his hand still resting on the soft brushlines that would soon be transformed into Delilah’s flowing hair. He turned slowly, his eyes full of an anger so hot it seemed icy. “Do not tell me that you have already started down the path to failure, son. After Jack, I don’t think I could bear the disappointment. Certainly,” he added coldly, “I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Nick took a step forward, determined not to show fear in front of his father. Most of the time, that was easy. The tales about his father’s temper were true enough, but Nick had known the man long enough to have learned to stand his ground. Sharing the same blood didn’t hurt, either. But that didn’t mean Nick was immune. And he certainly never wanted to see his father’s wrath aimed directly at him.

“I’m merely toying with her, sir,” he said, casting a quick glance at the woman frozen in the bed. “Taking a bit of my own pleasure before completing the task. But it
will
be completed. Sir.”

“Your own pleasure?” his father repeated. He moved swiftly to the bed, lifted the sheet, then peered under it at Delilah’s naked form. “Ah, yes. So I see.” A lascivious grin spread across his face. “Perhaps before this is over, I’ll take a nibble for myself.”

Nick stayed silent, his hands balling into fists even as he wondered at his own reaction. His father had shared women in the past. The baroness in 1749. The actress in 1936. And others, surely, that were so incidental that Nick had forgotten them. So why, now, did he have to fight the urge to punch his father in the face merely because he’d looked at Delilah. For the sin of sleeping with her, Nick would probably have to kill the man. Except, of course, his father wasn’t a man and couldn’t be killed.

Which went a long way toward explaining why he now stayed silent, fighting to keep his flaring temper under control.

When he didn’t answer, Lucifer turned, looking at Nick with cold, dark eyes. “Toying with her, you said?”

“Of course, sir.”