A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch -
: Chapter 30
Calladia eyed the door nervously. With logistics for the upcoming Hybrid Rights Campaign hammered out, most of the group had dispersed, but Oz and Astaroth still weren’t back.
“Don’t worry,” Themmie said as she drank her third milkshake. Her wings twitched, and she was practically quivering from sugar intake. “If they’d killed each other, we would have heard screaming by now.”
“How comforting.”
“Unless the kill was quick. Oz could have gutted him and disposed of the body before anyone noticed.”
“Hey,” Calladia said, offended on Astaroth’s behalf. “Why do you assume Oz would win?”
Mariel, Ben, and Themmie gave her matching skeptical looks.
The werewolves had decamped for a rugby game, and the demonesses had returned to their home plane to set plans in motion, so only the four friends were left at NecroNomNomNoms. It felt nice to be with them, though Calladia still felt awkward about the whole sleeping-with-the-enemy thing. Not that she’d outright admitted to sleeping with the demon, but Mariel had given her a series of knowing and judgmental looks that said she knew what Calladia had been up to.
“Oh, come on,” Calladia said, leaning into the argument to cover up her worry. “Astaroth would totally win in a fight. He’s more experienced than Oz.”
“And at least forty pounds lighter,” Ben said.
“He’s an accomplished swordsman.”
“Yeah?” Themmie asked. “Where’s his sword?”
“He’s very good with a stick, too.”
“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?” Mariel asked. “Has he been bludgeoning you with his stick frequently?”
Busted. Calladia’s cheeks grew hot. “None of your business.”
“That is exactly my business,” Mariel said. “I’m your best friend, and the last I knew, you hated Astaroth’s guts. Now you’re hooking up with him?”
Themmie slurped loudly. “Mmmm,” she said. “This is delicious.”
Bless Themmie for trying to distract from the awkward conversation. Calladia shot her a grateful look.
“Maybe I’ll get one, too,” Ben said, looking warily between the three women. The introverted werewolf had been helpful in strategizing an approach for their campaign, but it was clear the emotional undercurrents at the table made him uncomfortable.
“Not the milkshake,” Themmie said. “Well, the milkshake is good, too, if a little savory. I mean this role reversal.” She brought her fingers to her lips for a chef’s kiss gesture. “Delectable.”
Curse Themmie for being a drama-mongering agent of chaos. Calladia scowled at her.
“What do you mean a role reversal?” Ben asked.
Calladia braced herself. She should have known she wouldn’t get away without, as Astaroth would say, getting the absolute piss taken out of her. Mariel was a forgiving type, but her raised brows and pursed lips told Calladia she was going to make her squirm first.
“Well,” Themmie said with gleeful vindictiveness, “Calladia here was adamantly anti-Oz when he first showed up. I seem to recall a late night at the Centaur Cafe when we had a heated discussion about Mariel hooking up with him.”
Mariel snapped her fingers. “Now that you mention it, I remember that night, too.”
Calladia groaned and thumped her forehead against the table.
“Calladia was appalled,” Themmie explained to Ben. “Kissing a demon! Just imagine it!”
“I’d rather not,” Ben said.
Themmie was just getting started. “Calladia was practically clutching her pearls. How could Mariel want to bump uglies with someone who wanted to steal her soul?”
“The horror!” Mariel echoed.
“Our dear Calladia would never do such a thing herself, right? And definitely not with the demon who actually wanted to steal Mariel’s soul. No, sir, she’s far too discerning for that.”
Calladia glared at her friends. “Are you done mocking me?”
“Let me think,” Mariel said, tapping her chin. “No.”
Themmie cackled. “You brought this on yourself, Calladia. If you expect us to give you grace for bagging and tagging that jackass, you need to let us roast you first.”
“Okay, fine,” Calladia grumbled. “But I will have you know I never would have done any bagging, much less tagging, if he wasn’t different.”
“You really believe that?” Mariel leaned in, expression turning serious. “You honestly believe his amnesia is real and he’s a better person now?”
It sounded ludicrous. Astaroth of the Nine, legendary demon bargainer, magically transformed into a better person by amnesia? Calladia ought to scoff at the very thought. She had scoffed when Mariel had claimed Oz was genuine and really cared for her. As experience had taught her, some people were liars who would say and do anything to get power over a partner, then gradually chip away at that partner’s independence and self-worth.
Calladia had always been a creature of instinct. After Sam, she’d stopped trusting her heart, but it was still beating, and it insisted that Astaroth truly had changed. Sure, it had been alarming when Isobel had proposed killing mortals to extend Astaroth’s life span, but he’d promised they’d find another way.
Was it irrational? Maybe. But she believed him.
“Yes,” she said, looking Mariel in the eye. “I do.”
Mariel bit her lip. Then she held out her hand, pinkie up. “Pinkie swear?”
“What is this, grade school?” Ben asked, nudging his gold-frame glasses up his nose.
“Shhh,” Themmie said, whacking him on the shoulder. “The pinkie swear is a sacred pact.”
“If you say so . . .” Ben had the baffled, nervous expression of a man introduced to space aliens and trying to respect their customs.
Growing up, Calladia and Mariel had played pranks, teased, and sometimes lied to each other, as all children did. Coupled with unpredictable mothers, they’d realized they needed to implement a foolproof system of trust with each other whenever absolute honesty was required. Mariel had been skeeved out by the idea of a blood pact, so they’d settled on the tried-and-true method of the pinkie swear. The tradition had lasted to adulthood.
Calladia extended her hand and looped her pinkie finger around Mariel’s. “I pinkie swear I believe Astaroth has truly changed after getting amnesia and that he’s much nicer and not nearly as ruthless or murdery anymore. I pinkie swear that I think his feelings for me are genuine. I also pinkie swear that if I find out he’s been lying to me, I will kick his ass so hard he’ll cough it up.”
They shook once, then released hands.
“Pinkie swear witnessed!” Themmie crowed.
“Weird women,” Ben said.
Mariel set her hands on the table and leaned in. “In that case,” she said, eyes gleaming with interest. “I need all the details.”
“Well, he really is good with a stick,” Calladia said. “Literally. He fought off Kai’s pack.”
“Avram told me that,” Ben said. “I still can’t believe you got in a fight with my cousin.”
“We got in a fight with each other,” Calladia said. “Very consensual. And speaking of consensual, about Astaroth’s metaphorical stick . . .”
She broke off as the door swung open, letting afternoon light into the restaurant. Two familiar horned silhouettes appeared.
“Oz!” Mariel shot to her feet and hurried over. “Everything okay?”
Calladia stood, too. After the door closed, it took her eyes a moment to adjust, and then warmth flooded her chest at the sight of Astaroth, whole and seemingly unharmed.
Then she noticed the bruising on his jaw. “What happened?” she asked, jogging over. She turned his face in her hands, inspecting the mark. Thankfully, she still had half a restorative potion left after healing the cut on her head from Tirana’s whip.
“Ozroth hit me,” he said.
Mariel gasped. “Oz, you were supposed to talk, not beat him up.”
“We did talk,” Oz said. “After I beat him up.”
“I had it coming,” Astaroth pointed out. The two demons shared a look, then a nod of acknowledgment.
Reconciled, then, or at least on the way. Calladia felt a massive surge of relief, not just for her friendship with Mariel, but for Astaroth and Oz. Astaroth had basically raised Oz, and when a relationship like that turned toxic, it was almost impossible to correct course.
Her phone seemed to burn a hole in her pocket. After calling multiple times the previous night, her own mother had gone quiet. It wouldn’t last though. And Calladia was beginning to accept that, unlike Astaroth and Oz, there might not be a way back for her and her mother.
She forced a smile. “I’m sure he did have it coming,” she said, patting Astaroth’s cheek. “But I’m glad you didn’t permanently maim him.”
“Yeah, she needs all his parts in working order,” Themmie called out.
Mariel started snickering, and Calladia rolled her eyes. “We’re meeting in the demon plane tomorrow, right?”
“Right,” Themmie said. “I’m making protest signs tonight.”
“Then I’m going to say goodbye for now.” Calladia winked at Mariel. “If it’s our last night on Earth, I want to take my time appreciating all of Astaroth’s parts before Moloch chops them off.”
Oz nearly choked. Mariel and Themmie collapsed into hysterical giggles. Ben eyed the door longingly.
And Astaroth? He gave her a wicked smile and palmed her ass. “Then hurry up and start appreciating, my warrior queen.”
“Seems a tad cliché,” Astaroth said, eyeing the setup.
Calladia rolled her eyes. “Of course you have a pretentious opinion.”
“What’s going to happen to those petals? They’ll be crushed or end up in my unmentionables. It’s impractical.”
“If you want me to stuff them up your ass, just say so.” Calladia uncorked the champagne and sniffed appreciatively at the vapor wafting out.
“When I ask you to stuff something up my ass,” Astaroth said, “it will not be flower petals.” He held the flutes out so Calladia could pour.
“I’ve always wondered what pegging someone would be like,” she mused. The guys she’d slept with had not been interested in letting her peg them, though they’d had no qualms about asking her for anal.
“We can try it sometime.”
She laughed, pleasantly surprised. “You mean it?”
Astaroth lifted his glass and grinned. “Calladia, I am over six hundred years old. I have been there, done that with most carnal activities, and if I haven’t done something already, I’d probably like to try it out.”
“Fascinating.” Calladia would have to make a list of possible carnal activities. She took a gulp of champagne, and the flavor burst on her tongue, crisp, bready, and faintly fruity. She’d sampled enough champagne at political events to recognize it was a quality vintage.
“What, no toast?” Astaroth asked. “Poor form, Calladia.”
“Good point.” She raised the flute. “What should we toast to? A successful protest tomorrow? The imminent recovery of your memory?” As soon as she said the latter, she regretted it. Yes, he might have some secret piece of information to defeat Moloch hidden away in that devious brain, but she was feeling optimistic about the group’s plan. What if, when the old Astaroth merged with this new version, he went straight back to his old ways? Would he decide sacrificing humans on the altar of his immortality was worth it, after all?
Astaroth seemed oblivious to her inner debate. He was relaxed and smiling, looking utterly dashing in a crisp gray button-up and charcoal slacks he’d sourced at a local store. Candlelight flickered off his obsidian-smooth horns and played over the sharp contours of his face. The light loved him, as much as she was beginning to—
“I’d rather toast to you,” he said. “A toast to Calladia Cunnington, as fair as she is fierce. Long may she terrorize werewolves.”
Calladia laughed, though her heart was racing from that thought she’d almost completed. The light loved him . . . “I can hardly toast to myself,” she said.
“There’s an obvious solution.” Astaroth tipped his chin to a haughty angle. “You can toast to my beauty and brilliance.”
“More like your vanity.” She shook her head, still grinning. She smiled around him an unreasonable amount, truly. “I would like to propose a toast to Astaroth, soon to be of the Nine again, as beautiful as he is brilliant. Long may he fight for hybrid rights.”
A lump formed in her throat. Hecate, she was beyond emotionally compromised for this ridiculous, charming, intense demon. If he could just stay mortal . . .
Astaroth’s expression had softened. “Long may he fight,” he repeated. “I like that.”
They clinked glasses, maintaining eye contact as they swallowed. It felt like a ritual, as if the words of the toast were a spell and the champagne a potion, and together they were reshaping reality into a shared vision.
Astaroth set his flute down on an end table. “Calladia,” he said softly, stepping toward her.
Calladia’s phone started buzzing. “Ugh,” she said, putting the glass down and heading for her backpack. “This had better not be Themmie calling to ask about a color scheme for her protest posters.”
Her heart sank when she saw the name on the caller ID. She should have known this reckoning would come sooner rather than later. Her mother would never stay silent for long.
Astaroth took one look at her face and intuited the issue. “You don’t have to talk to her.”
“I have to at some point. She’s like a terrier with a rat when she’s upset about something. She doesn’t let go until she’s absolutely brutalized the topic.”
This conversation was going to be especially ugly. Calladia butted heads with her mother frequently, but she hadn’t missed a mandatory event before.
They’d been building to this for a long time though. Every snide comment about Calladia’s career or appearance, every time Calladia had snapped back . . . it had been escalating. When Calladia had opposed her mother at a recent town hall discussing the construction project that would have harmed the forest, it had pushed their relationship troubles into the public eye. I know you’re selfish and don’t want to let anyone else enjoy nice things, Cynthia had said in front of everyone. It had felt like being slapped.
Maybe a better person would de-escalate to salvage the relationship, but Calladia wasn’t built like that. And why should she be the one to cede ground?
Calladia Cunnington, as fair as she is fierce. She fixed the words in her mind, took a deep breath, and answered the phone. “Hello.”
“Oh, so now you can bother to answer the phone when I call?” Her mother sounded seriously steamed.
“I was busy last night.” Busy getting her proverbial socks knocked off by a sexy demon. She checked her smartwatch, wondering how long this talk was going to take. If they were facing Moloch tomorrow, she wanted to have those metaphorical socks completely obliterated by Astaroth.
“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know people have been asking why you didn’t show up. Rumors have been swirling ever since your shameful display at the town hall.”
“My shameful display?” Calladia asked, temper igniting. “You were the one backing corporate greed over the well-being of your constituents.”
“Oh, please. Like you know a thing about politics.”
Calladia let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve watched you manipulate and threaten your way to power for years. I’m pretty sure I understand politics.” She was also sure she never, ever wanted to engage in them herself.
“I’m willing to overlook this misstep,” Cynthia said, ignoring the jab, “so long as you modify your behavior going forward. An influential lobbyist is in town this weekend, and we’re meeting at that new restaurant on Pine Street for dinner and drinks. His son will be there, and I expect you to be as well.”
Calladia’s instincts told her this was more than a mere meeting with a lobbyist and her mother had ulterior motives. “How old is this son?”
“Thirty-five,” her mother said. “And looking to settle down.”
Yep, ulterior motives. “Absolutely not.”
Cynthia let out an exasperated sigh. “You haven’t even met the man. He’d be perfect for you.”
This ought to be rich. “How so?”
“He’s wealthy, handsome, and works in finance. He has a house in Seattle and a condo in New York City, and he travels frequently for work.”
“That sounds terrible,” Calladia said. “Why would I want a husband who travels all the time?”
Next to her, Astaroth stiffened.
“A spouse who travels is the best thing an ambitious witch can have,” Cynthia said. “Why do you think Bertrand and I get along so well? He has his life, I have mine.”
An old, familiar hurt seized Calladia’s heart. Her father had been absent for most of her life, jet-setting around the world as a consulting expert in the dismantling and selling of companies. If a company was in danger of going under, he was there to make sure the circling sharks got their teeth into it. She’d seen him on major holidays as a child, but since she’d come of age, he’d effectively vanished.
He wasn’t worth hurting over, so Calladia shoved the pain down and focused on her other shitty parent. “I don’t want your marriage,” she said. “I want someone who loves me and wants to spend time with me.”
Cynthia’s laugh was ugly. “You already had that, and you threw it away out of selfishness.”
Ice formed in Calladia’s veins. “What are you talking about?”
She knew though. There was only one boyfriend Calladia had brought home to meet her family. Only one man she’d talked about marrying, only one her status-obsessed mother had approved of.
“I’m talking about Sam, of course,” Cynthia said. “I still don’t understand why you sabotaged that relationship. He was perfect.”
“Perfectly awful,” Calladia said.
“A rich, handsome, tenured professor. Yes, that sounds dreadful.” Her mother’s tone was beyond condescending. “You were turning your life around, dressing well, meeting important people . . . do you know how high you could have risen in society? But you couldn’t bear dating anyone I approved of, could you? Just a spiteful little girl, spitting in my face every chance you get.”
The words were meant to flay Calladia to the bone. Make her weep, make her apologize. Make her regret ever abandoning perfect Sam and her mother’s dreams of a high-class, ambitious, equally perfect daughter.
Fuck perfect.
“You don’t know a thing about our relationship,” Calladia snapped. “Sam verbally and emotionally abused me.”
She had hinted at it before but never admitted it outright to her mother. It felt equally good and terrible, like scratching at a scab to expose the tender skin beneath.
Maybe that had been the problem all along. Calladia’s wounds from that first, disastrous love had never fully healed. She’d ignored the pain, instead shutting down the parts of her that were capable of love and vulnerability. And what did she have to show for that?
Anger problems, trust issues, and a relationship with her mother that had stagnated in its awfulness. She’d gotten stuck in self-destructive habits, never shaking off the weight of her trauma.
Astaroth’s fingers curled around her free hand. The heat of his skin sank into her, melting the ice in her veins. She squeezed his hand hard, using it as an anchor.
His beautiful eyes, blue like the heart of a flame, met hers. In them she saw understanding and support.
Calladia would be strong. She would be fierce. It was long past time.
Her mother didn’t respond right away. The gears in her android brain were probably ticking, calculating how to use this revelation to her own advantage. Because that’s what it always was with Cynthia Cunnington, wasn’t it? Her life. Her ambitions. Her advantage.
“I never heard Sam say a mean word to you,” Cynthia finally said.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” Calladia replied. “It happened at home.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t just advising you on how to improve yourself? Loving someone means trying to help them be the best version of themselves.” Cynthia sighed. “But you’ve always mistreated anyone who wants to help you—I know that better than anyone.”
The words hit like a lightning strike, illuminating decades of lies before splitting them apart. Calladia stood stock-still, letting the realization burn through her.
Sam had been an abuser. She’d left him.
Her mother was an abuser, too.
Calladia looked to Astaroth, drinking in the sympathy in his gaze. She clutched his fingers, drawing strength from them. She wasn’t alone. And even if she was, the toxic relationship with her mother couldn’t continue like this.
What she was about to do would hurt for a long time to come, she suspected . . . but it would also be a liberation. The best outcome for Calladia’s heart and health. Her life, not her mother’s. Her dreams. Her future.
Calladia was a fighter. This time she would fight not to cover up her pain, but to release it.
“Love does mean helping someone be the best version of themselves,” she said. “It means supporting and uplifting them. It means even when you argue, you do it from a place of compassion.” Her eyes pricked with tears. Rather than knuckle them away, she let them trickle down her cheeks. “That’s not what Sam did,” she continued, “and it isn’t what you’ve been doing either. Both of you want a Calladia who doesn’t exist.”
“You could—”
“I’m still talking,” Calladia said firmly. “I’m not going to meet that lobbyist’s son. In fact, I won’t be attending any more political events. I’m done trying to placate you. If you don’t love me as I am now, you don’t love me at all.”
Cynthia made a shocked sound. “That’s not fair. You have so much potential—”
“Stop!” Calladia was shouting now. “Loving my potential isn’t the same as loving me. I’m done letting you tear me down. I suggest you get therapy to address your anger and your impossible expectations, but I’m not going to wait for that. We’re done.”
“Done?” Cynthia sounded confused. “What do you mean, done?”
“I’m not going to see or talk to you anymore.” Calladia’s throat ached, but she forced the words out. It was time. It was past time. “I’m your daughter, not a pet project. And where you see a failure, I see someone fierce and bold. Someone worthy of being loved just as she is.”
Astaroth raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. His eyes were glistening, too, and in them she saw something equally terrifying and amazing.
Possibility.
Her mother was screeching about how cruel and unreasonable she was being, but Calladia was done being the family punching bag. “Don’t contact me again unless it’s an apology and a sincere promise to do better.”
She hung up.
The phone vibrated immediately. Calladia put it on silent and tossed it aside.
She took a deep breath of pine- and cedar-scented air. “Well,” she said into the silence. “That’s done.”
Astaroth’s arms wrapped around her, and she squawked as he hauled her into a tight hug. He bent back, lifting her toes off the floor before setting her down again. “You,” he said, “are magnificent.”
She sniffled and buried her face in his hair, letting the soft strands soak up her tears. Her heart hurt, but she felt light enough to float away. A burden had been lifted from her shoulders, one she’d been carrying for so long, she hadn’t realized how heavy it had gotten. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“I can. You’re a warrior, Calladia.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Not a messy brawler or a reckless disaster or any of the other negative things she and others had said about her. A warrior.
An unbearably tender emotion welled in her breast. Calladia cupped Astaroth’s cheeks and kissed him.
He tasted like fire and sin and freedom. Like deliverance.
Like hope.
His lips parted under hers, and he kissed her back with matching passion.
In trying to protect her heart, Calladia had instead created a prison for her true self. She let the final walls around her heart fall away and gave herself over wholly to this moment and this man, who, despite his flaws and his troubled history, had helped her find the key to her shackles.
Love wasn’t trying to force someone to be who you thought they should be. It was loving them as they were while supporting them on their journey toward becoming their best self. Astaroth liked her temper and attitude. Calladia liked his snark and pretentiousness. And just as he’d supported her in taking this crucial step of cutting off her abusive mother, she would support him as he fought to bring change to the demon plane.
Maybe regaining his memories would turn him into a dick again. But if that happened, Calladia would be there to kick his ass and encourage his better impulses. It might end badly, but she was done being afraid.
She stripped his shirt off urgently, sending buttons flying. In response, he tugged her shirt and sports bra over her head. Then they were pressed chest to chest, hearts pounding in a fervent duet.
Calladia backed Astaroth toward the bed and shoved him down. He grinned as he scooted up the mattress, making room for her. He started undoing his slacks, but Calladia shook her head as she planted a knee on the bed and crawled between his legs. “Mine,” she said, batting his hand aside.
“Yes, goddess,” he said, reclining on his elbows. The muscles in his abdomen tightened with the curve of his spine, and Calladia’s mouth watered. She ripped his pants off, then his underwear, sending them flying. Then she lowered her head to his crotch and wrapped her lips around his dick.
Astaroth shouted, and his hips bucked up, sending his shaft deeper. Calladia opened wider, letting saliva pool in her mouth as she bobbed up and down. She used her fist on the base of his erection, pumping in time with her movements.
“Not yet,” he gasped after a minute, pushing lightly on her forehead. “You’re going to make me come.”
She popped off his dick with a wicked grin, then licked her lips. “Already? You’d think your endurance would be higher after all these years.”
“When it comes to you, all bets are off.” He sat upright, abs rippling deliciously, then tossed her to her back and went for the waistband of her leggings. She was nude in seconds, and then he was returning the favor, mouth glued between her legs as he ate her out ravenously. He plunged two fingers into her and crooked them, dragging them over her inner wall in a sensuous rhythm that had her cursing and arching her back.
She gripped his horns, tugging him harder against her, and Astaroth moaned before redoubling his efforts. A third finger worked inside her, stretching her wide. Then he focused on her clit, sucking hard. The sensations were intense, just this side of uncomfortable—exactly how she liked it.
She came quickly, hips jerking as a jolt of pure ecstasy rocketed through her. When she was done twitching and gasping, Astaroth lifted his head and pulled his fingers out. He sucked them clean, then smirked at her. “Whose endurance is lacking now?”
She cackled, high off the feelings and the moment and him. “Get up here, you menace.”
He crawled up her body, settling his hips between her spread thighs. Then he was kissing her, hard and hungry. “I’ll never get enough of you,” he said against her lips. “The sun could die and the stars could fall and the earth could rip itself apart, and none of that would matter, so long as you were in my arms.”
It was a beautiful and intense sentiment. As Calladia did when faced with an overwhelming influx of feeling, she cracked a joke. “Pussy good enough to overshadow the apocalypse? High praise, indeed.”
“Not just that,” he said, cupping her chin in one hand. “All of you. Your mind and heart and ferocious spirit. I’ve never met anyone like you.”
How was that possible? “You’ve met a lot of people,” she said, heart threatening to beat out of her chest.
“I know. That’s what makes this so remarkable.” He kissed her, soft at first, then with more pressure. She wrapped her arms around him, plunging one hand into his hair and gripping his ass with the other.
“Want you inside me,” she whispered.
He hummed and nodded, still kissing her. But when she reached up to yank out a strand of hair to summon a condom, he pulled back. “Use mine,” he said.
“What?”
“My hair,” he said. “It isn’t fair to use yours each time.”
She’d never felt this mix of ardor and tenderness before. She nodded, then reached for a hair at the top of his head and plucked it. The strand was only a few inches long, but she could make it work. She briefly let go of his ass to tie a series of knots, then whispered the spell, and a condom plopped to the bed beside them.
“Somewhere, a pharmacist is confused about their dwindling condom supply.” Astaroth put the condom on with neat, efficient movements. Another thing she liked about him—he didn’t try to convince her not to use one. She had an IUD, too, but Calladia was paranoid about maintaining full bodily autonomy, and getting her exes to agree to condoms had been an ordeal.
How telling that an immortal demon with a deadly reputation valued consent more than the human men she’d been with.
“I take them from an RA’s condom bowl at my old college,” she said. “They’re free for anyone who needs them.”
“Ah, I was hoping you’d developed a larcenous streak. But trust you to summon condoms ethically.”
She laughed. “Trying to corrupt me?”
“It’s only fair I try in exchange for you redeeming me.” Joking words, but she heard the serious edge beneath them.
She met his eyes. “We’re a good influence on each other.” Against all odds, combining their questionable impulses and combative natures had a net positive effect.
On them, at least. A certain werewolf pack might disagree.
“Long may it remain so.” Astaroth kissed her lingeringly, then reached down to notch his cock in place. She was incredibly wet, and he slid in slowly but easily. When their hips were flush and he was seated as deep as he could go, Calladia let out a shuddering breath. She was stretched tight around him, full in a way that made her nerves spark.
Like the rest of him, his dick was almost too much to handle. Almost. Calladia had always liked to dance at a cliff’s edge, and like every other risk she’d taken with him, this one paid off.
She rocked her hips. “Come on,” she whispered. “Fuck me.”
He dropped his mouth to her ear. “Make love to you,” he corrected.
Before she could question that, he started moving, and all thoughts fled her head. He pumped into her with sure strokes, taking his time. His back flexed under her fingers, and when she trailed them down to his ass, every thrust turned the muscles there to iron.
She grew wetter, her body loosening to accommodate him. Soon she was desperate for more, harder, faster, but even as she sank her nails into his back, Astaroth maintained the same maddeningly moderate tempo. This was where his immortality became evident. His control was preternatural, and that steadiness allowed her to relax even more. This wouldn’t be over before she was ready.
Calladia let go and let herself feel.
She mouthed at his neck, licking up the sheen of sweat, then bit down. He groaned and returned the favor, kissing down her jawline to her neck. His tongue pressed against her flickering pulse, and then his teeth seized the delicate skin there. The prick of pain mixed with the pleasure, intensifying it.
Calladia rocked her hips, trying to get him to speed up. When he didn’t react, she bared her teeth. “Hurry up, damn you.”
His laugh ghosted against her cheek. “Still so impatient.”
Calladia bucked up hard enough to throw off his rhythm, then took advantage of his distraction to roll him over onto his back. She mounted him like a warrior queen and began riding him in an aggressive rhythm.
“That’s how it’s going to be?” he asked, voice gone guttural. His fingers dug imprints into her hips. “You want to fight me for it?”
“Mm-hmm.” She raised her hands over her head, twining her fingers together as she snapped her hips.
Astaroth’s eyes dropped to her breasts. “Gorgeous,” he said, reaching up to squeeze them. He toyed with her nipples, then pinched hard enough to make her gasp and lose her rhythm.
Astaroth grabbed her hips and flipped her. “Two can play that game,” he said as he drove back into her.
Calladia laughed and clawed at his shoulders. “Cheat.”
“That’s the secret to winning.”
They rolled over and over, kissing and groping as they fought for supremacy. At one point they nearly toppled off the bed, saved only by Astaroth’s quick reflexes and powerful arms. He dumped her onto her belly in the middle of the mattress, and before Calladia could turn over, he was on top of her, erection nudging between her thighs.
He bit down on the juncture between her neck and shoulder like a wolf pinning down his mate. “Stay,” he growled against her skin, and a shudder raced down Calladia’s spine. She nudged her ass up, silently begging.
Astaroth shifted until he was kneeling between her spread legs, then tucked a hand under her torso and lifted her onto hands and knees. The hot, slick head of his erection notched inside her, and then he slammed in hard and fast.
Calladia cried out. “More,” she demanded when he stilled. “More!”
Astaroth gave her more. He gripped her hips and pumped into her from behind, striking impossibly deep each time. Every thrust threatened to knock her up the bed, so Calladia braced her hands against the mattress.
Astaroth gripped her hair and tugged her up until she had nothing to hold on to but him. She looped her fingers behind his neck, arching her spine.
“Mine,” he said as he thrust up into her. “You’re mine, Calladia.”
“Same,” she panted. She was just as possessive and bloody-minded as him, and as far as she was concerned, this demon belonged to her.
They set a rhythm together, hot and hard. The backs of her thighs pressed against the tops of his, and his chest flexed against her back. He kissed the side of her neck, and then his hand slid down her stomach and settled between her legs to strum her clit.
“Oh!” Calladia gasped. Each swirl of his fingers sent lighting strikes of pleasure through her. Her clit was the center of a gathering hurricane, and her inner muscles tightened in preparation for the storm.
Astaroth rubbed and rubbed, thrusting up in a rhythm that was making her see stars. “Are you going to come for me?” he asked against her neck.
“Yes,” she panted.
“Good.” His fingers pressed harder, and Calladia whimpered. She was so close, just a little more . . .
The orgasm crashed over her, fierce and fiery. She shouted as her pussy clenched in devastating, uncontrollable pulses, and heat raced over her skin. She bucked in his arms, shaking apart.
“That’s it,” he crooned in her ear. “Let go.”
The pleasure swelled, then shivered into her extremities. Her fingers tingled, her toes cramped, and her vision briefly went dark.
When the orgasm ebbed, Calladia slumped back against Astaroth. He banded both arms around her torso and thrust up once, twice, then held, his strong body shaking as he let out a strangled groan.
He held her tightly, chest heaving. Then he toppled slowly to the side, taking her with him. “Lucifer save me,” he gasped. “I’m a dead demon.”
Calladia giggled. Her head was spinning, and she felt drunk or high or both. Astaroth’s dick slipped out of her, but she made no effort to move. His body curved around her, two equal-sized spoons in a very happy drawer.
She closed her eyes and drifted, head blissfully empty. She felt cleansed, despite the sweat sticking them together. It was as if their passion had burned away everything nonessential. The world and its worries still waited, but right now, there was nothing in the universe but the two of them.
“Calladia Cunnington,” Astaroth whispered as she drifted off, “you’re my miracle.”
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