Page 29 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)
KALEEN
W hen I break away from the kiss, we're both breathing hard. Domiel's silver-blue eyes are dark with want, his pupils blown wide in the firelight. The careful control he always maintains has cracked, revealing something raw and hungry underneath.
"Kaleen," he whispers, and there's a tremor in his voice that makes my pulse race.
I don't want to think anymore. Don't want to hold myself at arm's length from the only thing that's felt real since I woke up in this village with no past. My hands frame his face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble beneath my palms, the heat of his skin.
"I'm tired of being careful," I tell him, surprised by how steady my own voice sounds when everything inside me feels like it's vibrating. "Tired of pretending I don't want this."
His breath catches. Those long lashes flutter as his eyes search my face, looking for any hint of uncertainty. But there isn't any. For the first time since I lost my memories, I know exactly what I want.
I shift forward, rising up onto my knees, and before he can say anything else, I'm settling into his lap.
His hands immediately come up to steady me at my waist, fingers splaying wide across my ribs.
The touch sends heat spiraling through me, my body responding with an intensity that should probably frighten me but only makes me want more.
"What are you—" he starts, but I silence him with another kiss, deeper this time. I can feel the careful leash on his control starting to fray as I press closer, my breasts flattening against his chest.
His wings rustle behind him, the sound oddly intimate in the quiet cottage.
I've always been fascinated by them—the way they shift and adjust with his emotions, how they spread wide when he's playing with Braylon or fold tight against his back when he's concentrating.
Now they're trembling slightly, betraying the effect I'm having on him.
My hands slide up to tangle in his hair again, that dark gold silk slipping between my fingers.
When I graze my nails lightly against his scalp, he makes a low sound in his throat that vibrates against my mouth.
The noise does something to me, awakening some primal satisfaction at having drawn that response from him.
I trail my fingers down to the nape of his neck, finding the sensitive spot where his hairline meets skin.
He shudders when I stroke there, his grip on my waist tightening.
But when my hands drift lower, following the strong line of his shoulders to where his wings attach to his back, the reaction is immediate and intense.
The moment my fingertips brush against the base of his wings, he jerks like I've touched him with lightning. A groan tears from his throat—deep and helpless and so familiar it makes my chest ache with recognition I can't quite grasp.
"Fuck," he gasps, and his hands move to capture my wrists. Not roughly, but firmly enough to stop my exploration. "Kaleen, what are you doing?"
The question comes out strained, like he's fighting for control of his own voice. His pupils are so dilated now that only a thin ring of silver-blue remains, and I can feel the tremor in his hands where they circle my wrists.
I hold his gaze, letting him see the certainty in my eyes. "I'm tired of holding back," I tell him again, and this time I lean forward until my lips brush against the shell of his ear. "I want you, Domiel. I want this."
The confession seems to hit him like a physical blow. His breathing becomes ragged, and I can feel the rapid beat of his heart against my chest. For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us crackles with tension so thick I can almost taste it.
"Are you sure?" The words come out rough, like they're being dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands slide from my wrists to cup my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones with infinite tenderness. "I need you to be sure, because if we do this..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but I can hear the weight of everything he's not saying. This changes things. This makes whatever's building between us real and undeniable.
I lean into his touch, turning my head to press a kiss to his palm. The gesture is answer enough, but I give him the words anyway because he needs to hear them.
"I haven't been more sure of anything in so long," I whisper against his skin.
Something fundamental shifts in his expression at my words. The last of his restraint crumbles, replaced by something fierce and possessive that makes my breath catch. Without breaking eye contact, he rises smoothly to his feet with me still in his arms, as if I weigh nothing at all.
My hands instinctively grip his shoulders for balance, marveling at the easy strength in his lean frame.
He carries me toward my bedroom, his wings folding tight against his back to avoid brushing the doorframe.
The cottage suddenly feels too small, too quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the soft whisper of his feet on the wooden floor.
He sets me down beside my bed with infinite care, his hands lingering at my waist as if he's reluctant to let go. The firelight from the main room barely reaches here, leaving us in shadows that somehow make everything feel more intimate, more private.
He lifts his hand, and I watch as magic weaves between his fingers. It fills the doorway, and for some reason, I like watching the power that ebbs from him.
"It keeps the sound in this room. Now," he murmurs, his voice rough with want. "Let me see you." His fingers find the hem of my tunic, but he doesn't move to lift it. Instead, he waits, giving me one last chance to change my mind.
I answer by raising my arms above my head, and the simple gesture seems to unleash something in him.
He draws the fabric up and over my head with reverent slowness, his knuckles trailing fire across my skin.
When the tunic falls forgotten to the floor, his gaze travels over me like a physical touch.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and the awe in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. "So fucking beautiful."
His hands map the curve of my shoulders, the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. Each touch is deliberate, worshipful, like he's memorizing every inch of me. When his thumbs brush across my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra, I arch into the touch with a soft gasp.
"That's it," he murmurs against my throat, pressing hot kisses to the sensitive skin there. "Let me hear you."
He removes the rest of my clothing with the same maddening care, his mouth following the path of his hands.
Each newly exposed piece of skin receives attention—a kiss to the inside of my wrist, teeth grazing the curve of my hip, his tongue tracing the line of my ribs.
By the time I'm completely bare before him, I'm trembling with need.
"Look at you," he says, stepping back just enough to take me in. His silver-blue eyes are molten with desire. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect."
The praise sends liquid heat rushing through my veins. I reach for him, needing to touch him the way he's been touching me, but he catches my hands gently.
"Not yet," he says, guiding me back until my legs hit the edge of the bed. "Let me worship you first."
He eases me down onto the soft mattress, his hands sliding up my thighs as he settles between them. The first touch of his mouth against my most sensitive skin tears a cry from my throat. He groans in response, the vibration sending shockwaves through me.
"So sweet," he murmurs against me. "Better than I remembered. Better than my dreams."
His words barely register through the haze of sensation as he works me with lips and tongue and teeth.
He seems to know exactly how to touch me, where to focus his attention, building the pressure inside me with maddening precision.
When I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, he makes that low, hungry sound again.
"Please," I gasp, my hips lifting of their own accord. "Domiel, please?—"
"What do you need?" he asks, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes. His lips are slick, his breathing ragged. "Tell me what you want."
"You," I say without hesitation. "I need you inside me. Please, I can't—I need?—"
He rises over me then, finally beginning to shed his own clothes. I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he reveals the lean muscle of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen, the impressive length of him that makes my mouth go dry with anticipation.
When he settles between my thighs again, the head of him pressing against my entrance, we both freeze. The moment feels suspended, heavy with significance.
"You're sure?" he asks one more time, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
Instead of answering with words, I lift my hips, taking just the tip of him inside. We both groan at the contact, and his control finally snaps.
"Fuck, Kaleen," he gasps as he slides into me inch by slow inch. "You feel incredible. So tight, so perfect. Made for me."
The stretch is exquisite, filling an emptiness I hadn't even realized I carried. When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still, breathing hard. His forehead drops to mine, silver-blue eyes locked with mine in the dim light.
"Move," I whisper, and he obeys.
The rhythm he sets is slow and deep, each thrust deliberate and controlled. But as the pleasure builds, as my soft cries fill the air between us, that control begins to fray.
"That's it, beautiful," he growls against my ear. "Take everything I give you. You're so good, so fucking good for me."
His praise unravels me completely. I cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he drives into me with increasing urgency. The coil of tension in my core winds tighter and tighter until I'm sobbing with need.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough and breathless. "Let go, Kaleen. I want to feel you fall apart."
The words push me over the edge. My release crashes through me like a wave, stealing my breath and making me cry out his name. He follows moments later, his own climax tearing a hoarse shout from his throat as he buries himself deep inside me.
We collapse together, both of us breathing hard and trembling. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close as aftershocks ripple through us both.
I'm not sure I've ever felt better.