Demon Lover by Kathleen Creighton Read Free Book Online Page A

silence, his eyes sliding over her from her bare toes in the brown leather sandals, the light blue jeans rolled to the ankles and fitting smoothly over her thighs, to the soft, blousy shirt, which she had chosen to wear loose and belted, its sleeves rolled to the elbow. The blue eyes rested for a moment on the slash of color at her narrow waist, then continued on upward, sliding over the deep V between the swell of her unbound breasts, the long, tanned column of her neck, and narrowed slightly as they scrutinized her face. He stepped forward, put one hand on her shoulder and, with the other, tilted her face toward the light. At last he nodded.
    "Do I pass?" Julie asked unsteadily. She put the hollow, butterfly feeling in her stomach down to acute starvation.
    "Your hair’s wet."
    "I washed it."
    The smuggler nodded again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It’s all right. Gives you a kind of drowned look—along with those big brown eyes. That scared look is good too. Try to hang on to it."
    "That shouldn’t be difficult," Julie said dryly.
    He reached out to touch her chin with a finger. "That bruise is a nice touch, too."
    "Thanks a lot." She was beginning to be annoyed by the continuing examination, but the smuggler had begun to frown and shake his head. "What’s wrong?"
    "You still don’t look right."
    "Sorry," she muttered acidly. "I’m doing my best."
    "You just don’t have the look of a woman who’s been well and thoroughly bedded."
    "No kidding!" Julie exploded incredulously. She gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do. It’s really too bad I’m not an expert on that subject, but I’m sure you are, so why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to look like?"
    He rubbed his chin, his fingers making a dry, rasping sound against the rough stubble. Suddenly he looked at his fingers and then back at her face, and his eyes narrowed. "Come here," he growled softly.
     

C hapter 3
    J ULIE SHOOK HER head and took a backward step. He came after her and took her by the shoulders.
    "Hold still."
    "What…what are you doing?" Her voice came out sounding high and frightened, and she put out her hands to ward him off. They came up flat against his chest, and she felt the moist heat of it penetrate the fabric of his shirt.
    "I’m putting the finishing touches on your makeup," he said, and, leaning down, drew his whiskery jaw across her cheek.
    She gasped and uttered a small, shocked cry, pulling back from the abrasive contact. He let go of her shoulders and moved his hands to her head, holding it still while he rubbed his face against hers, burning her skin with his beard. Then he tilted her head back and she felt the painful rasp on the soft, delicate skin of her neck.
    It was so completely unexpected, such a devastating assault on her unguarded senses, that she was paralyzed with shock. She gripped his forearms, more for support than with any hope of moving him. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out; she couldn’t even breathe. Tears rushed to her eyes. She squeezed them shut and managed to gasp, "Please—you’re hurting me."
    His head tilted away from her cheek. She felt moisture, cool on the hot, abraded skin of her neck, and then a gentle, drawing pressure. After a moment he bent lower, his mouth nuzzling the skin revealed by the deep slash of her shirt, seeking the soft, white top of her breast.
    Julie heard herself whimper, "No…" and her hands came up to his head, her fingers tangling in his hair as she tried desperately to pull him away. Her legs were shaky…weak; her knees buckled, and she clutched at his shoulders for support.
    His mouth closed over her tender flesh and he sucked gently… then harder, bringing blood to the skin’s surface, leaving an indelible mark. His mark. His brand of ownership.
    He straightened then, and she drew a shuddering breath, thinking he’d finished with her. He took her hands from his shoulders and held them by the wrists, spreading