C

ocooned in the softest sheets ever created, Gemma undulated slowly. Her nipples were hard pebbles scoring the sheets. Between her legs, an insistent pressure had moisture pooling. A fever had taken hold. The heat started between her legs and radiated to the tips of her fingers and toes, and to the ends of her hair. A bonfire didn’t burn as brightly as her insides.

She had no knowledge of this type of pain that left you writhing, dying, yet ready to plead for more. She tried to move, escape the unrelenting heat scorching her. Escape was impossible when every twinge brought the most exquisite torture. Torture she wanted, could easily crave if she were so weak of mind and of flesh.

Her core clenched and an unexpected ripple cascaded through her body. She moaned, couldn’t help it. It hurt. Pleasure wasn’t supposed to hurt. Was it? Having no carnal knowledge left her at a distinct disadvantage.

She wouldn’t give in. Fighting was what she’d trained her entire existence for and what she’d do now. Approaching this as she would any battle would save her. Focus on the objective. Channeling all her energy into the outcome she desired would get her the result she wanted.

Something touched her nipples with a gentle caress. Not the sheet. That was now pooled at her waist. Was it the air? It had to be the air causing her nipples to pebble into hard peaks because he was still across the room, sitting in a canvas chair, long legs stretched out, hands casually folded in his lap, completely relaxed while she died in a web of lust.

Her back arched a foot off the bed and a long protracted moan rushed from her parted lips. Hot, wet heat had just licked over her nipple. She cried out, jolted by the surprise. “Please.”

Ask and it shall be yours. The words slid across her mind, another caress.

“Stop this-this torment.”

No. Anything except that.

Another lick of heat assaulted her other nipple. Another moan escaped. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Because this is what you desire.

“Lies! I never told you that.” Her pelvis thrust forward in a lewd pantomime. The sheet! It was gone and she hadn’t the energy to search for it. She hadn’t the energy to do anything except lay in the center of a massive bed inside of a tent, in the bowels of Hell.

She snapped her knees together and curled into a fetal position. That didn’t alleviate the pain—pleasure. In fact, both ratcheted up several notches which left a strange hollowness inside. Something was missing. Something she’d never needed but was now imperative to her sanity.

A hand stroked from her nape to her hip, slowly, reverently, then traveled the same path back to her nape. Teeth nipped her neck, then soothed the sting with a lick. She shuddered and angled her neck for more.

Your body told me everything I needed to know.

Expecting to find him sharing the bed with her, Gemma rolled over to find an empty space. He hadn’t moved from the chair, hadn’t even adjusted his position. Partially cloaked in shadows, she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his expression, but he watched her every move. With gold-rimmed eyes. Impossible! Yet true.

“What did it tell you that I couldn’t have?”

That you’re ready to be taken, hard. Your body is ready to give up all its secrets to me and none other.

She tensed, prepared to strike. “Rape then.”

His hands curled into fists.

“I will kill you.”

With a languid grace, he uncurled his oversized, muscled body from the chair and approached, shadows clung to his face, only his face, while the rest of him was gloriously displayed. He was tall, well-formed by the way the thin shirt defined his chest and abdomen. A short toga-like shirt covered him to mid-thigh. His legs were toned, tanned, thighs muscular. It was impossible not to be distracted by the display.

Whatever I take from you will be freely given, on this I swear.

“What is the worth of a promise from a Demoni Lord?” she sneered, regaining a portion of her balance.

When it comes to you, everything. His knee sunk into the plush mattress and he lowered himself at her feet. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned to hours, or, maybe her mind had fractured and all of this wasn’t real.

His hand circled her ankle. A startled cry ripped from her as a jolt of electricity raced from her ankle, up her spine, and exploded in her brain. She’d been touched before, her hand, her shoulder, never, ever like this. Those brief connections had never provoked this combustible reaction.

She tried to remain still, show no effect of his touch on her skin even though her insides quaked. Then his hand traveled to her calf, next her knee. She moaned long and deep, and didn’t stop until his hand touched her rear.

A little voice inside her head whispered, Fight him. She answered with, Why? I’m trapped in Hell with no rescue coming, else it would have already came.

His fingers stroked her thigh, moved up to her hip. He leaned into her, his chest pressed to her sealed knees. He kneaded her hips, both of them, massaged her flesh, relaxing her.

Fight him. Insistent.

No. I want to know.

Her knees parted. She got the sense he smiled at his victory and wanted to kick him…until his fingers swept to her inner thighs.

He gripped her soft flesh and then, spread her wide. Why must I decide which to do first? Touch, lick, or fuck. Perhaps I should ask my brothers to join us so you can experience it all.

She struck fast. A punch to his throat knocked him off balance. He fell to the side, dazed. Gemma straddled his chest, pinned his arms beneath her knees. The position was precarious, leverage fleeting, but she bore down with all her weight, her fist ready to turn his face into pulp.

A poor joke. I am new at humor. I will never share you. Not a single inch.

Faster than she could react, he grabbed her hips, lifted her, and dropped her onto his face. His tongue parted her nether lips and snaked inside her core. One lick and reason fled. Second lick and her fingers fisted his hair to hold him in place. Third lick poured nitrogen into her veins. Fourth lick a flame took life at the head of a single match. Fifth lick and the seams holding Gemma’s mind together unraveled.

She screamed from pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. Her body throbbed, every part of her and all of it centered on his tongue plying her core. Spent, she slumped, fell to the side, and landed in a heap next to him. Ripples of pleasure tripped along her nerve endings. She touched herself, her stomach, thighs, breasts, lastly her nipples. They were still puckered. Another ripple coursed through her and she basked in the afterglow.

Another few moments and she came back to herself. She focused on the pinnacle of the tent keeping the structure upright, on the sweat clinging to her flushed skin, the tiny pulses between her legs refusing to cease, and the cool sheets beneath her back. Then she reached for him.

And found an empty space.

Confused, Gemma shot upright. Shock replaced the passion cooling in her veins. He hadn’t moved. He sat in the same chair, in the same position—legs stretched out in front of him, hands casually folded in his lap, face in shadows.

None of it was real. Not one single bit.

But, Oh Father, help me! She wanted it to be.