He had to hold back a laugh. She really did have some spunk, and damn if she didn't like it. Giving him an insulting enough look, he said, "Believe it or not, I do have certain standards." Raising his head, he looked up as if he remembered, a slow smile flashed on his face. “I think I’ll pay a visit to that luscious blonde a few houses down. She looked very much agreeable. ” And with that he turned to leave.

Behind him a fiery emotion from Marga erupted in him. The air was filled with his power — his control over it grew louder and louder — with the lamps in the room flashing. The feathers rose on his neck. His own magic, which was simpler and more natural in nature, leaped in response to the power resisting him.

 Keeping it tightly controlled, he continued to walk out of the living room.

She was about to open the door to the foyer when Marga sighed, full of conflicting emotions to drive a psychiatrist crazy with excitement.

"Wait."

His hand on the doorknob, Atticus glanced at him, the corners of his eyes wrinkled. "Yes?"

Marga's teeth clenched. Will he really do it?

Even if every female hormone in her body screams, Yes, yes, yes, jump on her like you know you want to, she won’t notice the budding feeling of thought. He should not let it get too close to him. The fine line she treads by barely tying her will thin out every piece of herself she gives him. If she wants to keep it under control, she must prevent the man from having more power over her, and the allowing him to please her requires a measure of confidence that will give him great power.

But just the thought of allowing him to feed from someone else caused him anxiety. What if he slaps? Took more than just fun? It was his responsibility — he freed him from the Shadows, and it was up to him to make sure he would not hurt anyone innocent.

He put his hands on her hips. "I'm not leaving you in the female population. And at least I can defend myself against you." Being a witch gave him some way of keeping him under control, and if he blew him up, he would be able to fight him. Letting him take a female female, on the other hand, is like sending a wolf to a flock of sheep.

  He closed his eyes. "Just what kind of beast do you think I am?"

  "You're a demon."

 “Ah, and that means I’m a rapist bastard, is that right?” His tone was light, but his hand tightened on the doorknob until his knuckles turned white, and his aura flashed in the extreme darkness, almost as if ...

She blinked, baffled. Had she insulted him?

Atticus stared at him, the clear beauty of his features more evident in his obvious anger, his lips pressed together in a strict line, and the way he held himself — strictly dignified as if someone slapped for no reason. .

  "Uh." Well, now he felt resentment at assuming the worst about him. However, how did he know he might be kind? Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m sorry. It’s just… No offense, but your track record doesn’t exactly put you in a good light. ”

  A twinkle of something — regret? — Appeared in his eyes, but it disappeared again so quickly that he wasn't sure he saw it. Atticus aura, though, and he leaned against the door jamb and raised his head. "For your information, all the women I was with were happier to feed me, and I left each one alive and well .." He glanced up and paused as if in consideration. "Although some of them were passed out. in bliss. ”

  "So, little witch," Atticus said, the timbre of his voice evoking a languid flirtation between the crumpled blankets., "Will you feed me, then?"

"Yes," he said, his voice becoming husky. It was just sex, nothing else, and the gods knew that long since someone had enjoyed him but well.

  An evil smile flashed on her lips, heightening the raw sensuality she threw at the points. She was enveloped in sexual danger as she crossed the hallway, closing the distance from him.

  "I won't sleep with you," he said hoarsely, raising his head to look at her face, with those eyes glowing with calm predatory attention. They had a striking color, a combination of bright blue and light green, a lake in the forest in mid-summer. “You’ll just… you know…”

  "Make you writhe on my hand until you moan my name?"

  Heaven help me.

  She glued her thighs together. "My clothes," he ground out as selected parts of his body spontaneously throbbed with hope, "will stay on."

  His eyes flashed. “Hmm, a challenge. I like that. ” He raised his hand to the nape of her neck, hanging his fingers in the strands of her hair. “Where do you want to do it?”

  “Where do I—” He shook, confused, bewildered, and less distracted by the hand massaging his neck. "What?"

“You know,” he said, shrugging, “where would you like it best? On the couch? The table? The carpet? ” His gaze flicked to the side, and he raised his eyebrows. "Up against the wall?"

  All of the above? "Uh." She cleared her throat, struggled for sanity. "I don't — it doesn't matter."

  His hand slid from his nape to the front, observing the sensitive skin on his racing wrist. "No preferences?"

  “No. Let’s just get this over with. ”

  “Then we’ll do it my way?” His voice was a purr that caressed her senses, stroked her in hot, intimate places.

  "Sure," she croaked. "Whatever."

  "Well, then." His hand stilled. The air between them shimmered. "Run."

  Her heart skipped a beat. “What? Why? ”

  "Because," he muttered, leaning in closer, dark power rippling off him, "I like a good chase."

 He just stared at her for a moment.

  Then he ran.

Running out of the living room toward the library, he glanced over her shoulder. Atticus stood in the foyer, watching her run. He was giving her a head start. Go ahead.

  He had just entered the dining room, when the change of wind signaled that Atticus was fast on his heels. Its heat and strength touched his back as he slipped into the corner toward the kitchen. The demon was so fast, it grabbed him when he wanted to go through the cooking island. He cried out, jumped to the side, and he missed an inch. The furious rhythm of his heart echoed at the speed of the race in which he ran. Next he made an angry dash towards the game room.

  He was on the second stairs when Atticus caught up with him. With a blow reminiscent of a predatory cat, he faced it, carrying her down the stairs in a continuous motion, easing the fall with his arms. He didn’t scream so much from the impact of falling down the stairs, then, from the visceral fear of being caught. Her heart was pounding in her chest, longing flowed through her veins, every cell of her body was aware that the mighty man was clinging to her back.

  Who knew that being chased — and caught — could be thrilling?

  "On the staircase then?" Atticus breath brushed her neck. "Kinky."

  He just sighed in response. Her breathing was replaced by a faint moan of shock as it bit her ear and then touched her cheek to his cheek. With great caution to his surprise, he turned it to face her. Hugging his arms and knees above him, he was confined to the stairs, its hungry gaze riding over his body.

  "You sure about the clothes?" His voice was scraped gravel.

  Every heavy breath he took brought his breasts into momentary contact with his chest, brushing against the man's warmth and vigorous power. It quickened her breathing. "Not feeling up for the challenge after all?"

  In response, he raised an eyebrow and lowered his head to her with solitary intent, only to stop his hand on his lip.

  "No kissing on the mouth," he whispered.

  "Why not?" Pronounced against his palm, eyes focused on him, igniting him.

"Too personal." It may seem moronic considering what he’s going to let it do to him, but it’s just another of those lines that he’d better not let him cross. She’d allow him to touch her, yes, but it would just be sex, purely physical, part of their agreement, nothing more than her body reacting to stimulation.

  If he lets it kiss him, however, well — that will open up other reactions, and he definitely doesn’t want to go there. Enough of a kiss in the mausoleum. Her taste was still branded in her every cell, the feeling of her indelible etched in her consciousness, longing for her more. A kind of more that he couldn’t allow, not when he had to keep his emotional distance from her.

  "Pity," Atticus growled, still holding his palm, his hot breath hitting his skin. "I'd love to kiss you."

  When he tried to pull her hand away, he grabbed it and held it in place. He licked a slow, hot circle in his palm, firing his nerve endings up to the junction between his legs. A moan escaped her lips in incredible sensation, and she pressed her thighs together. He still didn’t let go of her hand but he lifted it as he let his tongue step towards her wrist, gently stroked her wrist, and then licked it down the sensitive underside of her arm while pushing his sleeve. With his elbow, he stopped to kiss the bent of his arm, playfully using his tongue.

  She was already mush at that point.

  He let go of her arm to catch one of her breasts, rubbed his thumb on her nipple, and even with two layers of cloth, it hardened instantly. Making an appreciative sound, he pulled it out until his breathing became naughty and sweat covered his skin. The smile Atticus returned to him was pure pleasure of the man.

However, she didn't have time to stare at him because of that — the next second she bit her nipple and now sucked on it with extreme pleasure, not worrying about the clothes still covering it. The caresses of pleasure enveloped her body, going straight to her core. One of its thighs hung between her thighs, caressing him in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue that was now teasing the nipple of his neglected breast. She sighed, she inserted her fingers into the carpet on the stairs.

His body was very strong, his wrist was running with excessive force, and he was hurting for more touching on a need that frightened him. Because of instinct, everything thought worthy was thrown out the window, he pushed his hip into its thigh.

He lifted his head from his chest, kissing a slow path up to his neck. When he withdrew his thigh a little, he was about to moan in protest, but then his hand slipped between their bodies, covering the throbbing core over the fabric of his jeans. "Want my fingers inside you?"

 He nodded, his face warming with embarrassment. "Yes."

  "You got it, little witch."

  Skimming the front of his jeans, his fingers saw the button and made it short. His zipper followed. With meticulous care, she set aside her panty, caressed her curls, caressed the delicate flesh underneath. Her breathing was interrupted. Her thumb caressed her clit with the lightest touch as two fingers caressed her penetration, tickling her, forcing her. He was gasping for breath now, his hands clutching the carpet with a deadly grip.

He lowered his hand and pushed those two fingers inside him. A moan engulfed her throat, her body trembling at the intense feeling of erotic aggression. Well, he moved his fingers, with knowing precision and purpose, and pulled her to the edge for a few seconds. The tension in her body increased, and she was close, very close, squirming against him, but even so, the release was not coming ..

  "Marga." His hand stilled.

  She moaned in frustration.

  "Look at me."

 Vision clouded with pent -up desire, he met her gaze.

  "Just let go and enjoy." Its face was so close to his, it breathed on him. She let its energy envelop her senses, a warm and terrifying hug.

  He opened his mouth to speak, he saw he couldn't. How should he give up, surrender, if only for a few seconds, to a creature he has been taught to trust, even to be afraid? He did not know her. And how can he enjoy it, how can he find his pleasure in it, now, while Marissa is imprisoned, only the suffering gods know what kind of hell? How could he let a demon make him happy, when one tortured his sister? how—

  "Stop." He touched her face with the other hand, gently forced to look at her as he wanted to turn away. "Stop thinking, Marga." He tied his name to his lips, his gaze gripping hers. "I don't mean you harm." A slow, soothing caress on her cheek. “All I want right now…” His voice was a low murmur. “Is to make you feel good…”

 His breath was catching, burning in his throat.

Her eyes caught his eye. Very beautiful colors, like drops of dew on the young grass, and the way he looks at her now ... it seems like he can read her soul, her heart, her fears and hopes. It was as if he knew the painful entanglement of worry and guilt, tangled in his chest — holding him back.

  “It’s okay to let go,” he said, his eyes still on the goal, reassuring her. “And it’s okay to enjoy this. It’s all you can do for now. Just let go, and I’ll take care of you. ”

  She sighed, trembling inside and out. "Okay."

  Slightly, carefully, his fingers teased her again. "Put your hand around my neck."

  She obliged, the embers of arousal rekindling.

  "Close your eyes."

  Hesitantly, he did. The rhythm of his fingers pushing inward, sliding out again, became faster, demanding, and the tension within him jumped again. The desire is radiant, hot and consuming. He clutched at her neck, gripped tightly, his hip moving against his hand, riding on her.

"That's it." Its deep voice in his ear, the breath hitting his skin. "Go with it."

  The little moans disappeared from his lips, his breathing became pants, and then, he let go. His climax came with revenge. She writhed against him in a frenzy of overwhelming pleasure and sweet, sweet relief, as she brought him down with slow strokes and murmured words of intimacy. His hot breath entered his quick, shallow pants, passing his elongated fangs — evidence of his own arousal.

  For a long time, none of them moved. Its palm remained on its throbbing core, fingers hanging in its hair. Eventually, he withdrew his hand with the last gentle tease that made him shiver.

  He opened his eyes, he regained consciousness, and he let go of its neck as if burned. The heat rose to his face and he realized he had been punched with courage, closely followed by embarrassment of the best kind.

Her smile burned her last pride. “A little late to be bashful, don’t you think?”

  "Get off."

  "Is that an offer?"

  In response, he pushed it over its shoulders, with no visible effect. It’s like trying to move a hard block of concrete.

Anger, mixed with embarrassment, quickened his breathing in conjunction with a glimmer of heat. "You got what you wanted, now move!"

  He chuckled, a low, masculine sound as arrogant as sexy — and annoyed him endlessly. Worse, he had the incredible courage to kiss her on its nose before getting up. He reached out a hand to help her stand up, he said, “Come on now, little witch, don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s okay to admit I gave you a mind-blowing orgasm which you most thoroughly enjoyed. ”

  He hurried to his feet without accepting his outstretched hand, and rearranged his clothes with trembling fingers .. “Oh, don’t get all cocky. You didn’t make me moan your name, did you? ”

  The smile it gave her was todo sensual promise. "Next time, then."

  And at that moment, the equal share of panic and hope gripped him tightly. He had to delete again, the faster the better. He could already feel the difference in power between them — he had gained more from her than blood and pleasure. The energy that brings him to her has been replaced by a small part, and he sinks if he is not careful, he may be on the wrong end of that rope.

  "Come on," Atticus said, watching her with all-too-perceptive eyes, "let's find your sister."

  She nodded. "Yes, let's go."

  Time is running out, and not just for Marissa.