breasts.
“Are you going to let go or what?”
Caspian looked tempted to rub his jaw. Instead, he said, “It was worth it.”
She started whacking at his hands. “Let. Go. Of. Me.” An ineffectual little slap punctuated each of her words.
“Hot pokers couldn’t make me let go.”
He smirked again, and double damn if Grace didn’t find that to be sexy as hell. Damn him! She pulled her fist back, but this time Caspian was ready. He let go of one breast to catch her arm midair. So, Grace did what was logical. She used the other. Granted, she wouldn’t be able to hit as hard, but it would get her point across.
Caspian wasn’t about to be clobbered again, so he let go of the other breast to catch her other arm. Now Grace found herself in a much more precarious situation. She was pressed against the flimsy wall of the Avenue dressing room, naked but for her brand-new, cheeky-lace panties and a push-up bra, with a demon that looked like he could win the Ultimate Fighting Championship tournament rubbing up against her in all the right places. Her body tightened with anticipation at the same time that it cried out for her stop. If her pussy had a voice, it would have said, “Hell no! What the fuck is wrong with you? He might be hot, girl, but that dick is just too big. We are closed for business.”
Grace was in trouble. She wasn’t listening to her pussy. Caspian’s voice was like silk, smooth and seductive, and she burned for more of his touch.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to let go,” she growled, trying to fight her attraction. “Some B.S. about hot pokers. You can’t tell me that my fist is anything like a hot poker.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek and throat; his breath was warm on her ear. He seemed to like to do that, and she liked it, too—it made her shiver every time. Which of course he knew. He’d been seducing women for thousands of years, and Grace doubted that her erogenous zones were that unique.
“It is to my heart, Gracie. You wound me through and through.” His mouth settled on the pulse in her throat.
“You don’t have a heart,” she whispered.
He maneuvered her weak and aching body to suit his pleasure. He was holding her hands above his head with one hand, but the other was now free to roam. It found her breast again. His skin was rough, something that still surprised her. He was a Crown Prince, so were there no moisturizers in Hell? Were his fingers rough from honest labor before he’d been damned? Who was Caspian, aside from the man—no, demon—that was making her so very wet?
“Caspian, please,” she begged.
“Please, what?” he asked as a thumb and forefinger taunted her nipple. “Please make you scream? Please fuck you hard? Please what, Grace?”
“I can’t,” she cried out, though her hips angled forward and she arched into his touch.
“Oh, I think you can,” the demon said.
“I’m still sore,” she pleaded, but she was caught up in a spell. She was ensnared in a web of desire, and Caspian was the spider.
A spider. It wasn’t a romantic image. In fact, it terrified her. But not only was this a matter of not being able to resist, she didn’t want to try. The danger only made her hotter. That’s how she’d gotten tangled up with Michael at first, and a demon was certainly more dangerous than a Russian mobster. He’d also proven better in bed, which was hard to do. Although Michael was a shit in all other aspects of his life, he was a generous and talented lover when he chose.
Caspian claimed her mouth, his lips brutal against hers. “A little pain can be fun,” he said, his voice a physical force. It was a caress, as if it were a corporeal being sliding over her. Inside her.
“Caspian, I mean it.” But Grace didn’t sound like she meant it to even her own ears.
“How about a gift?” he asked as his hand drifted lower, past the filmy lace of her new “dating” knickers. He pushed one finger against her clit, inciting
“Are you going to let go or what?”
Caspian looked tempted to rub his jaw. Instead, he said, “It was worth it.”
She started whacking at his hands. “Let. Go. Of. Me.” An ineffectual little slap punctuated each of her words.
“Hot pokers couldn’t make me let go.”
He smirked again, and double damn if Grace didn’t find that to be sexy as hell. Damn him! She pulled her fist back, but this time Caspian was ready. He let go of one breast to catch her arm midair. So, Grace did what was logical. She used the other. Granted, she wouldn’t be able to hit as hard, but it would get her point across.
Caspian wasn’t about to be clobbered again, so he let go of the other breast to catch her other arm. Now Grace found herself in a much more precarious situation. She was pressed against the flimsy wall of the Avenue dressing room, naked but for her brand-new, cheeky-lace panties and a push-up bra, with a demon that looked like he could win the Ultimate Fighting Championship tournament rubbing up against her in all the right places. Her body tightened with anticipation at the same time that it cried out for her stop. If her pussy had a voice, it would have said, “Hell no! What the fuck is wrong with you? He might be hot, girl, but that dick is just too big. We are closed for business.”
Grace was in trouble. She wasn’t listening to her pussy. Caspian’s voice was like silk, smooth and seductive, and she burned for more of his touch.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to let go,” she growled, trying to fight her attraction. “Some B.S. about hot pokers. You can’t tell me that my fist is anything like a hot poker.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek and throat; his breath was warm on her ear. He seemed to like to do that, and she liked it, too—it made her shiver every time. Which of course he knew. He’d been seducing women for thousands of years, and Grace doubted that her erogenous zones were that unique.
“It is to my heart, Gracie. You wound me through and through.” His mouth settled on the pulse in her throat.
“You don’t have a heart,” she whispered.
He maneuvered her weak and aching body to suit his pleasure. He was holding her hands above his head with one hand, but the other was now free to roam. It found her breast again. His skin was rough, something that still surprised her. He was a Crown Prince, so were there no moisturizers in Hell? Were his fingers rough from honest labor before he’d been damned? Who was Caspian, aside from the man—no, demon—that was making her so very wet?
“Caspian, please,” she begged.
“Please, what?” he asked as a thumb and forefinger taunted her nipple. “Please make you scream? Please fuck you hard? Please what, Grace?”
“I can’t,” she cried out, though her hips angled forward and she arched into his touch.
“Oh, I think you can,” the demon said.
“I’m still sore,” she pleaded, but she was caught up in a spell. She was ensnared in a web of desire, and Caspian was the spider.
A spider. It wasn’t a romantic image. In fact, it terrified her. But not only was this a matter of not being able to resist, she didn’t want to try. The danger only made her hotter. That’s how she’d gotten tangled up with Michael at first, and a demon was certainly more dangerous than a Russian mobster. He’d also proven better in bed, which was hard to do. Although Michael was a shit in all other aspects of his life, he was a generous and talented lover when he chose.
Caspian claimed her mouth, his lips brutal against hers. “A little pain can be fun,” he said, his voice a physical force. It was a caress, as if it were a corporeal being sliding over her. Inside her.
“Caspian, I mean it.” But Grace didn’t sound like she meant it to even her own ears.
“How about a gift?” he asked as his hand drifted lower, past the filmy lace of her new “dating” knickers. He pushed one finger against her clit, inciting
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