Demon Lover by Kathleen Creighton Read Free Book Online Page B

her arms away from him, surveying his handiwork through half–closed eyes. And then he slipped his arms around her, pulled her close and turned his attention to her mouth.
    He kissed her long and hard, his mouth deliberately bruising, intent only on leaving her looking swollen and ravished. Julie made small noises of protest in her throat, but it was impossible to resist such a prolonged and purposeful assault; inevitably she had to open to him. With a deep–throated groan of frustration and defeat, she felt her neck muscles relax and her head fall back.
    But something was happening to the kiss. It had altered in intent and execution, so subtly at first she never knew exactly how or when it began to be something else entirely. His head shifted, finding a new, less punitive melding; her hands touched his shirt collar, the warm skin under the hair on the back of his neck. His hands slid over her back, curving downward over her buttocks to press her into his body, stroking back up along her spine to support her head. His lips were firm but no longer hard; they teased and aroused rather than plundered. His tongue took moisture from their mouths and soothed and bathed her burning, tingling lips, slipping and sliding over the contours of her mouth, drawing responses from her that were as wanton as they were distressing.
    And then, abruptly, it ended. He lifted his head, leaving her mouth cold and moist, and for an instant his demon’s eyes burned into hers with that blue fire. Then once more he took her wrists and lifted her arms from his shoulders, holding her at arm’s length.
    "Now," he said harshly, "you’ll do fine." He took her hand and led her like a child to the door.
    "Wait—" Julie protested, stumbling a little on legs that felt like rubber. "I can’t—my hair—"
    He gave her a swift, impatient glance. "Perfect—looks like you just got out of bed. Come on. Let’s not keep our audience waiting."
    His voice was dry and cool, but although he himself appeared completely unaffected, he was not altogether unsympathetic. At the door he slipped an arm around her waist to help her make the long step to the ground, and he kept it there for support as they crossed the uneven ground.
    Julie wasn’t in any condition to be observant as she stumbled through the dark in the curve of the smuggler’s unyielding arm. She had an impression of soft velvety skies, stars glimmering on water, the smell of the sea, and a hundred small unidentifiable night sounds. A beautiful, romantic night, under different circumstances. Few dwellings, and those small and widely spaced, flimsily built, with pale light and soft voices escaping through cracks and unglazed windows. A remote and primitive place. There would be no help for her here.
    They stopped at the open door of an adobe not much larger than her parents’ garage back in Canoga Park. Good smells drifted out to them through the lighted rectangle, making Julie’s stomach turn painfully under her ribs. As he answered a greeting from within, Chayne gave her arm a warning squeeze and stepped across the threshold, pulling her after him.
    For a moment she was disoriented; the scene of calm domesticity was so normal, so ordinary that it seemed unreal. It was like a dream in which the familiar and commonplace becomes interwoven with the fantastic. Dutiful wife at a small gas stove, lifting her head to cast a look of quickly veiled curiosity before turning back to stir a steaming pot; shirt–sleeved husband at the table sipping coffee, lifting his hand and smiling a welcome. They might have been suburban neighbors getting together for a friendly backyard barbecue.
    But the adobe was lit by a kerosene lantern, its floor was hard–packed earth, and sea–scented breezes blew in through the unshuttered windows, setting the lamp swaying so that it cast weird, moving shadows. A child of indeterminate age and gender slept in the middle of a double bed in the corner, arms flung wide and soft lips