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His mouth is between my thighs before I finish the word.

His tongue is hot, and the first slow stroke of it makes my whole back come off the bed. He puts one hand flat on my stomach to keep me there, and he looks up the length of me, his horns curving up past my hips, his eyes bright.

“Okay?” he says against me.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

He laughs, and I feel that too, and then he doesn’t stop. He’s thorough and greedy and not remotely quiet. When I grab his horns, he groans into me and the lines across his shoulders flash white-gold, so I do it again, and squeeze, and he says, “You’re going to leave fingerprints,” and I say, “Good,” and he laughs so hard he has to stop for a second and press his forehead against my thigh.

“Where was I,” he says.

“You know where you were.”

“I do,” he says, and goes back.

The hand on my stomach starts to warm. Slowly, the way it did on my wrist. I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting for me.

He keeps it right there, and I come apart on his sheets with both hands wrapped around his horns, loud enough that Billy Bob barks once from the living room.

When I can see again, Merek is propped up on one elbow beside me, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Your dog thinks I’m hurting you,” he says.

“My dog can mind his own business.”

“Your dog is a good judge of character. He gets an extra scoop at breakfast.”

“Of the prescription kibble.”

“Of the prescription kibble,” he agrees solemnly.

I reach for his belt.

He has to help, because demon jeans apparently involve a slot for a tail and I can’t figure it out. He lies back on the pillows and lets me struggle with it, grinning at the ceiling.

“There’s a snap,” he says.

“I see the snap.”

“There’s a second snap.”

“Why are there two snaps?”

“You try having a tail,” he says, and then I get the second snap, and he’s naked, and I sit back on my heels and look.

He’s big. In proportion, which is to say a lot. When I wrap my hand around him he’s hot enough that I gasp, and he groans and drops his head back against the headboard, right into one of the scorched grooves. It fits him perfectly.

“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s what those are.”

“I told you. Bad dreams.”

“That’s not from bad dreams.”

“They were very good dreams,” he admits, and then I move my hand, and he stops talking and swears in that language I don’t know.

I like that, so I do it again.

“Trouble.” His voice has gone rough.