Page 21 of Interior Design for Demons
“Well, well, well.” He approaches my bed, his topaz eyes glittering. “Getting a few piercings, are we, darling? I rather prefer your form as it is, but it’s your body, to do with as you please. For now.” His smirk deepens.
“I don’t want the piercings.” I hold his gaze with my own, desperate and pleading. Hemusthelp me. Rath isn’t coming, and Apollyon is the next best thing.
“Afraid of pain, my sweet?” He moves to the side of the bed opposite Slate and her needles.
Tears glaze my eyes in spite of myself, and my voice shakes. “I just want to shower and take a nap before I have to dress for the event tonight. I might only have one night of life left, and is it too much to ask to not spend it writhing and bleeding? I don’t want this—” I turn my focus to Slate and Rusala— “and if you go through with it, I’ll ask for a new team. You won’t get your chance at a promotion, or any extra privileges. So—get the fuck off me!”
Slate hisses, and Rusala’s pressure on my sternum increases. My protest only made them more keen to go through with it.
But Apollyon waves a long-fingered hand—a hand bearing a single ring, a tiny skull with sapphire eyes and spikes of black iron. “Away,” he commands. “Begone until the party tonight.”
Hissing and growling, the two lesser demons crawl off my bed and retreat. “See you later, Grace.” Slate waves to me from the doorway. “No hard feelings?”
“No—as long as you don’t try this again. I’m sure there are others you can torture. This is Hell, after all.”
“True enough.” Rusala blows me a kiss. “Oh—before I go—” He darts to the closet and, after a moment’s consideration, draws out a burgundy dress, which he drapes over a chair. “For tonight.”
And then they really do leave, closing the door behind them. I lie limp and exhausted on the bed, conscious that I’m even smellier and dirtier right now than the last time Apollyon saw me. Surely that will end his desire for my body.
He sits on the edge of my bed and leans across me, one hand braced on the mattress. His other hand hovers over my exposed breast, so close I can feel the warmth of his palm. I nearly arch upward to complete the contact.
There’s a sharp prettiness to his face, a lean white-marble beauty to his body, so different from Rath’s light tan and swelling muscles.
When Apollyon bends toward me, his hair falls like a crimson curtain, enclosing us both. I instinctively inhale, craving the sweet coolness of his breath. It’s like a song that you hear on the radio once, and you love it but you don’t know the title, so you can never find it again.
Apollyon is the song I didn’t know I was missing.
And suddenly I don’t care—about the rules, about Rath, about any of it. I justwant.
My fingers interlace at the back of Apollyon’s neck, and I pull his mouth to mine.
Electricity ripples through my whole body, bolts of exquisite sensation zinging straight to my core. Apollyon’s throat hums with his satisfaction, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping over mine. Again and again our mouths shift and meld, finding new angles and new points of pleasure and pressure.
Then he breaks away, only to lift me bodily and carry me into the bathroom. He draws off my shirt, removes my bra—I help him with my jeans and the underwear beneath them.
“Get in the shower.” His words are a husky whisper, delivered through lips swollen from my kisses.
I obey, shivering with delight as the hot water flows over my tired body. I open my eyes just in time to see Apollyon’s pants hit the floor.
He’s like a statue of a Greek god, except those poor guys were never this well-endowed.
Apollyon steps into the shower with me. I stand mesmerized under the raining water while he unwraps a bar of deliciously scented soap. He lathers both palms with it, sets it on a nearby ledge, and touches me, spreading the lather across my shoulders, under my arms. When his slick palms slide over my breasts, my belly tightens and I nearly whimper with need.
More lather, more gliding of his soapy fingers over my skin. His pupils are dilated, his lips parted, and his eyes follow the path of his hands. He seems to be utterly fascinated with my flesh, the way it yields under his fingers. He takes extra time kneading my rear, gathering it with his palms.
And then, without warning, a long stroke between my legs, diving deep and sliding upward where he swirls his fingers unbearably over a certain spot. His fingers glide along the crease until I’m seeing white, panting against his shoulder.
His fingers follow the same path several times, delicately drawing the same circles at the top. I surge against his palm, and he reacts to my need for pressure, grinding the heel of his hand against me while his fingers play—almost, almost there—and finally I come hard, shaking and whimpering against him.
“It’s even better with a demon inside you,” he whispers in my ear.
The words heat my insides again. But I’m not sure I want to let him in—some cautious part of my mind tells me to reserve that deeper connection for later, or maybe for someone else.
Still, there’s no reason I shouldn’t give Apollyon some pleasure, too.
I move around him, letting my body slide against his wet skin. His hair is a slick blood-red sheet down his back, and I gather it and move it aside so I can kiss a path down his spine. Standing behind him, with my breasts pressed against his back, I slip my arms around his waist and close my fingers around his length. He twitches in my hand, a soft gasp breaking from him.
The sense of power this moment gives me is intoxicating. I have a demon in the palm of my hand, literally. He’s tense, immobile—helpless to my touch.
