Page 21 of Demon

“It’s a body suit,” she said eventually. “It fastens underneath.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“To keep my top from riding up. And you out.”

“Frigging thing. Maybe I’ll just rip it off you from the neck then,” I grinned, my hands moving back up her body, over the delicious swell of those tits.

“Shit. No, Demon. You’ve broken enough of my things tonight.”

Ciara pushed me back a half step, unbuttoning the tiny shorts and sliding her hand down the front slowly. Fuck. That fired me up, watching her lean back on the bench, her hand scooping over her pussy, and when I looked up again, her eyes were fixed on me, a smirk on her face. A smirk I was going to fuck right off.

“Take it off,” I growled, surprising myself at the sudden darkness of my voice.

There was a series of tiny pops, breaking the suddenly electrified silence, and she wrenched the top up, sliding it over her stomach, the hint of creamy flesh underneath. Fuck. I was losing control. I should slow myself, be gentle, but the rage was returning. A different type of rage bubbling under my skin, in my chest, fogging my brain, the only thinking part of me my cock.

I stepped in, pulling her hands away and gripping the white top before wrenching it off over her head. Even with the restraint of her bra, her tits bounced, full and round. Fighting not to jump on her like a leach I glanced over the rest of her. Her shoulders were angular, her arms thin, and her stomach lean. Given what I knew of her, I didn’t think she went to the gym. And one look around this shithole of a room, at the bed that doubled up as her settee, the battered wardrobe and a chest of drawers that looked like it could fall apart at the slightest vibration. I could see she didn’t have much. Did that extend to food too?

“What’s wrong?” she said faintly, uncertainty pulling at her face.

“Nothing. Just got distracted.”

I trailed my fingertips over her stomach, down over her bony hips, sliding into the waistband of the unbuttoned shorts. Her breath hitched as I dragged my knuckles across the sensitive flesh where the top of her knickers lay, her skin warm and smooth. I wanted to dip my hand under the fabric, stroke over her, feel how wet she was. A presumption, I knew. But I had no doubt she was warm and sticky down there, too. Her breathing told me everything I needed to know. Raspy and erratic, a struggle between control and lust. Because I felt the same way. And self-control was not a quality I possessed. Pulling my hand back up, she relaxed a little, her body sagging as she let out a big sigh. I couldn’t have her too relaxed. I wanted her coiled tighter than a spring, ready to snap under the next bit of tension. Yet that self-control I was lacking was going to cost me dearly, because without thinking much, I pushed my finger under the wire of her bra, lifting the contraption off and up to her neck.

“You can take this off too,” I instructed, watching a flicker of reaction in her eyes, like she didn’t want to be told what to do but couldn’t help obeying, anyway.

And then her tits spilled out, full and luscious. Fuck it if I wasn’t salivating like a starved dog. I probably should have worked my way up to what I did next. Stroked and caressed them, tweaked a nipple, teased around the edges of them. Of which I did none. No. I dived straight on them, my lips devouring her flesh, my tongue gliding over the hot smoothness of her skin, nibbling and sucking, pulling a nipple into my mouth and biting down on it till she hissed.

If Ciara wriggled under the assault, I didn’t feel it, just too consumed with the fucking delicious mounds of flesh in front of me. Her skin held the tiny sting of salt, of hard work and the gentle heat of fear. My fingers kneaded, playing with the nipple I didn’t have in my mouth, swirling and biting and sucking the other. Ciara tipped her head back, the low moan filling the room, forcing her tits into my face. Jesus fucking Christ, I could have stayed here, between her legs and feasted on these babies all night. And I probably fucking would have if the phone hadn’t started vibrating against my arse.

Hesitating, I glanced at my smart watch. Indie. He could fucking do one. Turning back to her, I wrapped an arm behind her, flicking open the clasp of the bra and pulling it from her. Now she sat on the bench with her denim shorts gaping open, exposing the white lace knickers underneath and her tits spilling out in front of her. Placing my hands on either side of her face, I pulled her into me, searching for the hot wetness of her mouth, pushing into her roughly with my tongue, the fire in my groin licking at my veins and fuelling the pounding in my balls. The phone vibrated again. Fucking Indie. But two calls close together were symptomatic of a problem.

“Two seconds, darl’,” I muttered, raking inside my jeans pocket and pushing the mobile to my ear, my free hand dropping back to her tits, covering one with my palm, feeling the hardened nipple against my hand. “What?”

“Some fuckers have done over the cutting house. The prospects are roughed up. Need you down there,” Indie’s voice came and went, a breeze catching on the phone.

“Not much of a fucking prospect, then.”

“Just get down here.”

“On my way.”

*****

The cutting house was in the middle of a row of neglected terraces, in a street full of private landlords, letting out substandard properties at extortionate rents to people who couldn’t get a property any other way. It wasn’t that different to Ciara’s. Similar aged properties all in a state of disrepair, lining the pockets of the ruthless who took advantage of those with no home.

I hadn’t missed the stale smell of damp in the house she lived, the peeling wallpaper and lack of any sort of heating. Her bedsit was tiny. Only a room and God knows how much she paid for that. And I hadn’t missed the millions of locks on her door. I would have had a whole load of them too, living in that dump with the constant turnover of neighbours.

“Demon! You coming?”

Indie broke through my thoughts, and I followed him into the half derelict house. Yep, this was exactly like the shithole Ciara lived in. There were no carpets on the floor, and the windows were covered with drooping curtains and tobacco-stained nets. It smelt as good as it looked, too. The kitchen was at the back of the house and the only room I assumed that had had any attention. There was a steel covered bench and tiled floor, a new oven and kitchen appliances.

“How much you paying for this dump?” I asked Magnet, who was looking around at the broken glass that littered the floor.

“Too much. Now I’ll need to put a new fucking door on.”

He touched the wooden door. The window, which had once occupied a third of it, was smashed, and the rest of it hung from one hinge at the bottom. Two prospects propped themselves against a kitchen bench. Tony Cannelloni looked barely recognisable, his face swollen, and his eye bulging, red and purple as blood strained under the skin. Sicknote had been worked over well. A flap of skin on his head dangled, blood caked on the side of his face and all over the denim jacket he wore.

“How much did they take?” Indie asked.