Read Online Demon Lover by Kathleen Creighton - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen Creighton
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could I possibly? You don’t let me forget it, you enjoy it so!"
He gave a short, mirthless laugh and sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. He had already removed his shirt, and Julie eyed the bunching muscles in his scarred back with a curious mixture of fascination and dread. He looked up at her, a little smile tugging at his mouth.
"Don’t you?" he asked. "Enjoy your life? Is the price really so high? My bed for your life?"
He stood up abruptly to unfasten his pants, then sat back down to pull them off. When he stood again wearing only a pair of briefs, Julie gulped, tried to look away and found that she could not.
What was it about his body that seemed so threatening? He was only a man, not some strange alien beast; why did she stare at him with that mixture of fear and excitement while her heart pounded primitive warning cadences?
Primitive and savage, like a black panther. Perfectly proportioned, beautifully sculpted, marred by the touch of violence. Grace and power, passion held in check. Arrogance, sensuality…
It was all there in that lean, whipcord body.
"Well?" he said softly. "Which will it be?"
Julie gasped, "I’m thinking!"
He threw back his head and laughed, the first time she had heard sounds of real humor from him. "You remind me of that old Jack Benny bit where the robber says, ‘Your money or your life,’ and Benny’s reply is—"
"It’s not funny!" Julie quavered, breathing rapidly.
"No, I suppose it isn’t." He folded his arms across his chest and arranged his face in solemn lines, though his eyes still gleamed with amusement. "Julie. I’m not going to argue with you all night. And you know you can’t stand there all night. You really don’t have any choice." He came toward her, stalking her like—
Like a panther
, she couldn’t help but think.
He murmured softly, "Is it really so terrible, so frightening, the thought of sharing my bed?"
He was close enough to touch her now, and he did so, the backs of his fingers barely brushing the collar of her shirt, then the thin fabric that covered her breasts. She managed to control the gasp that tried to escape from her throat, but not the response of tiny nerve endings that brought her nipples springing into sharp relief under her shirt. Nor could she keep him from knowing; his fingers brushed lightly back and forth across the pebbly tips while his eyes held hers, demanding an answer.
Julie held her ground. The tension between them had become so vibrant it produced its own kind of calm, like the air just before a thunderstorm. "Why shouldn’t I be frightened of you?" she said in a voice that sounded as if it didn’t have quite enough air. "The sample I’ve had of your lovemaking wasn’t exactly gentle."
"Sample?" He frowned, then drew aside the neckline of her shirt and touched the mark on her breast. His eyes rested there for a long moment, then came back to touch her lips, her cheeks, and then return to her eyes. "That wasn’t lovemaking," he said softly. "Making love is a game for two." His hand rested warm on the curve of her neck and collarbone, his thumb stroking lightly up and down her throat. His voice was a lazy purr. "
If
we made love,
Guerita mia,
you would have nothing to be afraid of. You’d have as much to say—and do—about it as I would. And you’d enjoy it as much as I would."
Julie swallowed, feeling the movement of her throat against his thumb. He dropped his hand suddenly and turned away, and his voice was harsh when he said, "Do what you must to get ready, and come to bed, Julie. Don’t make me come after you."
He lit a cigarette, jerked back the woven Mexican blanket and top sheet and lay down on the bed, his head propped on his arm and one leg drawn up. He watched her, eyes narrowed against the smoke, and Julie looked back at him, frustrated and weary, sick to death of skirmishing with this man and coming out second best, worn out by the strange battle of wits and wills. She drew a deep breath and
He gave a short, mirthless laugh and sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. He had already removed his shirt, and Julie eyed the bunching muscles in his scarred back with a curious mixture of fascination and dread. He looked up at her, a little smile tugging at his mouth.
"Don’t you?" he asked. "Enjoy your life? Is the price really so high? My bed for your life?"
He stood up abruptly to unfasten his pants, then sat back down to pull them off. When he stood again wearing only a pair of briefs, Julie gulped, tried to look away and found that she could not.
What was it about his body that seemed so threatening? He was only a man, not some strange alien beast; why did she stare at him with that mixture of fear and excitement while her heart pounded primitive warning cadences?
Primitive and savage, like a black panther. Perfectly proportioned, beautifully sculpted, marred by the touch of violence. Grace and power, passion held in check. Arrogance, sensuality…
It was all there in that lean, whipcord body.
"Well?" he said softly. "Which will it be?"
Julie gasped, "I’m thinking!"
He threw back his head and laughed, the first time she had heard sounds of real humor from him. "You remind me of that old Jack Benny bit where the robber says, ‘Your money or your life,’ and Benny’s reply is—"
"It’s not funny!" Julie quavered, breathing rapidly.
"No, I suppose it isn’t." He folded his arms across his chest and arranged his face in solemn lines, though his eyes still gleamed with amusement. "Julie. I’m not going to argue with you all night. And you know you can’t stand there all night. You really don’t have any choice." He came toward her, stalking her like—
Like a panther
, she couldn’t help but think.
He murmured softly, "Is it really so terrible, so frightening, the thought of sharing my bed?"
He was close enough to touch her now, and he did so, the backs of his fingers barely brushing the collar of her shirt, then the thin fabric that covered her breasts. She managed to control the gasp that tried to escape from her throat, but not the response of tiny nerve endings that brought her nipples springing into sharp relief under her shirt. Nor could she keep him from knowing; his fingers brushed lightly back and forth across the pebbly tips while his eyes held hers, demanding an answer.
Julie held her ground. The tension between them had become so vibrant it produced its own kind of calm, like the air just before a thunderstorm. "Why shouldn’t I be frightened of you?" she said in a voice that sounded as if it didn’t have quite enough air. "The sample I’ve had of your lovemaking wasn’t exactly gentle."
"Sample?" He frowned, then drew aside the neckline of her shirt and touched the mark on her breast. His eyes rested there for a long moment, then came back to touch her lips, her cheeks, and then return to her eyes. "That wasn’t lovemaking," he said softly. "Making love is a game for two." His hand rested warm on the curve of her neck and collarbone, his thumb stroking lightly up and down her throat. His voice was a lazy purr. "
If
we made love,
Guerita mia,
you would have nothing to be afraid of. You’d have as much to say—and do—about it as I would. And you’d enjoy it as much as I would."
Julie swallowed, feeling the movement of her throat against his thumb. He dropped his hand suddenly and turned away, and his voice was harsh when he said, "Do what you must to get ready, and come to bed, Julie. Don’t make me come after you."
He lit a cigarette, jerked back the woven Mexican blanket and top sheet and lay down on the bed, his head propped on his arm and one leg drawn up. He watched her, eyes narrowed against the smoke, and Julie looked back at him, frustrated and weary, sick to death of skirmishing with this man and coming out second best, worn out by the strange battle of wits and wills. She drew a deep breath and
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