Free Demon Moon by Meljean Brook Page B

that? At his elongated canines, the sharp white line of his teeth. But it was safer than looking at his eyes and risking 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 light masculine fragrance with 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. “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.”
    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.
    Surely nothing good would come of this. He’d measured his desire against his sense for hours. In the end, he was simply too selfish a creature; no matter how heavy the consequences, his need outweighed them.
    Her scent had tormented him. Distance hadn’t helped. He’d watched her on the dance floor, as she sat at the bar and drank with an unquenchable thirst that seemed to equal his own, alternating between alcohol and water as if searching for anything to give her ease.
    Her skin burned through the silk of her shirt; whatever she’d been searching for, she apparently hadn’t found it.
    Terrible and frightening had been the moment when he’d taken the woman he’d seen on the stairs, and realized his hunger had not abated—when he’d realized Savitri had caused it, and was likely the solution. But she was no different from any other woman: all without flavor but for their blood.
    Her lips pressed tentatively against his, and his stomach hollowed in relief. He was hard, aching for her, but there was nothing magical in this. Just a kiss, something he’d experienced thousands of times with thousands of women.
    Just her fragrance, tickling at a memory and creating an involuntary response. It must be.
    Her mouth