The Demon’s Queen (A Deal With A Demon)

I know this is a mistake, but I don’t care. I’ve spent days wandering the halls of this cursed castle, my frustration and fury growing with each turn that leads me nowhere but to another endless hall until I’m finally deposited back at my bedroom.

If I had better control, I would come up with some kind of brilliant plan to seduce my way to freedom. I know what Azazel likes—at least what he’s shown me so far. But right now, looking up at his ruggedly handsome face, crimson skin blushing darker with lust, eyes gone obsidian when I called him Daddy . . .

It’s hard to think of anything at all.

Instead of fighting it, I allow myself to fall. I’ve done nothing but think for days. I’m exhausted, frustrated, and heartsore. I thought my days of using sex as a way to purge messy emotions were over, that those more dangerous impulses were carefully caged, but apparently some scars run too deep. When faced with a situation I have no hope of controlling, I slide right back into being that girl who held her aching heart outside her chest, who took a razor blade to it before anyone else had a chance to, just to know that no one else could hurt her worse than she hurt herself.

“Eve.”

“No.” I dig my nails into Azazel’s square jaw. He’s so fucking big in this form. He was already significantly taller than me, but now he has feet over my five foot five inches and his body is built like the strongmen who toss around boulders and trees for prestige. I swallow hard. “I don’t want to hear you say a single thing unless it’s your safe word.” A word we negotiated before my first night with him. It’s a required step for all my clients, even if we’re not engaging in kink. A little fail-safe for my peace of mind—and theirs.

I don’t really care if Azazel has peace of mind right now, but no matter how close my fury flirts with hatred, there are lines that should never be crossed. I won’t respect a single word out of his mouth . . . except that one.

His hands bracket my hips, the strength there enough to make my skin prickle, but he doesn’t attempt to control or maneuver me as I grind down on his cock. His truly, world-endingly huge cock. Historically, I’ve scoffed at the idea that anyone would be too large to fit, but I truly don’t know how he will without ripping me in half.

Good thing I’m in the mood for pain.

I cling to his shoulders, using my thighs to maintain my place, and nip his earlobe. It shouldn’t be so sexy, but there are a lot of things about this that shouldn’t be so sexy. I release his jaw and grip his horn, earning a muffled curse. “You want to play Daddy and take care of me, Azazel?” I lick the shell of a delicately pointed ear. “Then take care of me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. One moment, I’m doing my best to straddle his stomach. The next, he bands his forearm under my ass and uses his free hand to sweep both place settings from the table. The bottle crashes to the stone, sending up the strong scent of wine. A loss, but I’m too busy being laid out on the table as if I’m the feast to worry about it. The glass and a half that I drank makes my body fizzle, but I’m nowhere near drunk. That would be too easy.

Azazel plants a hand next to my hip, towering over me for all that he’s bent nearly in half. I never thought I’d be one to have a size kink—or a hate-sex kink—but I can’t deny the way my pussy pulses in response.

My dress is tangled around my waist, exposing my thong. He makes a sound deliriously close to a true growl and rips it off. It’s such a smooth move that my hips don’t even jerk. With one last look at my face, he goes to his knees.

On his knees and with me sitting on the table, we’re nearly the same height. He yanks down my dress and palms my breasts, but there’s no savoring the movement the way there has been historically. The fury that drives me . . . Well, I can’t tell if it’s present in him or not, only that he’s intense in way that leaves no room for softness.

Good. I want none.

He plants one giant hand on my chest and pushes me down onto my back. Then he dips down and . . . Holy shit, he hooks my thighs over his horns, spreading them wide and exposing me fully.

I open my mouth to command him to do . . . something. Something that will put me back in control. Something that will make me feel less vulnerable.

I never get that chance. He covers my pussy with his mouth and kisses me with a frenzy that makes my eyes roll back in my head. I writhe on instinct, not sure if I’m trying to get away from the slick slide of his long tongue or arch closer. Azazel doesn’t allow me to decide. He palms my ass, lifting my hips even as his horns press my thighs wider.

He thrusts his tongue into my pussy; it’s nearly as thick and long as a cock but able to curl against my G-spot. I cry out, my words garbled with need. “MorePleaseDon’tstop!” I don’t know how he understands me, but he does.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps working me with his tongue as pressure builds, pulling my body tighter and tighter. I reach out wildly and my hands find his horns, then hold on with everything they have. And then I’m coming, the orgasm hitting me with the strength of a rogue wave, unexpected and violent.

Azazel eases his tongue out of me but doesn’t move away. He kisses my pussy as if he can’t get enough the taste, as if he never wants to stop. He nuzzles one thigh and then the other, nipping me lightly in the way I like sometimes, before moving back to roll the flat of his tongue against my clit.

This was a mistake.

I can’t find the breath to say so, to tell him to stop. That’s why I grip his horns tighter, why I arch closer. Not because I want to. Not because I know what comes next, how he can go for hours, alternating his attention so that I’m never quite overstimulated to the point of commanding him to stop instead of begging for more.

My second orgasm seems to build on the first. And then the third adds even more. And on and on, until I’m wrung out and limp, my hands falling to the table as I blink up at the stone ceiling.

“This was a mistake,” I rasp.

He moves back instantly. Azazel carefully disentangles my legs from his horns and stands. He cups my face, his gentleness unwanted, and yet . . . I close my eyes and lean against his palm. Just a little.

The moment I realize what I’ve done, I try to retreat. Azazel is already moving, scooping me into his arms. I’ve never felt so small in my life, and if there’s a part of me that wants to nuzzle up to him, it’s only the post-orgasm haze confusing my senses. “Put me down.”

He ignores me, walking out of the room and through the halls with what feels like dizzying speed. Or maybe it just feels that way, since spare moments later he’s shouldering open the familiar door to my bedroom.

I expect—dread, hope for—him to enter the room, lay me on the bed, and continue what we started. Instead, he sets me on my feet and holds my shoulders until he’s sure I’m steady.

I wish I were as sure. My body feels like it belongs to someone else, limbs loose and heart pounding. I look up at him, and if there’s any consolation to how shaken I am, it’s that Azazel appears equally so. His chest rises and falls with harsh breathing, and his cock is a long line against his pants.

I swallow. “You⁠—”

He cups my cheek again, something in his eyes that I can’t quite define. “Hate me if you must, Eve. Punish me all you like. I can take it.” He kisses me, the lightest brush of his lips against mine, and then takes one large step away and then another. “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

I can’t corral my racing thoughts enough to think. “Stay.” I blink up at him as if he summoned the word against my will. Surely I didn’t just expose myself in this horribly vulnerable way.

He doesn’t close the distance, doesn’t stop his retreat. “Not tonight, Eve. Not like this.” Then he goes, shutting the door softly behind him.

Leaving me alone.

I hate how my heart drops in my chest. I hate how it feels like he’s rejecting me when I’m the one who set the tone for the night. I especially hate how it feels like I set out to punish him but only ended up punishing myself.

Seconds tick by, my body cooling even though my heart rate isn’t returning to anywhere close to normal. He could have fucked me until dawn, and I wouldn’t have done anything but beg him for more.

And through it all, he didn’t disobey me once. He didn’t speak. He didn’t push. He simply gave, paying penance with his mouth despite our mutual desire for more.

It doesn’t make sense for his restraint to make me even angrier. It’s not fair—I can recognize that—but I’m not in the mood to be fair. Not anytime in this century.

I march into the bathroom and wrench on the shower. Because of course they have indoor plumbing in the fucking demon realm, and I loathe that I’m grateful for it. I yank off my rumpled dress and step beneath the blistering spray. I press my hands to the tiled wall and duck my head, letting the water cascade over me, blocking out the rest of the world. All of it does little to reset my mind and emotions.

This accomplished nothing. Pleasure usually unwinds me, but I’m more tense than when I marched to dinner, ready to fight. I sigh and shut off the water. I don’t know what I’m more pissed about. That Azazel just made me come until my body went limp . . . or that he walked away. It shouldn’t matter. I hate him for what he’s done; wanting him to choose me is a fool’s game. Unfortunately, that lost little girl inside me, the one who was always passed over, time and time again, is a ghost I can never quite vanquish. It hurts to be left. Far more than it should.

An enticing scent reaches me as I towel off. My heart picks up. “Azazel?” There’s no answer. Why would there be? He left, and I know it’s not fair to blame him for it, but again, I’m not in the mood to be fair right now.

Back in my bedroom, I find a covered tray sitting on the desk. A peek shows a steaming-hot dinner. No wine, which makes my lips quirk despite myself. “You are such an overbearing asshole.” My smile fades away. I don’t know what to do. I don’t see a way out of this.

Worst of all, lust still coats my skin, demanding more, more, more.