kvmb Chapter 317: The Demon’s Worship 2
Chapter 317: The Demon’s Worship 2
THE METAL of the washing machine was cold against the back of Mailah’s thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from Grayson. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t have to. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves outside.
Grayson’s hands were large, his fingers steady as they rested on the button of her jeans.
He wasn’t looking at her face anymore. He was focused on the task with a quiet, terrifying intensity.
He unfastened the metal button with a flick of his thumb—a movement so practiced it felt like a tactical maneuver.
He didn’t pull the fabric down immediately. Instead, he let his knuckles brush against the skin of her stomach. The touch was light, almost a question, but the possessive weight behind it was undeniable.
Mailah felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty cottage. This was Grayson in his element: quiet, focused, and utterly dominant.
"You said I was a fast learner," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the floorboards.
He began to pull the denim down. He didn’t rush. He watched the way the fabric gave way to her skin, his eyes tracking every inch with the gaze of a man studying a map to a treasure he had forgotten he owned.
When the jeans pooled at her ankles, he didn’t ask her to step out of them. He reached down and guided her feet out himself, his movements efficient and strangely reverent.
He remained on his knees.
It was a position of surrender, yet Grayson made it look like a throne.
He looked up at her, and for a second, the silver in his eyes flickered—a dim, dying spark of the power he was refusing to use.
He looked tired in a way she hadn’t seen before. The effort of hiding, of being "human," was taking its toll.
"You’re running empty," she whispered, her hand finding the dark silk of his hair.
"I am... depleted," he admitted. He didn’t sound bothered by it. He sounded like a man who had made a conscious choice to starve so he could taste something better.
He leaned forward then. He didn’t go for her mouth. He pressed his face against the soft skin of her inner thigh. His breath was hot, a stark reminder of the furnace that lived inside him even when his magic was low.
Mailah gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair, her back arching against the cold utility sink behind her.
He began to worship her with a slow, methodical hunger.
His tongue traced the seam of her underwear, savoring the damp heat through the thin fabric before dragging it aside with his teeth—the motion deliberate, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
Mailah shuddered, her hips bucking instinctively, but his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her against the machine’s shuddering frame. The cold metal bit into her skin, a sharp counterpoint to the molten heat of his mouth.
He didn’t tease. Grayson’s tongue was flat and firm against her, pressing in with a precision that made her toes curl against the linoleum.
Every stroke was calculated, a slow drag followed by a flick just shy of where she needed it most—maddening, deliberate, until she whimpered, her nails scraping against the sink’s porcelain edge.
Mailah’s vision blurred, her gasp swallowed by the thrum of the washing machine’s spin cycle beneath her.
He worked her with a rhythm that felt older than the cottage walls, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips to keep her still, to keep her from chasing the pleasure he doled out in uneven, teasing strokes.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take it—when her thighs trembled and her breath came in ragged bursts—he pulled back, his lips glistening, his gaze locked onto hers with a predatory focus that sent a fresh wave of heat through her.
The second his tongue flicked against her clit, sharp and deliberate, her back arched off the machine with a force that rattled the pipes behind her.
The sound she made was raw, unchecked—a noise she didn’t recognize as her own.
Grayson’s responding groan vibrated against her, his fingers tightening possessively as he dragged his tongue in slow, torturous circles, each rotation tighter, faster, until her hips jerked against his mouth without permission.
His free hand slid up her stomach, his palm pressing flat beneath her ribs as if measuring the frantic rise and fall of her breath.
When his thumb grazed her nipple through the thin cotton of her shirt, the shock of sensation ricocheted through her, sharp and sudden, drawing another broken gasp from her throat.
He didn’t pause, didn’t relent—just worked her with a ruthless rhythm, his tongue alternating between broad, wet strokes and pinpoint precision, each movement designed to unravel her further.
The pressure built in jagged increments, her muscles tightening like coiled wire, her thighs quivering against his shoulders.
She could feel the slick heat of her own arousal coating his chin, the humid puff of his breath against her skin as he groaned into her, the sound vibrating through her in a way that made her clench around nothing.
His fingers dug harder into her hips, the dull ache of his grip a counterpoint to the unbearable pleasure spiraling tighter, brighter—until she was panting, her head thrashing back against the wall with a hollow thud.
Mailah’s world narrowed down to the sensation of his mouth and the grip of his hands. She felt the energy shifting between them.
She wasn’t just a "food source" in a literal sense; she was his grounding wire.
As he worshipped her, the frantic, jagged edges of his remaining power seemed to smooth out. He wasn’t taking her life force in a way that hurt; he was sharing in her life.
Her breath came in short, jagged hitches. "Grayson... please..."
Grayson didn’t let up. His tongue curled, pressing firm and relentless against her clit in slow, concentric circles, each rotation timed to the stuttering hitch of her breath.
He was mapping her, learning the exact moment her body tensed, the way her toes curled against the linoleum, the bitten-off cry that caught in her throat just before she came.
And when she did—when her back arched off the machine with a force that sent a spray of loose change clattering to the floor—he didn’t pull away.
He drank her in, his lips sealing over her as she shuddered, his tongue coaxing out every last pulse until her legs trembled violently, her hands fisting in his hair to either pull him closer or push him away—she wasn’t sure which.
Grayson didn’t pull away. He held her through it, his face still pressed against her, his hands keeping her steady on the counter as she shook.
He waited until her breathing slowed, until the world stopped spinning. Then, and only then, did he look up.
His face was flushed, his eyes a dark, swirling mix of charcoal and smoke. He looked more human than she had ever seen him, yet more dangerous.
He reached up and wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.
"Better?" he asked. The arrogance was back, but it was tempered by a softness that only she was allowed to see.
"You... you’re a show-off," she managed to say, her voice shaky.
"I’m a perfectionist," he corrected.
He stood up, his tall frame dwarfing the small room again. He didn’t step back. He stepped into her, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the counter so her legs could wrap around his waist.
He walked out of the utility room, carrying her through the dim cottage toward the small bedroom.
The bed was simple—iron frame, cotton sheets, smelling of the lavender she liked. He laid her down as if she were made of glass, but the look in his eyes said he intended to break her in the best way possible.
He began to strip off his own shirt, the fabric tearing slightly in his haste. He didn’t care about the silk. He didn’t care about the "Alpine Fresh" smell. He only cared about the heat of her skin against his.
He lowered his head, and the worship began again, but this time, it was a fire that threatened to burn the whole cottage down.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling against the stones. The glamour held. The world stayed away. Inside, the demon and his girl were the only things that were real.
The next morning, the cottage was quiet. The sun tried to peek through the thick Welsh clouds, casting a pale, milky light over the tangled sheets.
Mailah woke up first. She felt the solid, immovable weight of Grayson’s arm across her stomach. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way that made him look like the man he might have been if he hadn’t been born into a line of kings and monsters.
She reached out and traced the scar on his shoulder. He didn’t wake, but his grip on her tightened instinctively. Even in sleep, he wasn’t letting go.
She thought about the "food source" comment she’d made. It had been a joke, mostly. But as she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, she realized it was the truth.
He didn’t need her life force or her soul. He needed her humanity. He needed the way she made him feel like he belonged to something other than a cold, silver throne.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
It was a small sound. A nothing sound. But in a cottage that was supposed to be empty of everyone but them, it sounded like a gunshot.
Grayson’s eyes snapped open. They weren’t blue. They weren’t silver. They were a dark, piercing black, and with a power that shouldn’t have been there.
He was out of bed before she could blink, a shadow moving through the room. He didn’t grab a weapon. He was the weapon.
"Stay here," he commanded, his voice a low, lethal whisper.
He vanished into the hallway.
Mailah sat up, her heart hammering. She heard the sound of a struggle—brief, brutal, and muffled. Then, silence.
She didn’t stay. She couldn’t. She grabbed his discarded shirt, throwing it on as she ran toward the kitchen.