Deamon's Daughter Part 8

"Um," she said, because his fingers were drawing teasing patterns on her inner thighs. "I can't think well enough to answer that."

"Roxanne," he said, making her name a laugh before taking her warmest places into his mouth. His hands slid under her b.u.t.tocks, tilting her toward him. Immediately, she had to squirm. His kiss was tendera"and thorough. His tongue opened every fold, explored every crevice. He dipped into her sheath and hummed at her taste. She tensed as he found the swollen center of her pleasure, suckling it, pressing it hard behind his teeth. Her body arched.

"Good?" he whispered.

She couldn't believe he needed rea.s.surance. "Oh!" she gasped as he did the trick with his teeth again. Her hands were clenched in the sheets, but she tried to speak. "Sir, I believe your mouth should require a special license!"

His amus.e.m.e.nt buzzed against her intimate flesh. He was still chuckling when her convulsions started, sharp and deep. His hands tightened on her bottom, holding her close while she shook, while he devoured each ecstatic tremor.

He let her settle, then moved over her on hands and knees. She expected him to take her at once, but he remained as he was, head hanging, limbs shaking.

When she touched his hip, he s.h.i.+ed like a bee-stung horse. "What's wrong?"

He spoke through gritted teeth. "Maybe I shouldn't have done that."

A drop of moisture hit her belly. She touched it with her finger, tested its slickness against the pad of her thumb. Comprehension dawned. It wasn't sweat.

"I thought I'd be all right aftera what we did before, but I waited too long. I'm never going to last."

"That doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. I want this to be perfect. You have me so excited, I want to scream."

As complaints went, it couldn't have been nicer.

"Look at me," she said, stroking his hair back from his anxious face, thinking what a ridiculous pair they madea"both of them obviously longer on theory than practice. "Everything you've done, everything you do seems right to me. Let's not worry about bur first time being perfect. Besides, if you move fast, you might not have to last longer than a minute or two."

He released a grudging snort of laughter, then positioned himself between her thighs. "A minute or two I might manage."

Her breath hitched as his crown nudged her threshold. He was full and silky and warm. With her flesh twitching at the contact, she knew she hadn't lied when she said she was close. She fought her desire to twist against him, fearing this would destroy his control.

Even if she didn't care what happened, she knew he did.

He wrapped a hand behind her shoulder for leverage, then pressed the tip of his p.e.n.i.s inside. Her eyelids drifted at the partial connection. Lord, it felt nice. How could a simple body part be this vital?

He kissed her fluttering lashes. "Beautiful girl. Won't you look at me?"

She opened her eyes at the boyish plea. He was smiling down at her, and suddenly she felt like a child herself, helplessly, hopelessly tender. He pushed, groaning a little, then frowned.

"You're so tight. Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes." She slid her hands around his tense b.u.t.tocks. "Please, now."

He searched her gaze an instant longer, then set his knees and thrust. She flinched when he broke through her barrier. He hesitated, eyes wide, but she wrapped her calves around his waist before he could question her. She needn't have worried; he was lost in the wonder of entry. He shuddered as her body kissed his root, sighed, then rocked a fraction deeper. Pain fading, her body bathed him in arousal.

"Mm, you're warm," he said. "This must be heaven. But I need to move now, sweetheart. Hold on to me."

They were laughably out of sync, two green horses used to a single harness. He set her feet back on the mattress.

"Let me," he said, smiling to ease her embarra.s.sment. His gray eyes shone with laughter and desire. "Let me take you with me."

And so she did.

He set a slow, easy rhythm. It lasted longer than she expected. He was tight all over by the finish, each stroke marked by a low, rough cry of restraint. She didn't tell him to stop. She sensed how her pleasure rea.s.sured him, how it filled some need she hadn't suspected was there. She peaked twice more before he let go. The last was the best because, as she did, for the first time in her life she felt inside her the distinctive pulsing spasm of a man's intimate flesh, the sudden spiking heat, the sweet wash of seed.

"Roxanne," he groaned. "Roxanne."

The sound was better than any dream.

She was drunk with pleasure in the aftermath, drunk and reckless. When he laid his head sweetly on her breast, she decided she had to know everything.

"Tell me about your family," she said.

If she hadn't been so attuned to him, she would have missed his momentary stiffening. He tried to cover it by kissing her shoulder. "I have four sisters, three brothers-in-law, and twelve nieces and nephews."

"I bet you're the eldest."

"Yes, I am. How did you guess?"

"Your air of stuffy responsibility gave you away."

He started back and stared at her. "My what! No, never mind. I heard you." He wagged his head. " 'Stuffy!'"

"It's not an insult. I think it's s.e.xy."

"Oh, really? Why don't we see how s.e.xy you think it is."

When he lowered his head to kiss her, she curled her hand agreeably behind his neck. Silence reigned except for the sound of mouths moving lingeringly against and into each other.

"Oh, I do like kissing you!" she exclaimed when they paused for breath.

Laughing, he lifted his hips to make himself comfortable. He was hard again.

"Are you close to your family?" she asked, forestalling another kiss.

He raised his brows at the delay. "I suppose I am. When I was little, I couldn't keep them out of my hair. I don't see them as much as I should now because Ia work so much."

She bit her lip against the reserve that had entered his voice. "I just want to know something about you."

"I know." His hand caressed her waist. "Can we make love now? Please?"

"We-ell," she drawled, "since you're asking nicely."

He slipped into her so quickly she gasped.

Before she could catch her breath again, he rolled onto his back, taking her with him. His hands slid between them, first covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then pus.h.i.+ng her upright. His s.e.x flexed inside her.

"You want me to ride you?" she asked, even though the message seemed clear.

He nodded, his eyes glittering up at her. Well, she thought. How hard can it be? Not overly so, apparently. He was easy enough to please. His jaw clenched against a moan as she began to rise, coming up on her knees and then sinking down. Soon she found a rhythm that seemed to suit. She liked the solidity of his hipbones between her inner thighs. The skin across them was velvety, and they c.o.c.ked up nicely to meet her downstrokes. She hadn't known this would come so naturally, or maybe it came naturally because she was doing it with him.

"I'm getting close," he warned, his features tensing. "Let me touch you."

She couldn't keep from clutching him when he did. The involuntary tightening broke his restraint. Crying out harshly, his hips snapped off the mattress to magnify her thrusts. Dampened by their mingled perspiration, the sheets clung to his skin.

"Harder," he gasped. "Yes, yes. More."

The sleighbed creaked beneath the jouncing like an unoiled hinge. She'd never heard anything as s.e.xy as that rising chorus of squeaks and thumps, coming faster and more erratic untila"

"f.u.c.k!" he swore, stiffening in o.r.g.a.s.m.

She stared in fascination as the spasm traveled up his body, bowing his back, his neck, pebbling his nipples, flus.h.i.+ng across his sweating, straining face.

Beautiful, she thought, watching him bare his teeth and quiver.

"Don't you dare apologize," she ordered when he finally collapsed, limp and blinking sweat from his eyes.

He laughed weakly and moved his hands to help her finish.

Roxanne's side of the bed was empty.

"R-roxie," he growled, a sated, happy beast.

The sun was high behind her lace draperies. Yawning mightily, he scratched his chest and belly. Criminy, he felt good. He wasn't going to think about tomorrow. He was just going to enjoy today.

"Roxie!" he called, louder this time, scarcely caring if the boys heard. Despite last night's occasional awkwardness, it had been better than perfect; it had been real. He hadn't made a fool of himself, and he hadn't scared her away. Roxie inspired responses his occasional partners never hada"crazy uninhibited desires.

Best of all, the s.e.x was only going to get better. He was only going to get better.

His masculine gloating evaporated the moment he saw her hobbling back from the bathroom. "Oh, no. I hurt you."

She lowered herself into one of the chairs by the fire. "You had help. And it was worth it."

"Poor baby," he exclaimed, half concerned, half amused. Throwing off the covers, he crossed the soft expanse of carpet and put his head in her lap. Not much of a penance, really. He purred as she stroked his hair. Sweet little hoyden. Fresh from her bath, she wore a silk chemise the color of Medell limes. A lace-trimmed slit ran up it to her thigh. He'd never seen such lounging clothes as she wore; there was hardly anything to them! She must import them. They were definitely not Ohramese. As though magnetized, his hand followed the slit up to the place where some undergarment should have been. He stopped in shock. She was naked beneath the gown.

She laughed throatily at his surprise.

Lifting his head to watch, he was struck by an unexpected pain. Her curls blazed like fire in the lace-cut sun, vivid against the blue chair. She was shaking with laughter, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her shoulders, everything loose, everything warm.

In another world, she would have been perfect for him.

I'm afraid, he realized. He'd thought he could enjoy this diversion for as long as it lasted, that it could stay casual. But she was so beautiful and hea He could nevera Not with her father being who he was. That twist of fate had changed a highly chancy proposition into one that was downright impossible. He'd have to give up everything to keep her, every single thing he had left. Unfortunately, even thinking about leaving made his eyes p.r.i.c.k with tears. He had to swallow hard to keep them back.

She quieted abruptly. "What's wrong?"

He pulled her out of the chair and into a fierce embrace. "I like you so very much," he rasped into her hair.

Roxanne had learned a few things from observing her mother's affairs, one of them being that there weren't many reasons for a man to use that particular guilty-regretful tone. In fact, she could only conceive of one.

No, she thought.

Adrian Phelps was married.

Chapter 10.

It is said that daimyo are better at communicating messages with energy, and rohn are more skilled at reading them. Some rohn even claim to be able to decipher human auras. This has led to the lamentable proliferation of Yamish fortune-tellers in Awar's slums. Though the existence of charlatans is undeniable, your humble chronicler cannot dismiss the practice whole-cloth. As one wise writer said, "Stranger things have pa.s.sed through Heaven and Earth than philosophers can dream of."

a"The True and Irreverent History ofAwar No one could fault Roxie's or Adrian's determination to deny the truth. They had two more days of vigorous and perhaps slightly desperate coupling before they bowed to the inevitable. Adrian had recovered from his injuries. More than recovered. It was time that he go home.

They took the front stairs to the street. Wide and white, the steps circled down the front of the building in a graceful spiral. When they reached the bottom, Adrian looked up through the screw and saw an old bra.s.s lantern hanging from a chain. Spokes of rosy evening light angled in from the windows.

The doctor and his pretty golden wife leaned down from the second floor landing to wish him well. Adrian tried to forget he'd seen them making love. After they left, the silence deepened. Adrian and Roxie were alone.

He kissed her, a brief peck, and repeated his undoubtedly empty vow to call on her. Her eyes crinkled wryly, as if she were mocking the promise in her head. But perhaps she was mocking herself for her reluctance to let him go. Even if her reaction was warranted, he couldn't leave her with that expression. Folding his hands around her jaw, he kissed her slowly, savoring the taste of her, the warmth, the sound of her breathing when the kiss began to sink in. Soon he was running his palms across her shoulders and down her strong back, struggling against a craving to take her one last time in the shadow of the stairs.

Years with her wouldn't be enough to sate him.

When he forced himself to release her, she clung for a moment, then set herself back a step. He couldn't read her now; her guards were as effective as a demon's.

"Take care of yourself," she said.

He didn't trust himself to speak. She couldn't know how accustomed he was to doing just that. Instead, he smiled and touched her cheek before pus.h.i.+ng through the door to the street.

It was his first sight of the wider world in six days, and a bit of a shock. He spared a glance for Roxanne's gallery, admiring the lettering on the window and the tidy pyramid of paint cans in the display. As if to remind him who he really was, his detective's eye caught on the figure of a tall, well-dressed man standing in a shadowed doorway across the street. A n.o.b waiting for an a.s.signation, he supposed. Since he didn't want to be seen lingering, even by other skulkers, Adrian walked quickly toward the nearest hansom post, a slight stiffness in his side his only souvenir of the last few days.

Well, that and the hot ache in his throat, like the beginning of a bad illness.

Given his somber mood, the timing of his departure was appropriate. Awar at sunset always made him wistful, as if some forgotten city had been superimposed upon this one, as if he himself were the ghost of a long dead man. Everything he did, everything he felt had been known before. Maybe not the same way, but close enough to cause the ghost city to resonate with the real, its faded vibration hovering beneath the edge of sight.

Berating himself for his morbid fancies, he hailed a pa.s.sing horse cab.

The nag was an old one, and the ride took longer than he expected. By the time he stepped down in front of the station, an unlovely soot-streaked hulk of pitted red pourstone, he was almost himself again.

Delaying entry a minute more, he stepped to the coffee vendor's neat wooden shack, open despite the hour. As he'd hoped, the usual Yamish woman was there.

"No coffee," she said in her soft, accented voice. "After sunset only tea."

It was a statement, not an apology, at least not that his human ears could hear. "Tea is good," Adrian said, "as long as it's hot."

He watched her brew it in her clever s.h.i.+ny machine, intrigued by her actions as never before. He was almost sorry when she handed him the steaming cup. Ironically, being in her company felt like a small connection to Roxanne.

Annoyed with himself for needing one, he gulped the tea where he stood and set the cup on her counter. She nodded as she drew it away to wash.