Demons of Elysium Book 1
Genre: M/M paranormal erotic romance
When desire rises, angels will fall. One, by one, by one…
Over the past century, Belphagor has made a name for himself in Heaven’s Demon District as a cardsharp, thief, and charming rogue.
Though the airspirit is content with his own company, he enjoys applying the sweet sting of discipline to a willing backside. Angel, demon, even the occasional human. He’s not particular. Until a hotheaded young firespirit steals his purse—and his heart. Now he’s not sure who owns whom.
A former rent boy and cutpurse from the streets of Raqia, Vasily has never felt safer than in the arms—and at the feet—of the Prince of Tricks. He’s just not sure if Belphagor returns those feelings. There’s only one way to find out, but using a handsome, angelic duke to stir Belphagor’s jealousy backfires on them both.
When the duke frames Vasily for an attempted assassination as part of a revolutionary conspiracy, Belphagor will do whatever it takes to clear his boy’s name and expose the real traitor. Because for the first time in his life, the Prince of Tricks has something to lose.
Excerpt:
Belphagor
pushed him onto his back and straddled him, his own unfulfilled
erection poised between them like an exclamation point. “I told
you, you’re my
boy. Mine.” There was an implication in the words that Vasily
couldn’t miss. The firespirit had been earning his bed and his
supper on the streets of Raqia since the word “boy” had been
applied to him more literally, likely from an even earlier age than
had Belphagor himself. When Vasily had come to him after the night
Belphagor caught him trying to cut his purse, he’d attempted to
continue with his street business as usual until Belphagor forbade
him selling himself to angels or to rough trade demons. He wouldn’t
stop Vasily bartering his favors if that was what he chose to do, but
he would see to it he was treated as the valuable commodity he was if
he insisted on continuing in the trade.
This
hadn’t sat well with a firespirit just coming into his prime.
Angels in particular desired him, finding his rough looks and the
wild coloring of his tangled hair the epitome of what they pictured
as demonic. Mostly students out on their own for the first time with
purses of crystal facets to burn, they wanted the quintessential
Raqia experience. They crossed Elysium’s River Acheron to slum in
Heaven’s Demon District, and in their eyes, Vasily was as low-rent
as they could get. Which was all the more reason they were to keep
their filthy angelic paws off Belphagor’s boy.
A
red glimmer of flame threatened in the black depths of Vasily’s
pupils, giving the hazel irises an amber cast. This evidence of his
defiant anger, despite the fact that Belphagor had finally given him
what he wanted—or broken down and caved to his charms, more
like—was a Pavlovian bell to Belphagor’s hunger for him. It had
nearly driven him mad to keep Vasily at arm’s length this long,
telling himself he didn’t deserve him, that Vasily couldn’t
possibly want him—the Vasily in his head still the same skinny
cutpurse youth he’d first encountered, though his “boy” had
long been nothing of the sort. Even now, his heart fluttered like a
panicked bird caged in his chest, waiting for something terrible to
happen, for Vasily to realize Belphagor wasn’t as young as he
appeared and to ridicule the helpless state to which he’d reduced
him—hopelessly enamored of another demon after the equivalent of a
human lifetime of solitude.
For
Belphagor, solitude had been his strength. He hadn’t needed anyone
since the earliest betrayals of youthful love. But Vasily had brought
him to his knees. Never mind that it was Vasily on
his knees that had done it to him.
“What’s
got your fire up, malchik?”
He kissed the spot he’d cleaned with his tongue beneath Vasily’s
Adam’s apple. “I thought you wanted to be mine.”
“I
hate it when you treat me like a child.”
Belphagor
raised an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain I treated you as rather
the opposite last night. Was it not satisfactory?”
The
natural pink of Vasily’s cheeks reddened more obviously. “Of
course it was. I mean, it was more than satisfactory. Way
more. Dammit, Beli.” He crooked his arm over his eyes as if looking
up into Belphagor’s embarrassed him during such talk. He was
utterly charming. As was the little endearment that had just slipped
out, though Belphagor might have decked another demon for it.
He
kissed Vasily’s sullen mouth. “It was far more than satisfactory
for me.” The soft words were almost a whisper. “You’ve
absolutely spoiled me for anyone else.”
“Good.”
The word was delivered with a sudden sharpness. So that was what was
bothering him. It sparked a bit of defiance of his own. He wasn’t
used to having anyone put restraints on him. That was Belphagor’s
specialty.
“Don’t
seek to possess me, malchik.
I’m an airspirit.”
Vasily
moved his arm away from his eyes, and they were glowing with furious
heat. “So that’s how it is. You own me, you tell me what I can
and can’t do, but you can do as you like.” The roiling anger in
the firespirit eyes heated Belphagor like combustion from the inside
out. The thought of putting Vasily over his knee once more made him
almost painfully hard. Without equivocation, he was a slave to this
brutally beautiful young demon.
“Yes,
Vasya. That’s how it is.”
The
violent rebuff wasn’t unexpected, but Belphagor, nonetheless, had
failed to brace for it, too absorbed in the feel of the body beneath
him and the thoughts of what he wished to do with it. He found
himself forcefully ejected from the cot and sprawled on the cold
wooden floor, with Vasily standing over him, magnificent in his
literally naked anger.
“Then
maybe you should just skip the foreplay and go fuck yourself!”
Vasily delivered the Germanic hardness of the lovely verb “fuck”
as if he were demonstrating it. As Vasily jerked his jeans onto his
legs like he was punishing the fabric, Belphagor watched with
unabashed admiration of the musculature being regretfully hidden
away. Hooray at least for his lazy laundering habits that had
resulted in this morning’s “commando” mode.
He
picked himself up, along with the black T-shirt on the floor beside
him, which he handed to Vasily as if he couldn’t care less whether
the demon walked out on him. Vasily snatched it from his grip and
yanked it on over the tangled red locks he’d been cultivating. The
shirt had once been Belphagor’s. It had stretched to its limits and
was now much too small on the firespirit frame. Belphagor wished
there were cameras in Heaven. He could just about die from gazing at
the image Vasily struck.
Vasily
was waiting for him to apologize or take back what he’d said, to
placate him into staying. He had no intention of doing so. Vasily was
his. It was an indisputable fact. He’d be back.
The
younger demon turned and yanked open the rickety door in danger of
coming right off the hinges at his grip, cast one last furious, fiery
glare in Belphagor’s direction, and left him with a fierce slam.
The bottom hinge bent.
Belphagor
glanced down at his relentless and unameliorated state of arousal
with a sigh of resignation. His masochistic streak might be at an
all-time high.
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