He took a moment to answer, finally whispering, “Yes.”
No reassurance came. No comforting words of safety. Isaac respected him for that honesty, even as it terrified him.
Whichello’s soberness carried a frightening restraint. Isaac felt the mate bond pulling at something deep in his chest, but he resisted its call.
When Whichello finally turned and entered his space, those storm-gray eyes gazed down at Isaac with an intensity that stole his breath. The air between them crackled with intimacy and danger.
Without warning, Whichello’s mouth crashed against his in a kiss that tasted of desperation and centuries of loneliness. Isaac’s gasp parted his lips, and Whichello explored hungrily, one hand fisting in Isaac’s hair while the other pressed against the small of his back. The kiss sent fire racing through Isaac’s veins, his body responding despite every rational thought screaming warnings. Whichello’s tongue swept against his, claiming and demanding, and Isaac found himself melting into the demon’s solid warmth.
Whichello’s kiss devoured, consumed, demanded everything Isaac had spent nearly two years protecting. His hands weren’t gentle as they mapped Isaac’s body through his clothes, fingers pressing into muscle and bone like he was memorizing topography. Isaac’s head tilted back, breaking the kiss to suck in air that tasted like ozone and winter, and Whichello’s mouth moved to his jaw, his throat, teeth scraping over sensitive skin.
Every rational thought Isaac possessed screamed to stop this, to push away, to remember all the reasons this was dangerous. But his body had other ideas, arching into Whichello’s touch like it recognized something his mind refused to acknowledge. The mate bond pulled at his ribs, trying to drag him closer, and Isaac fought it even as his fingers twisted in Whichello’s shirt.
“You’re trembling,” Whichello murmured against his throat, not a question but an observation that felt too intimate.
“So are you,” Isaac shot back, because he could feel it, the fine tremor in Whichello’s hands where they gripped his hips.
A sound rumbled from Whichello’s throat, somewhere between a growl and a laugh. “Fourteen hundred years, and you’re the one who undoes me.” His hands found the hem of Isaac’s shirt, fingers skating across bare skin. “Tell me to stop.”
But Isaac couldn’t form the words. Didn’t want to form them, even though terror and desire twisted together until he couldn’t separate them. Instead, he pulled Whichello back down into another kiss, this one messier, more desperate, all teeth and tongue and need that felt like drowning.
Whichello walked him backward until Isaac’s legs hit the bed. He went down, pulling Whichello with him, and the demon’s weight settled over him in a way that should have triggered panic but instead felt like an anchor.
Whichello’s eyes grew darker, that storm-gray shifting to something closer to midnight. His hands made quick work of Isaac’s shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it somewhere Isaac didn’t track. Cool air hit his skin, followed immediately by the heat of Whichello’s mouth as he kissed down Isaac’s throat, across his collarbone, lower.
Isaac’s breath came faster, each inhale catching on something that felt too big for his lungs. Whichello’s tongue traced patterns across his sternum, teeth grazing over a nipple that made Isaac’s hips jerk involuntarily. A low laugh vibrated against his skin, and Isaac wanted to say something cutting, something that would wipe that satisfaction off Whichello’s face, but his brain had apparently relocated to somewhere south of functional.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Whichello said, lips brushing against Isaac’s ribs. “All that defiance melting into want.”
“Shut up,” Isaac managed, but the words came out breathless, unconvincing even to his own ears.
Whichello’s hands moved to Isaac’s jeans, fingers working the button and zipper with efficiency that should’ve been alarming but instead just made Isaac’s pulse race faster. He lifted his hips to help, and then the denim was gone, leaving him in just his boxers, cotton doing absolutely nothing to hide his erection.
“Still want me to shut up?” Whichello’s smirk was devastating, all confidence and dark promise. His hand pressed over Isaac’s dick through the fabric, palm applying pressure that made Isaac’s eyes want to roll back.
“Fuck,” Isaac breathed, hips pushing up into the contact.
“Patience.” Whichello’s mouth returned to Isaac’s skin, kissing down his stomach, his tongue dipping into Isaac’s navel in a way that felt obscene. His hands hooked into the waistband of Isaac’s boxers, pulling them down and off, and suddenly Isaac was completely bare, while Whichello remained fully clothed.
The vulnerability should have terrified him. Probably would have if Whichello’s mouth hadn’t chosen that moment to close around his cock.
Heat and wet and suction that punched a sound out of Isaac’s throat he’d never made before. Whichello’s tongue worked along the underside, his lips sliding down until Isaac felt the back of his throat, and then Whichello pulled up slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on Isaac’s face like he was studying every micro-expression.
“Jesus,” Isaac gasped, hands fisting in the sheets because touching Whichello felt too intimate, too much like admitting this meant something.
But Whichello grabbed one of his hands, placed it on his head, an invitation that Isaac took without thinking. His fingers threaded through that long black hair, gripping maybe too hard, but Whichello just made a pleased sound and took him deeper.
The sensations built, pleasure coiling low in Isaac’s gut with every movement of Whichello’s mouth. He tried to stay still, to maintain some semblance of control, but his hips had other ideas, rocking up in small, aborted thrusts. Whichello’s hands pressed against Isaac’s hipbones, not restraining exactly, just grounding, and Isaac realized he was panting, breath coming in harsh gasps that echoed too loudly in the quiet room.
“Wait,” Isaac choked out, because he was already too close, body winding tighter with every pass of Whichello’s tongue. “I’m gonna—”
Whichello pulled off with an obscene sound, lips slick and swollen. “Not yet.” His voice had dropped lower, rougher, and Isaac watched him stand to strip off his own clothes with movements that looked almost violent in their efficiency.
Then Whichello was bare, and Isaac’s brain tried to catalog every detail—broad shoulders, defined muscle—but got stuck on the demon’s cock, thick and hard and somehow more intimidating than anything else about him.
“Turn over,” Whichello said, and it wasn’t quite a command, wasn’t quite a request, but something in between that made Isaac’s body respond.
He rolled onto his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, and felt Whichello’s hands on his ass, spreading him open. The vulnerability was overwhelming, exposure that made every nerve ending light up with anticipation and fear.
