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Demon Angel

Demon Angel

Titel: Demon Angel
Autoren: Meljean Brook
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colors whirled around her.
    "Focus on my beautiful lips, Savitri, lest you become dizzy."
    "And cast up my accounts?"
    "Yes," he said, laughing; how could she not to look at his mouth when he did that? At his elongated incisors, the sharp white line of his teeth. But safer than looking at his eyes and risk seeing the wholehearted, almost boyish delight that had so captivated her in Caelum.
    The sound of his amusement rumbled through her, combined with the heavy beat of the music. He wore cologne, a masculine fragrance so light she'd not detected it before. Notes of orange and papaya and sandalwood. She buried her face in his neck, wrapped her thighs around his lean hips.
    "Oh my god." His cock was thick and hard beneath his trousers, nestled between her legs. Another perfect fit; she remembered all too well how perfect.
    She could come just from this.
    "It didn't work," he said in Hindi. He sounded almost apologetic.
    She was burning, burning. Just like Polidori's. "What didn't?"
    "The woman from the stairwell. Acting the ass at the bar, that you would put distance between us. It seems I can protect you from everyone but myself."
    Her body went rigid; her eyes flew open. I don't always have control . He'd tried to regain it by feeding, but that had been hours ago. How thin was it now? Her heart pounded. "You were lying at the bar?"
    "No. But a gentleman can tell the truth without being cruel, if he wishes it." He slowed next to his table, and eased down onto the sofa without letting her go. Her knees sank into the cushions. His arm across her lower back trapped her hips against his. "Do not mistake me for a kind man, Savitri."
    She wouldn't. Not again.
    "What are you going to do?" She pushed at his chest.
    "Taste you." He cupped her jaw. His thumb smoothed across her cheek. "Only your mouth, and only if you agree."
    Tension coiled through her stomach, arousal and fear. And heat. He was a fever inside her, a sickness. "What if I don't?"
    "I'll carry you to my suite and do it there." The apology dropped from his tone. He'd set his course; he would follow it. "I don't intend to take your blood, Savi. I simply want— need — to taste you." His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. "I think I will die if I do not."
    She wouldn't believe that; only poets and horny teenagers did. But her gaze dropped to his lips. "Just a kiss?"
    "Yes." With gentle pressure, he urged her nearer. "A sword lies behind the wall panel; the spring is two inches above the sofa, one foot in."
    A strange offer. Did he think she would need it? But if he lost that much control, she'd have no possibility of defense.
    She'd had a better chance against the nosferatu.
    Her palms slid over his shoulders, up to curve around the back of his neck. Her fingers buried in the hair at his nape. So thick and soft.
    "This must be because I'm drunk," she whispered as she lowered her mouth to his. "I know better."
    So did he.
----
    Meljean Brook was raised in the middle of the woods and hid under her blankets at night with fairy tales, comic books, and romances. She left the forest and went on a misguided tour through the worlds of accounting, banking, and a (very) brief teaching career before focusing on her first loves, reading and writing. She realized that monsters, superheroes, and happily-ever-afters are easily found between the covers, as well as under them, so she set out to make her own.
    Meljean lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and daughter.
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