Deamon's Daughter Part 4

The pleasure this inspired was perturbing.

"So you, um, traveled with her?" He s.h.i.+fted his crutch to a more comfortable position. "All over the world?"

She nodded distractedly. "Until she died."

And then she did look at him. Her uncanny eyes seemed to glow, but to him they were as lovely as the rest of her. In the light from the rippled green windows, her lashes gleamed like spikes of gold. They were surprisingly thick. Adrian imagined them fluttering against his cheek as she climaxed and couldn't contain a blush.

Lord, he was a b.l.o.o.d.y schoolboy around her.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," she said with an apologetic smile. Her lips were full and sensual, the upper peaks sharp, the lower curve slightly boweda"her mother's mouth, he now saw. "I know you were trying to be kind."

"Roxanne," he blurted before he could think better of it. "Is Max yours?"

Her head jerked back, and she stiffened. "Max and Charles are my cousins. Their parents died, and now I'm taking care of them."

He knew she was lying. Fear was shaking through her limbs. He touched the side of her face, smoothing a curl of orange-gold off her temple. "It doesn't matter. I don't care who they are."

"They're my cousins," she insisted.

He pulled her into his arms and tucked her head beside the crook of his neck. Though he didn't hold her tightly, the contact was instantly erotic. To his gratification, he found he was a few inches taller than she was. Immensely happy, he stroked her back and rubbed his jaw across her hair, not thinking about his job or her secrets, just holding her, just soaking up her essence. Her tremors began to ease.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he said, and she squeezed his waist. His pulse jumped another notch.

She leaned back far enough to see his face, her hips resting lightly against his. She must have felt the strong, rhythmic leap of his arousal, but he couldn't make himself move away.

"Does this mean you'll stop poking through my things?" she said. "Give up searching for signs of some absent protector?"

For a moment he was too befuddled by desire to follow her meaning. When he did, he locked his arms behind her back and hitched her closer. She didn't protest. In fact, her eyes gleamed with excitement.

His chest rose and fell more deeply.

"So there aren't any cigar stubs?" He dared to punctuate the question with a slow forward roll of his hips.

Her breath caught. Then she shook her head.

"No razor strops?" His hands raked down the firm swell of her bottom, tilting her to him. He paused, giving her time to refuse him, steeling himself to stop if she asked.

"No," she whispered, and instantly sent his pulse slamming through his veins.

Her lips parted, her tongue glistening pink between them. He thought if he didn't kiss her he might expire. She licked her delectable upper lip, and he heard himself begin to pant.

He moaned her name, his mouth already there.

Slowly, slowly, their lips closed on each other, their tongues soft, then hard, then soft again. Her muscles melted against him, conforming to his shape. She pushed away the crutch, and then he was leaning back against the cold metal shelf, a roll of canvas digging unheeded into his shoulder.

He widened his stance, and she rubbed her mound against his erection like a love-starved cat, prolonging the motion until he thought he'd go insane. G.o.d, it was good. Root to tip, she went, as if measuring him for insertion. The roll of her hips pressed the head of his c.o.c.k against his abdomen, sc.r.a.ping the delicate skin against his hair. Famished for a more enveloping touch, he sighed as she s.h.i.+fted closer. Beneath her fitted cotton trousers, the softness of her s.e.xual lips compressed his straining arch. The blood pounded there like a third, shared heart.

He turned his head to deepen the kiss, thrusting his hands into the crisp, cool waves of her hair. He filled her mouth with his tongue and met nothing but acceptance. She kissed with the boldness of a man and the subtlety of a woman. Surrender and engagement. Bra.s.s and flirtation. A groan of pure male l.u.s.t rumbled in his chest. He drew her tongue into his mouth and suckled it.

This is your bud of pleasure, he thought, his lips imprisoning the soft flesh as his tongue circled and flicked. As if the thought had indeed been willed to her mind, she shuddered and pressed closer.

Her hands ironed the back of his s.h.i.+rt, up and down, left and right. He wanted them on his skin. Cursing, he yanked the s.h.i.+rt out of his trousers and urged her arms under the cloth. Yes, that was better. Her hold was strong and warm, her hands wonderfully curious.

But it was becoming difficult to breathe.

He broke free to gasp for air, then kissed her again, harder than before. Surely breathing wasn't that important. In his delight, a moment pa.s.sed before he realized she was kissing him back just as greedily. The revelation was heart-stopping. She wanted him. She was as hungry for this as he was.

Her hands touched his spine beneath his waistband, an intimate touch, the touch of a soon-to-be lover. He froze at the implication, and so did she.

"Yes," he whispered against her lips. "Please put your hands on me."

This was the encouragement she needed. Her palms drifted lower, under his linen. Her fingers cupped his b.u.t.tocks, her thumbs parting the cleft. The sensation was unexpectedly arousing. It raised an itch her fingers moved to soothe, following the curve of his cheeks. His head dropped back and hit the shelf with a clang. The tips of her fingers sent sparks skittering across his nerves, a strange heat that coursed through the darkest reaches of his body. He could hardly believe she was doing this. It struck him that she wasn't afraid of anything. She would touch him anywhere he asked. But he wouldn't be able to stand it. As it was, he trembled on the edge of climax, his b.a.l.l.s knotting in preparation. He should stop her before he embarra.s.sed himself, but he wanteda"he sucked a quick, hard breatha"he wanted to know what she'd do next.

His teeth ground together as her hands advanced. Her fingers curled between his inner thighs. She hesitated.

"Yes," he urged again, opening his legs still wider so she could brush his s.c.r.o.t.u.m from behind, her height just allowing it. The loose skin moved beneath her gentle tugging, making its fullness sway.

"Adrian," she whispered, a rasp of sound. "You're so heavy. Can you feel what's happening between us? Can you feel what you do to me?"

She squirmed closer, her leg climbing his, her foot braced against the apple of his calf. The seam that covered the tender peach of her s.e.x clung to his erection as if it had been steamed. She was wet. Wet enough to penetrate all the layers of cloth between them.

The realization was more than he could take. Consideration be d.a.m.ned. He had to have her. He couldn't wait another second. He fumbled desperately for the catch of her trousers, shuddering as she s.h.i.+fted around to cup his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. Her fingers tightened.

Her name tore from his throat. His head jerked forward.

She lifted her mouth for another kiss, kneading him with such perfect, welcome pressure he feared he'd cry.

And then they heard Max in the hall, calling out their names. Adrian cursed as he drew back. He knew he wasn't going to have her now after all.

Chapter 6.

The Yama exchange energy amongst themselves all the time, though they needn't touch to do it, and it doesn't have the same effect on them as when they feed off humans. Fire-talking, as it is known, is integral to their culturea"a silent, second language. Messages conveyed run from "I'm tired" to "Good morning" to "You: lower than a worm! Get out of my way." Naturally, only daimyo, with their control over the essentially emotional nature of this energy, could send communications so nuanced.

When Captain DuBarry, the human who first discovered demons, appeared on their icy doorstep, he was treateda"ostensibly at leasta"as a guest. Following the dinner thrown in his honor at the residence of Narikerr's head daimyo, a lovely Yamish woman was sent to his room. Imagine her surprise when her foreign lover provided quite the extra charge. She had no choice but to abandon her initial orders to kill the man when she was done. Her employer, the prince of the city, had a right to consider this extraordinary, and unexpected, development.

In less official accounts, Yamish witnesses report that DuBarry was moderately handsome, hung like a horse, and possessed the charm of an energetic puppy. It is possible these traits also influenced the a.s.sa.s.sin's decision to spare his life.

a"The True and Irreverent History of Awar Like all Yamish diplomats, Herrington was a spy. His posting in Awar was a mark of the regard with which the Emperor's inner circle held him, but also a sign that his family, established though it was, did not inhabit the ruling ranks. No one would ask those rarified flowers to interact with lower beings, much less to immerse themselves in the stream of alien life. Apart from a few Yamish necessities one couldn't be expected to live without, Herrington's house was a human house. His clothes, his servants, even his name had been altered to mimic human customs. After thirty-some years in this city, he wasa"G.o.ds help hima"beginning to think human thoughts.

His handlers approved of him "going native." Not the thought part, per se; that slow evolution he kept to himself. The rest of his observations, however, provided them with a window both on human life and on how their criminal cla.s.ses were adjusting to their grand experiment.

That he himself was under equally close scrutiny, Herrington was well aware. He ignored the attention as best he could. To dwell on such things was to write one's feelings about them in one's energy, where other daimyo could read them and pa.s.s judgment. Herrington saved indulging in annoyance for when he was alone.

The strain wore on him occasionally, especially in the years since he'd lost his sister's company. On the other hand, there really was no point in lamenting one's place in life. Without a place, and a purpose, he'd be no better than a rohn.

At the moment, Herrington was not alone, though his companion was just his human footman. They were engaged in one of his continuing quests, the comprehension of human creative arts, an activity that had no equivalent for Yamish-kind.

Fortunately, his butler, Albert, had no trouble locating the woman's gallery. Human or not, Albert was a prize. Herrington wished it had been proper to ask him to drive to McAllister's. This silly footman was no use whatsoever with the electric car. Humans had recently developed these contraptions by adapting Yamish generators to the purposes of propulsiona"an accomplishment of which Herrington was secretly proud. The vehicles might be inelegant, but they worked. Sadly, they didn't work equally well for everyone. Herrington could have driven better than this man, though it wouldn't do to be seen motoring himself around.

By "native" standards, that would have resulted in a serious loss of face.

Peering out the rattling window and trying to put his head into a human place, he decided this was the sort of street an artist-type would favor. It wasn't a bad area. The different-colored houses were cheerful. Some human peac.o.c.k had planted a big bronze Dian atop his roof, naked as a jay. Strictly to himself, Herrington decided she looked jaunty.

Suggestive art was all the rage among the human upper cla.s.s, most especially the males. They called it culture. Herrington called it inspiration for fellows who liked to stick their hands in their pockets and give the family jewels a tug. Herrington didn't know if it was due to being Yamish, but he preferred the real thing. Still, it didn't hurt to investigate the latest fas.h.i.+ons. This McAllister seemed the best of the bawdy lot. She knew one end of a brush from the other, at least. Herrington prided himself in being able to tell a good artist from a bad. It was, despite his outsider status, more than some of his human a.s.sociates could say.

He was jarred from his thoughts by a sudden, lurching halt.

He swallowed back a shockingly unthinking curse. The footman had shorted out the points again. The man was a genius with a matched pair and harness. Why couldn't he keep a simple engine operational?

He tapped the gla.s.s part.i.tion with his walking stick. The driver slid it open. Herrington wouldn't have had to say anything to a Yamish servant, but he'd learned that humans needed things spelled out.

"I'm getting out of here, Keane," he said. "Have the car running by the time I get back."

"Yes, sir!" The footman's face was red with embarra.s.sment and little expectation of success.

Sighing, another human habit he'd picked up, Herrington handed Keane a few of the coins his valet always tucked into his waistcoat. "Call the tow service if you have to. And Keanea"" The man looked up warily. "Next week you'll be attending those demonstrations of electrical mechanics at the town hall."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Unable to hide his feelings decently, the man looked thoroughly miserable.

Herrington rapped his footman's shoulder with his stick in what he hoped was a bracing manner. "Don't mope, man! Only women mope."

"Yes, my lord," Keane said, a little more st.u.r.dily as he realized he wasn't being sacked.

"Good man," Herrington muttered and heaved himself out of the car. Of all the things that wearied him, babying human sensibilities had to be at the top of the list.

Stepping onto the brick sidewalk, he glanced up to mark the street numbers, then strode decisively toward the correct one: 424. Fancy that. 424 was the number of the honeymoon suite where he'd taken his first human female. Her giggles when she discovered that all their parts were compatible had nearly rendered him impotent. He'd recovered, thankfully, the length of time it had been since he'd enjoyed any release at all helping him out, along with the necessity to his mission of overcoming that particular hurdle. His handlers required reports on every aspect of human life.

In the end, he'd enjoyed himself more than he expected. Humans gave off a lovely, glowing burst of energy when they came. You didn't even have to try to feed from them. He'd gone all night, as he recalled, making the woman climax until she screamed. What was her name? Daisy?

Dorie? He remembered she'd had large b.r.e.a.s.t.sa"like a ruddy pair of melons, as the humans said. Perhaps he ought to tell McAllister to find a nice buxom model for his picture. Then he could see if studying it had a similar erotic effect.

Arriving at his goal, Herrington pulled McAllister's street door open and stepped inside to a melodious jingle. Ka'arkish wind chimes. He looked up to see the prisms flas.h.i.+ng in the noontime sun. There was no one behind the counter.

"With you in a minute," said a breathless voice.

He looked for its source and saw a slender young human righting a stack of fallen cans at the end of one aisle. He was wearing the silliest fuchsia waistcoat Herrington had ever seen. A poofter, he thought, dredging up the term. Definitely not who he was looking for.

Dismissing the pract.i.tioner of alternate s.e.xuality, he proceeded to the entrance of the consignment gallery. There, under the velvet-swagged archway, he froze.

A woman, whom he knew by her air of authority to be McAllister, was elaborating the selling points of a large and rather threatening still life to two very small old ladies. Every few sentences, the pearl-draped biddies would put their feathered hats together and whisper furiously to each other. It was not the sight of this oddity, however, that had rooted Herrington to the floor.

It was the woman herself.

His heart convulsed in a way it shouldn't have been able to, its motion so violent he couldn't help but recall an incident from his boyhood when a rival cousin had tried to poison him and actually stopped his breathing for a few minutes.

Alas, the only poison here was emotional.

Louise, he thought.

The woman was the spitting image of his dead sister. Louise had died in an accident two years before, but this woman, this human, had the same glorious curly hair, the same strong bones, and the same regal bosom. Oh, what a fine-looking Yamish Louise had beena"a subtle and rare beauty. His grief rose in his throat as if her death had befallen her yesterday. d.a.m.n her human lover, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Quinceton, for daring her to race his curricle. Not that Louise had needed much convincing. She'd thrown herself into their a.s.signment with a pa.s.sion that inspired awe. She'd understood humans far better than he, yet never once, despite her involvement, had she lost her true Yamish core.

Numb with remembrance, Herrington moved toward his sister's double as if someone had tied a string to his sternum.

She was wearing trousers. Louise had done that, too, declaring herself to be studying the phenomenon of the human female rebel. Herrington took another somnolent step. Did this woman have Louise's deep, strong voice, as well?

But she didn't.

She had a voice like honeyed burgundy, sweet and penetrating and just the slightest bit smoky.

La Belle Yvonne's voice.

The room dissolved without warning. Of all his human lovers, Yvonne had threatened his control the most. Now. he smelled again the musty velvets of the Awar Opera House, Yvonne's thick facepaint and musk, the discarded orange peels on the floor of the pit so far below his private box. He felt her incomparable derriere slapping his maddeningly swollen loins, her flesh hot as fire, her energy roiling over him as he pressed her even farther over the back of the gilded couch. His l.u.s.t for her drove him beyond good sense. He'd been rough with her in ways no Yamish female would allow, forcing her beringed little hands to grasp the plump seat cus.h.i.+ons.

The purple drapes at the front of the box were closed for interval, but the thought of all the people out there, chattering unawares, waiting for the return of this woman whose cringing quim he was delving had set his arousal to a knife-edge pitch.

That and the fact that she'd made love to someone else no more than an hour before. The vital energy of the stranger's seed still tingled in her s.e.x. She must have hoped Herrington would feel it. She was always trying to stir him to emotiona"anger, jealousy, whatever would prove her power. She couldn't have known the lingering fire of the other man would act as a purely physical aphrodisiac. He was harder than stone, desperate with it, and knew he couldn't have stopped himself to save his life.

Regardless of whether she understood, she certainly sensed the unusual intensity of his need. Mewls of pleasure caught in her throat as she fought for silence, a silence that was hopeless to begin with. The couch creaked with their swift copulatory rhythm, the sound echoed by the rustle of her heavy costume, hiked up around her waist mere moments after she'd snuck into his box.

She'd been naked beneath those voluminous skirts and petticoats, as she'd promised she would be, as he'd known she was all through the first act, singinga"or claiming to singa"for him alone. She worked his poor Yamish soul into such an unexpected fever he'd hardly kept his seat.

Up the acres of cloth had gone when she'd finally, finally arrived, gathered slowly by her teasing hands, first wine red satin, then snow white lace. She watched him over her shoulder, eyes knowing, confidant with the conquests of many years. He'd tried to resist her. He knew she was trouble, but her sly insinuations, her hot, speaking looks had dragged him irresistibly into her human web. This was her moment. His first surrender. Their first s.e.xual intercourse. He'd thought making her wait had proved his superiority, but now he knew it had only made him more crazed.

Disgusted with himself but too l.u.s.tful to care, he'd unfastened the placket of his black dress trousers and drew out his furious p.r.i.c.k.

Even for his height he was big. Yvonne's eyes had widened at the organ twitching eagerly in his fist. Humans liked to believe only they came in such a size. Sadly, his victory was cheap and brief. Licking her lips and smiling, she lifted her skirts to her waist. Stockings of patterned silk had sheathed her perfectly formed legs, their lacy garters begging to be snapped. Straddling her feet a good span apart, she bent herself forward over the back of the couch. Her s.e.x beckoned like a ruby set between pale white moons. Perfect. Pristine. Except for the goading scent of another man.

"b.i.t.c.h," he'd said, a word he'd never used in his life.

Yvonne's only response was a creamy smile.

Squeezing his ma.s.siveness inside her had proved a challenge. They'd managed, though, both of them reckless with their hunger. She'd groaned as he hilted, groaned and drenched him with arousal. At that moment, he'd been able to read her fire just a bit. He'd known she liked the edge of pain his overendowment brought to the act.

"All for you," he'd mocked, dragging back and shoving in again, hard enough to make her cry out.

He'd meant to go slowly, meant to make her beg, but his body wouldn't have it. Faster and faster it drove him, pouring all that pent-up, forbidden l.u.s.t into her lushness, harder and deeper, climbing toward glory, never hearing the soft click of the latch turning until, like the ringing of a deathknell, he heard the other sound, the sliding ching of the door curtain being shoved aside on its bra.s.s hoops. Cargrove and Hastings had b.u.mbled into the box half drunk to say "hullo," and he couldn't stop, couldn't, no matter how it betrayed his soul.

Yvonne had looked straight at the two gaping humans and wriggled her succulent f.a.n.n.y against him, pink now from his driving blows, her secret muscles pulling him deeper as she convulsed with pleasure. The surge of o.r.g.a.s.mic energy had destroyed him. It was immense, deeper somehow than any woman had fed to him before, perhaps because of the human she'd taken first. His climax had surged up from his b.a.l.l.s like a stream of brandy with a match to it. He had to, had to, oh, G.o.ds, he'd clutched her naked hips in a grip of steel and let those drunken human louts watch the b.i.t.c.h reduce him to tears of ecstasy.

In all his life, he'd never cried before.

How she'd smiled when he'd struggled off her, trembling and dripping with his own juicesa"and still d.a.m.nably hard. He could have gone at her again, could have f.u.c.ked her until he fainted. She knew she'd defeated him then, if only for a time. She didn't seem to care that the scandal of being caught enflagrante with a demon might damage her career. He'd heard, in fact, that she'd gone on to sing the second act. As for Herrington, that night's indiscretion had cost him his superior's trust. For years afterward, his every sneeze had been watched.