The doorknob is larger than my hand, so I can barely get a good grip, but when I do, I heave open the thick wooden door and find myself in some sort of lounge. The red couch, made of soft leathers and adorned with more cushions than evenIthink is reasonable, sits in front of another, albeit somewhat smaller, hearth. But that’s not what shocks me. What stops me in my tracks is the creature lounging upon it. Maroon skinned and larger than the average man, he wears suit trousers and a partially open button-down shirt as a book he seems transfixed by rests in overlarge hands. A large pair of black horns grow backwards from the top of his head, the same color as the hardened peaks trailing down the side of his face.
Black eyes pierce mine, and a frown tips his brow as his book is placed spine-up on the side table. “Who are you?”
A squeak is all my mouth manages as I take a measured step back into the library doorway. My eyes dart around oil paintings of similar-looking creatures on draped walls, but they always draw back to the monster in front of me. A monster that is now standing at his full height, at least a foot taller than my five-eight frame.
“I’ll not ask again.” His fist curls around a dagger that wasn’t there before, the gleaming silver something I can’t take my eyes off. “What is your purpose here?”
“I . . . was trying to find a book,” I squeak as I take another step back.
“In my library?” he asks, his voice flitting between cautious and curious, seemingly settling on the latter. He looks me up and down, appraising thethreatI supposedly am, and lowers thedagger onto the couch. “It seems another anomaly has popped up. Figures.” He does his best to lower his height by bending his knees, places his hands behind his back, and smiles. “You must be a human from Earth, yes?”
I nod.
“Do you think you can tell me your name?”
“Tyl.”
“My name is Braxton. You need not worry. No harm will come to you.” He raises his hands in surrender and smiles again.
My eyes catch on the sharpened fangs that drop below his lower lip, on the points of his fingernails that resemble small claws, and on the horns. My eyes can’t help, however, but wander to the unbuttoned shirt now hanging half untucked from his pants. “Wh-here am I?”
“Tantor, of the Daemon Realms.”
“Daemon . . . Realms?” I must be dreaming. Though, I’m not usually this creative. “It’s surprisingly detailed for a dream.”
A sigh escapes him as his hand runs over his right horn in a practised motion. “This isn’t a dream, I assure you. Sometimes this happens, an anomaly opens up and a human slips through. Though never into my chambers specifically.”
Over my initial shock, I take a delicate step forward in heels that are starting to become a bad decision and take the details of the room in. It’s primitive, with no technology in sight, but cosy. Somewhere you could curl up on a cold winter’s day and read a good book while snuggling under a thick blanket. With a hot monster curled beneath you.
He doesn’t seem to want to harm me, so I circle around the room, running my hands along polished wooden surfaces and grazing my eyes across aged oil paintings, but never stopping the side glances at my new dream friend, who simply watches me with curiosity lacing his face. And the occasional dip of his gaze to my ass.
“So . . . daemons?” What has my brain done now? Clearly too much reading of myths and legends. “And . . .” I gesture around the room. “Castles?”
“It is different from Earth, but it is home.” He comes to stand in front of me, still keeping his hands behind his back and trying to diminish his height. “Would you like me to take you home?” He looks down at me, but it takes me a second too long to remove my eyes from his bare chest peeking out of the open shirt, and a devilish grin spreads across my face. “Or you could stay a while, let me show you a little of my world.”
I should get back to my essay, to my failing grade, to Professor Brax’s ridiculously handsome face . . . Or I could stay and get it out of my system with someone I would definitely never see again. Besides, if this is just a dream, then does it really matter? (We’ll not question my odd survival instincts—or lack thereof—because apparently a deep-seated horniness is more important than staying alive).
His finger lifts my chin and forces me to meet his black eyes that have widened with something akin to hunger.
We both hold our breath, the pause filling with tension ready to snap any moment, before I drop my coat, reach up, wrap my fingers around a ridged horn, and yank his face to mine in a hurried meeting of lips.
His hand threads through my hair and tips my head back, my mouth falls open on a gasp, and he shoves his tongue between my open lips with a rough smoothness that leaves an empty moan in the air. His other hand traces the curve of the dress down and past my ass, where he lifts me toward him with an ease I barely have time to appreciate.
My legs wrap around his waist on their own, my dress hitching up my thighs and exposing the lace thong. Our lips never breaking contact, his fingers still wrapped in my hair. I pull back and look him in the eyes, stare at his heatedexpression, the pained restraint he seems to be playing with. “Fuck me,” I whisper. “Please.”
A growl escapes his lips as both hands squeeze my ass. “Any limits?”
“None anyone has found.”
Something in those eyes brightens, something dark and twisted I recognise as familiar to my own needs in so many ways. “Then let’s change that, little human.” He throws me onto the couch and looks me up and down like I’m dinner. That familiar twitch of his hand raking across his horn again. He looks at the thong I’m definitely spilling out of, my tuck having come undone, and snarls with a white-knuckled grip. “You’re leaking for me. Gonna ruin that pretty pink thong.”
Standing over me, a wicked grin on his face, I can see the outline of his own desire starting to bulge in his dress pants. And he knows I notice.
He kneels between my legs and leans over me, his lips inches from my ear. “I want to taste you, pretty thing.” He wasn’t asking permission. He was warning me.
My cock is so hard it’s shooting straight up out of the thong and leaking a trail down my stomach, weeping for contact. Any contact. But especially that tongue. My hole twitches at the thought.
Warm lips press kisses to my thigh that quickly turn into sharp-edged scrapes of his fangs that cause my balls to tighten and my dick to twitch. A ripping of fabric rents the air as his claws make quick work of my underwear.