Demon Possessed

“Ohhh, right. So you date humans, then. For a short period of time.”

“You could say that. One night is a short period of time, isn’t it?”

“So you sleep with a lot of women,” she said, and saying it shocked her. What was she doing? Her hand was still on his chest; her legs were bare, her long skirt pushed up almost to her hips. She was alone in a hotel room, drunk, nursing one hell of a broken heart, with a very sexy man. Whom she genuinely liked. Genuinely cared about.

Which was why she shouldn’t even be considering what she was pretending not to be considering.

Greyson had left with Leora. What were they doing now? Talking? Laughing? Other things? Was he looking at her the way he’d always looked at Megan?

Nick either hadn’t caught on to her drunken calculations or was ignoring the way the air had just stilled around them. Or he was too drunk; her voice wasn’t the only one begi

“I do, yeah. I’m not really proud of it.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

He burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, maybe I am. Some. But seriously, Megan. I’m too old for that shit now. It’s kinda pitiful. Pitiful and . . .” Their eyes met. “Lonely. It’s lonely.”

“You shouldn’t be lonely. You’re so great, why should you be lonely?”

“Nobody else thinks so. Thinks I’m great, I mean.” He blinked, as if he was having trouble focusing. “They think I’m scum. And maybe they’re right.”

“No. No, they’re not.”

He shook his head slowly, more of a sway than a shake. “I think they are. Otherwise, why’d I still be alone? Must be something wrong with me, you know? Makes me nervous when I really like somebody, and then I just feel all weird about ’em. And they all seem so silly, the ones I meet. They’re not like you, all smart and stuff. They—”

“You think I’m smart?”

He blinked. So did she. It was a little hard to keep him in focus. “Well, yeah, ’course. Grey said so all the time, and how intre—inster—i

Even with the random and shameful thoughts she’d been having before, she wasn’t sure why she did it. It might have been the thought of his lonely life and an attempt to make him feel better. It might have been that he was complimenting her and she desperately needed those compliments, when she felt lower than plankton on the intelligence-and-happiness food chain.

It might have been that in that deep dark place in her mind, the one that was all her own—she’d never had a personal demon, until Roc, and had still done things she shouldn’t have done, things that other people did because their demons persuaded them to—she was still thinking of Greyson leaving di

Or it could have simply been that the alcohol wasn’t erasing that pain as effectively as she’d hoped, and she thought she’d try something else.

Whatever the reason, she leaned over and kissed him. Hard, right on the mouth, with her hand still on his chest trapped between his ribs and her own.

His surprise jumped through her; her shields were down, and apparently so were his. She hadn’t expected to be able to read him so easily; well, she couldn’t really read him, but she definitely felt his shock. Felt his short, sharp burst of desire shoot straight to her ego and stay there.

“Megan,” he started, but she didn’t let him continue. She rested her hand on the back of his neck, where his short black hair tickled her fingers, and kissed him a little harder.

Her heart pounded. This was wrong, this wasn’t right, she should pull away now. Now, before things went any farther. A kiss could be forgotten, shrugged off, and never visited again, leaving not a trace of awkwardness in its wake; it was no big deal, especially not between very drunk friends. She should stop, apologize, and start thinking of passing out.

But she didn’t. After a second his hesitation turned into something else; his hand found her cheek, his lips moved against hers, and—holy shit—she found out what kissing a sex demon really meant.

It meant a blast of pure sexual energy, sharp and strong enough to make her entire body go stiff. It meant feeling herself melt over him; when his tongue found hers, she cried out, overstimulated already. It meant feeling herself go liquid, filled with a hot wave of desire that made her want to yank up her dress and shove down her panties and let him have her, however he wanted.

She’d experienced something like it when they’d met at Mitchell’s restaurant the year before, when he hadn’t known who she was. That had just been through his eyes, through the touch of their hands. This . . . this was that pulsing need times ten.

Still not the way it felt with Greyson. Nothing could touch that. But this was awfully damn good, she had to admit.

“We can’t,” he mumbled. “Shit, we can’t do this.”

“Yes, we can.” She slid her hand over his chest, curled herself down to kiss his throat. So odd, so different from Greyson. Nick’s skin was musky and spicy, cooler to the touch. His chin moved, giving her better access even as his hands rested on her upper arms, as if he was going to push her away.

But he didn’t. She pulled his earlobe between her teeth, sucked on it, felt another sharp burst of desire, stronger this time. “We can’t, Grey’s my best friend, I can’t—”

“Shut up.” She closed his mouth for him, took the energy he’d given her and sent some of it back; he gasped. He was right about how wrong this was, she knew he was right, but she couldn’t seem to remember it. Couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Couldn’t seem to stop wondering if Greyson and Leora were doing the exact same thing seven floors above them. If they’d already finished and were sleeping, snuggled together in that big four-poster bed. If he’d put a ring on her finger—

Nick pushed more power into her, thick with lust, red-tinged with anger the way his energy always was, and she stopped thinking. Instead she let him drive his fingers into her hair and shift her so she lay beside him. Let him take charge, deepening the kiss, her lips parted beneath his. Power flowed into her, so strong it made her shake.

“We can’t,” he whispered. His hand slid up her ribcage, stopped just beneath her breast, radiating warmth. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I don’t care.” Her hand found the hem of his shirt and snaked up beneath it, across his smooth bare skin. No sgaegas there; this was a different back. A different man.

And she knew it. Knew she wasn’t kissing Greyson. Knew the power coursing through her wasn’t Greyson’s. It was warm, and it made her entire body tingle, but it wasn’t his.

Which was just what she wanted, despite the twinge of pain, the feeling in the back of her mind that this was even more wrong than she’d thought at first.

But Jesus, he was a good kisser. Without her mind’s consent, her body ached and throbbed; her right leg wrapped itself around him and pulled him closer, close enough that she could feel him hard against her, so close he made a small sound in the back of his throat, and his hand finished its journey. She arched her back into it. He touched her so lightly, rubbing his palm in slow circles over her hard nipple through her dress. She felt it through her entire body, gave him a gasp of her own, and captured his mouth with hers, let her teeth close gently over his tongue. More power, more lust, surged into her.

She took that feeling and sent it back to him. In a second it came back to her again, a tidal wave of passion she couldn’t escape. Couldn’t do anything with but let it wash through her and chase away the last vestiges of her sanity. The last vestiges of doubt.

She let her hands play, slid them around to feel his chest, his heart pounding beneath. Ran them down his sides, then around again to his front, finding him through his jeans and rubbing hard enough to make his breath catch. “Shit, Megan.”