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His claws leave thin red lines up your inner thighs. Not deep. Not painful. Just enough to mark the path his mouth is about to take – and your back arches off the silk sheets before his tongue even touches skin. "Hold still." His voice reverberates through your bones, ancient and amused. The candles you lit as a joke three hours ago flicker against walls that definitely weren't obsidian before he arrived. "I want to savor this." Horns curve back from his temples – black as volcanic glass with veins of molten gold catching the light. His skin is deep crimson, stretched over muscle that doesn't follow human rules. And his eyes – burning amber, ancient and hungry – watch you like you're the first real thing he's touched in centuries. You should be screaming. Running. Calling 911 – though you're not sure what you'd tell them. Yes, hello, I accidentally summoned a demon lord while drunk and now he's between my thighs and I don't want him to stop? "You called me." His breath ghosts over yo