Page 53 of Interior Design for Demons
I glance away, my cheeks warming as I think of what I did with Rath in the atrium. “He’s my sponsor. I have to keep him pacified. But he doesn’t own me.” I meet Apollyon’s eyes again. “No one does.”
“Of course not.” Apollyon swirls nearer through the water. His hair is a scarlet sheet rippling along the surface. He is blood and silk and blue fire, wickedly sadistic and compassionate; and despite everything, my stomach swoops and thrills at the nearness of his body to mine. “I had another type of torture experience planned for you, dove—a secret project of my own, one the judges would never have approved.” He reaches past me, his gleaming wet skin inches from my face. Deftly he flips a bottle of shampoo from a shelf into his hand, and pools some of the liquid in his palm. “Turn around.”
Barely breathing, I obey, and he massages the shampoo into my hair, kneading my scalp in the most decadent and relaxing way.
“I had an entire fantasy planned,” he continues. “It involved chains and feathers and clips, and this delightfully tingly ointment I have, and such naughty toys.” His fingertips trail soap bubbles along my spine, and I shiver.
What he’s saying scares me and delights me at the same time. To avoid answering right away I submerge myself in the water again, under pretense of rinsing the suds from my hair. When I resurface, I have words ready, important words.
I wipe away the water beading on my lips. “I’ve never been into that bondage stuff, but—if you need to chain me and clamp me and tease me with toys—or if you want me to do that to you, I—I will. I’m not afraid.”
He brings his mouth near mine, his cool tongue darting out to flick over my lips. “I’ve used those tools and toys often, to find diversion and relief. But they don’t seem important when I’m with you like this. I think perhaps you’re enough, wholesome and sweet and human as you are. You refresh me. You—cleanse me.”
His words unsettle me a little—too much pressure, too much assumption of what I am. He claims to know me, to understand me, but his view might be a little skewed, and I feel honor-bound to correct it. “Maybe I seem wholesome and sweet compared to the demons here, but there’s darkness in me, too.”
“I know,” he says. “You have layers, and corners, and shades of richest color. So much delightful texture and dimension, and most of it born of pain, emotional pain. Your past has given you such exquisite flavors.”
“There you go again, sounding like you want to eat me,” I murmur, my mouth drifting over his, not quite touching.
“I do,” he whispers. “Terribly.”
“But I’m all swollen, and you’re itchy and painful.”
“An orgasm is the best cure for a headache. And I don’t care how you look. Frankly, I’ve bedded much, much worse.”
I squint at him. “Not sure if I should be offended by that statement…”
“Don’t be,” he says, and disappears under the water.
The next minute Apollyon is between my legs. And he stays there for longer than a human could, nibbling and swirling with his mouth one second, massaging and probing with his fingers the next. Compared to my last eight hours of horror, the sensations I’m feeling are exponentially heightened. When he comes back up, not breathless at all, I almost whine, because I was so close to the edge.
“Do you—need to breathe?” I gasp.
“Not exactly,” he says. “When we’re in human aspect, we conform to a human body’s rules—a heartbeat, breathing, and such. We have to blend convincingly with the human world, you see. But we can bend the rules of this form, within certain parameters, especially when we’re in Hell.” He moves in, tracing a fingertip over my lips, which still feel a bit sore and puffy in places despite the pain he took away. “I am sorry for this,” he says softly. “For everything I put you through.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “In your own messed-up way, you were trying to help me. And now, please just stop talking and touch me again.”
He laughs and flips me around in the water so my back is seamed to his slick chest, and his hand cups between my legs. Gently he parts my folds and eases himself inside, the entire thick length of him disappearing into me. Sex in the water never sounded that comfortable—not ideal for lubrication—but somehow, with him, it works. He keeps drawing delicate little circles and rippling his fingers over me, bringing me close to the edge again while he pumps in and out from behind. His sharp teeth prick along the curve of my ear, the corner of my jaw, my neck. The feel of that hard, hot shaft moving inside me is so deeply satisfying, so incredibly erotic, I can hardly bear it. Raw moans of delight vibrate from his chest through my skin, and I shiver with the joy of knowing what I do to him.
“I wish I could swallow you into myself,” he pants, biting my shoulder lightly. “Or that you could swallow me whole, devour me entire.”
“You strange, sentimental dragon,” I say softly. I hook my arm behind, around his neck, drawing him down as I angle my mouth to his. I arch against him, one hand on his thigh, using the leverage to move on him even as he glides into me. His hand quickens its pace, fingers circling, toying with the sensitive nub of nerves—he drives in hard, deep, and a bolt of pleasure races up my spine, cresting closer, closer—
“Come for me, Grace,” he whispers, and those words finish me. I’m aching, throbbing, crying, shattering for him again and again. When he comes he arches, bucking violently, nearly sending us both underwater. But then he curves his body forward, over mine, and holds me, and we ride the pulsating current together. This time I don’t black out—I force myself to breathe in tandem with him, to center myself with the details of the moment—with the water beading in glittering crystal drops on his skin, and his heartbeat thrumming through my back, his arm braced across my chest, and his hand splayed protectively, lovingly over my lower belly.
Lovingly.
I shrink from the word as soon as I think it, because I don’t dare entertain that idea. He’s not capable of the right kind of love—is he? And I don’t know if I could settle for whatever he has to offer, if anything. Besides, I’ll probably die in this competition. Or I’ll be a winner, and I’ll be sent back to Earth to live out my human life, away from him.
The ecstasy is fading, smoothing itself into a gentle calm. I lay my fingers over the demon’s hand on my stomach. “If I die in this competition, you have to promise you’ll come to torture my soul sometimes.”
Apollyon makes a harsh, pained sound. “Why would you say that? Don’t talk like that, dove.”
“I’m serious. I’ll be glad to see you. You’ll be the one bright, beautiful thing in my eternity of suffering. I’ll bet the people you torture love you for it. I’ll bet they get turned on—how does that even work, though? How do they have bodies to torment when their souls have been split from their bodies, and theiractualbodies are buried in the Earthly plane?”
“They are given physical forms for the purpose of torture, forms much like mine, that aren’t natural flesh and blood, but an imitation of the real thing.” Apollyon disengages himself from me. “Your pillow talk is morbid, Grace.”
“We’re not in bed, so I’m not obliged to provide pillow talk.” I revolve in the water, facing him. He looks gorgeous and flushed and very displeased with me. I love it. “So do people get turned on when you torture them?”
