“And you are the stepdaughter of Denise Davidson.”
Wow. That was a bit harsh, but, “Okay, point taken.”
“Are we not all products of the world we were born into just as much as, if not more than, the parents we were given to?”
I’d heard the nature-versus-nurture argument all through college, but this was a little hard to justify. “Satan is just so … I don’t know, evil.”
“And you think I am evil as well.”
“Like father, like son?” I said by way of explanation.
He shifted his body weight to the side. The movement stirred the swirling pool still growing inside me, and I fought the desire to padlock my legs around his waist and throw away the key.
“Do I seem evil to you?” he asked, his deep voice like a caress of velvet. He was busy eyeing the pulse at my neck, testing it with his fingertips, as if human life fascinated him.
“You do have a tendency to sever spinal cords.”
“Only for you.”
Disturbing but oddly romantic. “And you’re in prison for killing Earl Walker.”
His hand sank lower, skimmed over Will Robinson until it found the bottom of my sweater. Then it worked its way back up, palm skimming over bare skin, sending ripples of pleasure shooting to the most delicate nether regions of my anatomy. “That is a problem,” he said.
“Did you do it?”
“You can ask Earl Walker when I find him.”
No doubt he went straight to hell. “Can you go back? Can you go into hell and find him? I mean, aren’t you in hiding?”
His hand eased farther up, cupped Will, teased her hardened center with his fingertips. I bit back a gasp of pleasure.
“He’s not in hell.”
Surprised, I said, “Surely he didn’t go the other direction.”
“No,” he said before his head dipped and his mouth found that same racing pulse, christened it with tiny, hot kisses.
“So, is he still on Earth?” I was trying really hard to concentrate, but Reyes seemed dead set against it.
I felt him smile against my skin. “Yes.”
“Oh. So, why are you hiding from your father?” I asked, breathless.
“Earl Walker?”
“No, the other one.” I had so many questions. I wanted to know everything about him. About his life. About his … pre-life.
“Was,” he said, nipping at my earlobe. The action sent shivers scampering down my spine.
“Was?” I whispered, trying to think of a distraction, something other than the waves of delight washing over my body.
“Yes. Was.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“If you’d like me to. But I’d rather do this.”
“Oh … my … g—”
His hand had tunneled down my pajama bottoms, slipped into my panties, and found a delicious spot to play with. I quaked visibly when his fingers brushed over the silken folds below. When he sank them deeper, I shuddered, the sensation so exquisitely intense.
Son of Satan. Son of Satan.
While his fingers continued to stroke the sensitive flesh between my thighs, his mouth—his glorious, perfect mouth—traveled south and was now nibbling on Danger. In the deepest recesses of my mind, I realized I was suddenly half na**d and exposed to one of the most powerful beings on Earth. I just couldn’t remember him disrobing any part of me. Did he have super-stripper powers as well as the spinal cord thing?
I wrested my hands from his grip and dug my fingers into his hair. Pulling him back to me, I kissed him with all the longing and desire I’d harbored for years. This was his kiss, the special one I’d saved for just such an occasion. I savored the smooth taste of him on my tongue as he tilted his head and delved deeper inside me, drawing on my essence, my life force.
This was the first time I’d really felt him without swimming in a sea of lust so strong, I could barely stay conscious. Not that I wasn’t having a difficult time of it—I just felt a bit more in control, a bit more lucid. He was so real, so solid. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t an out-of-body experience. This was Reyes Farrow, as close to in-the-flesh as it got, considering he was in a coma an hour away.
The air undulated around us like heat radiating off a furnace. He grumbled and I helped him remove my bottoms, kicking and manipulating them down my legs. After a few moments, he broke the kiss, jerked them past my feet, and threw them at Mr. Wong.
Then he was on top of me again, like a blanket of fire, flames licking over all my girl parts, stoking and stirring my body into a frenzy of heat and desire. My hands fought off his clothes and he rose over me, his eyes drunken with sin. His wide shoulders, a wall of solid muscle, were covered in smooth, razor-sharp tattoos. Fluid and alive, they marked the boundaries between heaven and hell, so at one with his form, so natural and ethereal, they seemed to breathe when he did. I ran my palms over his chest, rigid and tempered like ancient steel, then down to his rock-hard stomach that contracted with the brush of my palms.
Finally, my hand sank farther, wrapped around his erection, my fingers barely able to encircle him. He hissed in a breath and clutched my wrist, holding it still as he fought for control. Shaking with need, he leaned back onto his knees. “I wanted this to last.”
I wanted him inside me. With sore ankle forgotten, I rolled onto the balls of my feet, climbed onto him, and impaled myself, inhaling sharply, clenching my jaw with the desire that burst in my abdomen. He tensed to the density of fine marble when I slid him inside, his arms locking around me, immobilizing me when I tried to move. I gave him a minute, relishing the feel of him, the hardness that filled me to exquisite capacity. Even completely still, I hovered on the verge of orgasm, the distant sensation drawing nearer with each breath. I struggled against his hold, wanting to move, to come. Tangling my fingers in his hair, I anchored myself and pushed up with my legs, to no avail. He growled, secured me against him with his unshakable embrace.