Angels' Judgment

She bit back a moan. The man was hot, hard, and more than ready. “I need you to follow orders if I become director.” Her former lovers wouldn’t hesitate, because she hadn’t been a candidate for the critically important position then. But now she was very much a candidate. “Are you going to expect special treatment?”

“I’m not in bed with the future director. I’m in bed with Sara.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

It was tempting to rush, but she stroked her hands into his hair and tugged. The kiss was a punch to the system. Making a sound of sheer pleasure, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. The man was big, solid all over. A wall of flesh and bone and muscle contained by granite will. She wanted to rub against him until she purred.

He bit her lower lip. She gasped in a breath and then it was happening again, the wild rush of sensation, the near-unbearable pleasure, the need to taste him deep. When the kiss broke this time, she nuzzled at his throat, kissing her way along the taut tendons of his neck. He smelled so damn good.

He tugged her back for another kiss, and somewhere in between, she realized his hand was on her bare back, under her T-shirt. She wanted more. Breaking the kiss, she let go of him and tugged at her T-shirt. Deacon rose off her enough that she could pull it over her head and off.

“Green?” He traced the scalloped lace of her bra with a single, teasing finger.

She began to unbutton his shirt even as he unhooked her bra. “It’s my favorite color.”

“Lucky for me.” The last word was a groan as she flattened her hands on his chest. “Damn lucky.”

“Off,” she ordered.

Grunting, he rose to a kneeling position and slid off her bra before getting rid of the shirt. But he didn’t come back down straight away. Instead, he reached out to close one big hand over her breast. She cried out at the unexpectedly bold touch, her eyes clashing with his. Deep green, but no longer calm or unaffected.

It made the last of her inhibitions fall away, and when he bent his head to her breast, she thrust her hands into his hair and held on for the ride. The Slayer knew what he was doing. There were no hesitant caresses, no requests for more permission. He’d asked once, and she’d acquiesced. Now he took every advantage. Truth to tell, it was beyond erotic being with a man so sure of himself in bed. So sure . . . and so utterly involved. Now she knew the answer to her question—when Deacon lost control, he lost control.

God, could he get any sexier?

She wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him wet and deep and open. “I think you should take off your pants.”

Nuzzling his way down her neck to her pulse point, he reached down to hers instead. But rather than opening the jeans, he slid his hand under the waistband to cup her with bold familiarity. She arched into him, wanting more. “No teasing.”

A nip at the soft flesh of her breast. Shuddering, she thrust her hands into his hair and tugged. “Don’t you talk in bed?”

His response was to kiss his way down her breastbone, before sitting back up. Withdrawing his hand with obvious reluctance, he undid her jeans and pulled them off, along with her panties. A still, darkly sensual moment as he simply looked at her. Her body arched in silent invitation. Taking it, he bent down until his lips touched her ear . . . and whispered such wicked promises, such decadent requests, she thought she’d melt from the inside out.

“Okay, stop talking.” It was too much sensory input, too much pleasure. “Right now.”

He smiled and sat up, his gaze never leaving her face. The intimacy was blinding. Then one big hand spread on her thigh, thumb stroking the insanely sensitive inner surface. She cried out in the back of her throat . . . and twisted out of his hold to sit up on her knees.

A flicker of surprise, followed by a smile, slow and sure. “Fast and sleek, and pretty.” He bent to run his lips along her neck as she pulled out his belt and threw it to the floor, then started on the buttons on his fly. “Mmm.” A sound of pure male appreciation.

Pushing his pants down just enough, she closed her hands around him. His big frame shook. “Sara.” And then he was pressing her onto her back, tugging off her hands and sliding into her in one solid push.

Her entire body arched up off the bed. Wow, she thought, seconds before her sanity fractured, Deacon was built exactly in proportion.

Body tingling from the aftereffects of the best orgasm of her life, Sara stared at the hotel ceiling. “I knew we had chemistry, but that was unnatural.”

The arm across her waist squeezed a little. “I live to please.”

Sexy, uninhibited as hell when you got past the control, and he had a sense of humor. “I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a long-term relationship?”

She’d expected shocked silence, but he answered straight away. “I wouldn’t make a very good lover for the director.”

“Don’t like the spotlight, do you.” It wasn’t a question, because she knew the answer. And part of her wished she didn’t. Because she liked Deacon, more than liked him. Each time he revealed some new facet of his personality, she found it complemented hers on the deepest level. There was promise here. And it wasn’t just about sex. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Being alone’s never been a problem for me.” His fingers played over the curve of her hip. “You’re going to accept, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She’d always known it would come to this. “The Guild is important. It needs to have someone at the reins who cares enough to make sure it remains strong, that hunters are protected from vampires and angels both.”

“What about the hunting?”

She stroked her hand along his forearm. “I’ll miss it. But . . . not as much as some. My best friend, Ellie, she’d go stir-crazy within a week.”

“Elena Deveraux? Hunter-born?”

“You’ve met her?” She turned to him. Face relaxed with pleasure, hair all mussed, and green eyes lazy, he looked like a big cat sprawled beside her. A big, dangerous cat.

“Heard about her,” he said. “They call her the best.”

“She is.” Sara was damn proud of Ellie, considered her more sister than friend. “I worry about her.”

“You worry about all hunters.”

And it was true. She did. “I guess I was meant to be director.” Her sense of responsibility was part of who she was. She could no more walk away and leave the Guild in weaker hands than she could force Deacon to change his lifestyle to accommodate hers. “How did you end up the Slayer?”

“The Guild keeps an eye on possibles. I was approached by the last Slayer and offered the position.”

He’d accepted, Sara knew, for the same reason she would. “Someone has to do the job.” But it was also a calling of sorts—she knew she’d love being director, that it would challenge and excite her in ways normal hunting couldn’t hope to match.

“And that someone might as well be the best.”

She smiled and shifted to face him fully, his hand on her hip, her own under her head. “Have you ever met an archangel?” The tiny hairs on her arms rose at the very idea.

“No. But you probably will.”

She gave in to the shivers. “I hope it’s not for a long, long time.” Angels she could deal with, but archangels were a whole different story. They simply didn’t think like human beings in any way, shape, or form.

Deacon’s lips curved. “I think you’ll handle it when the time comes.” Reaching out, he brushed her hair off her face.

The tenderness of the gesture did her in. Again, she felt that promise. That tug that this could be so much more. “Right now I just want to handle you.” And she did.

An hour later, and despite her lack of sleep, she couldn’t turn off, too revved up by pleasure. Deacon could do amazing things with his tongue, she thought, happily buzzed. Maybe the en dorphins lit up the right areas of her brain because she sat bolt upright and leaned over to pick up the PDA.

“What?” Deacon asked, one arm heavy around her waist.

She turned it on and checked. “Argh, it’s not here.” Returning the PDA to its previous position, she slumped back onto the bed.

“What?”

“A picture of Marco’s boyfriend.” She made a sound of frustration. “Look, we’ve been looking at this like it’s some hate-crime thing, but what if it’s a normal crazy who’s using that to throw us off the scent?”

Deacon pushed his hair off his face and raised an eyebrow. “Explain ‘normal crazy.’”

“Maybe the boyfriend dumped Marco. Maybe Marco went batshit. And now maybe he’s out cutting up vampires who look like his beloved.”

Deacon frowned. “The victims don’t fit a type—they’ve been blond, dark-haired, black, white.”

She blew out a breath. “It seemed like a good idea.”

“It might still be a good idea.” His hand went quiet on her skin. “No physical similarities, but they were all known to fraternize with humans more than usual.”

“That tracks,” she said, feeling herself on the edge of understanding. “I found Rodney through his human friends. He can’t let go.”

“Two of the victims had human lovers.”

“Not a biggie,” she said. “Human-vampire pairings are fairly common, especially with the younger vamps.”

“Yeah, but it’s a distinct pattern when you put it together with the other stuff.” Pushing off the sheet, he got out of bed.

Lord have mercy.

She stared unashamedly as he went to his jacket and grabbed a small black device. “This thing tracks the transmitters via GPS. I set it to beep if any of them moved, but just in case . . . No, they’re all where we put them. The transmitters anyway.”

“I’m worried about Tim,” she murmured, wondering whether Deacon would mind if she used her teeth on that firm, muscled flesh of his. “No one’s seen him for days. If he’s not the killer . . .”