Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(44)

He pressed the cloth to her chest, softly rubbing her with easy strokes. Despite herself she was intrigued by this unexpected side of him. Amazingly, she found herself relaxing.

With one hand, he unhurriedly scrubbed. With his other he covered one shoulder, his palm warm over her skin. So lightly, he pressed his thumb against her muscle there, massaging.

When she moaned, he must have taken this as a sign of her surrender, because masculine satisfaction surged through him—fueling her power once more.

The cloth was momentarily forgotten as he used the backs of his fingers to skim her cheek, her jawline, then the length of her neck and lower.

With decisive action, he’d hunted, he’d warred, and he’d protected her. Now he was tentative as he traced the lines of her shoulders, his eyes following his every movement. No man had ever looked at her as he did—like she was the best thing in the world.

He caressed the pads of his fingers over her collarbone so tenderly that she was staggered by his gentleness. Such a killer, such a warrior, yet look at what he was capable of.

He murmured to her in Demonish. She didn’t understand the words, but she recognized the tone—wonderment. For the first time in her life, Carrow felt treasured. And, gods, that was a heady feeling. I could get addicted to this.

From her collarbone, he smoothed his forefinger down . . . down. Just as he was about to reach her nipple, when she was trembling for that contact, he let out a shuddering breath and circled the peak.

She bit her lip. No, touch me there, demon!

Instead he returned the cloth to her chest, seeming determined to wash her as she’d done him.

But when she arched her back while whispering, “Please, demon,” he groaned, dipping the cloth over her breasts, across her achy nipples.

She gave a cry, earning another lash of satisfaction from him, power pouring from him to her, enabling her magic again.

As her eyes slid shut, she hazily debated: Heal my wrist, or force the demon to release me?

Beneath the cloth, his sneaky thumb swept over her nipple. “Oh, Malkom, yes.”

Her wrist? Good as new.





18




Determined to wash all of her body, Malkom somehow dragged his hands away from her breasts.

He would minister to her for as long as she had to him. Even if this meant denying his swollen shaft or ignoring the breasts that she offered up.

When she arched her back . . .and they begged for his attention.

So he ran the cloth from her chest to one of her shoulders, rubbing and massaging down to her fingertips. Her other arm received the same attention. He paused at both of her hands, fascinated by how small and fragile they were, comparing their size to his own hands.

Everything about her body was utterly feminine. Her thighs were shapely, her backside generous, her hips flaring out from a tiny waist. He marveled at every sweep of creamy skin, every womanly swell and dip.

He was exploring her—and for some reason, she was allowing him to fully.

Among all his other discoveries, he’d noticed that she had no hair on her legs or under her arms. Aside from her long mane atop her head, and the intriguing patch betwixt her legs, her body was bare.

But he loved how smooth her skin was, how her body was so different from his.

Next came her back. He turned her around, tugging her hair forward over one shoulder. He was tempted to press his mouth against her nape but feared he would alarm her after his earlier bites.

Instead, he worked both the cloth and his bare hand in circular motions from her neck down to the curves of her backside, as if polishing a treasure.

He turned her to face him once more, laying a palm over one of her generous hips to pin her as he ran the cloth upward from her knees. She was shaking under his hand.

“Do not stop me, Carrow,” he told her in Demonish, his voice rough. “I will not hurt you again.”



The demon certainly had been thorough, washing every inch of her from the navel up—and occasionally lower. He’d even slipped the side of his hand between her cheeks, making her start in alarm, but he’d merely continued his task.

Now he steadily rubbed up her thighs, inch by agonizing inch as he murmured to her in a husky voice. She was shivering, holding her breath, anticipating his “washing” her.

But it wasn’t a cloth that touched her there—he’d cupped her in his hot, callused palm.

“Oh!”

Shuddering with pleasure, he rasped, “Sife ara.” Soft female.

With his other hand clamped over her hip, he held her steady as his forefinger began to investigate her sex, tickling her as it tentatively roved. Between his lean hips, his shaft pulsed with excitement, his piercings glinting across his taut flesh.

Soon, she couldn’t comprehend how he’d controlled himself for as long as he had when she’d washed him. Already, she was on the verge, wanting his mouth on hers as she climaxed. “Kiss me.”

“Kiiiss?”

Caught up in the moment, she stood on her toes. Holding his face between her hands, she pressed her lips against his.

He froze, clearly not knowing what to do.

“Did I freak you out again?” she asked against his lips, their breaths mingling. His eyes were still open, his expression confounded. Damn it, she’d made a point to let him drive the boat. “Got too excited. Sorry.” She began to draw away, afraid he’d start throwing fists. “Won’t happen again—”