Page 44 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
"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 breakingeye 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.
