The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(5)

"I'm not deceived by your chivalrous ways, Snowflake." I pulled my fluffy cocoon tighter around me. "I know this is about your car, not me."



       
         
       
        

His aggrieved sigh was the only indication of how much he hated that nickname, short for Emo Snowflake and an homage to the emo rock band Fugue State Five that he'd been the broody lead singer of in his late teens. Or more precisely, the world-chart dominating musical juggernaut that he'd fronted.

Retiring from that about three years ago at age twenty when he'd been inducted as a hunter hadn't hurt his massive ego one bit. Though he'd dumped the graphic Ts, platinum dye job, and eyeliner for an improved fashion sense and a return to his inherent natural hotness.

The black wrought-iron gate set into the thick stone fence swung silently open.

"Why waste chivalry when I wouldn't even be rewarded with a kiss?" Rohan sported a massive chip on his shoulder about the fact that I refused to kiss him on the lips, during sex or otherwise. One word: hook-up. The sum total of our relationship status and thus, no kissing necessary.

Weirdly, my boundaries offended his control-freak nature.

The rain picked up, lashing the car.

"As if you were sharing sweet kisses with the many girls you screwed in your rock star days."

Windshield wipers on high, Rohan gunned the car up the remainder of the long, winding drive, past well-tended gardens and copses of arbutus and cedar trees. "You're comparing us to tour sex?"

"It's all hook-ups." I zeroed in on the line of muscle flowing from his bicep across to his pec and back to his bicep. A better panorama than anything outside.

Rohan stopped the car in front of the house with enough force that my skull crashed back against the seat. "One-time fucks. No repeat button."

Glowering at him, I rubbed my head. "That doesn't make any difference."

"Doesn't it?" His tone was casual but I sidled sideways to escape the freezer-cold depths of his accompanying smile.

I peeled myself off the passenger door. "Gearing up for a full-scale offensive?"

Rohan cut the engine. Rain pounded on the roof and black thunderclouds seemed to press in from every direction. "If I ever go full-scale, I'll take no prisoners," he said.

He'd have to do better than that.

I let the towel flutter to the seat, giving a sultry head toss, my perky C cups front and center. Despite me still being covered with demon goo, Rohan looked. I leaned in toward him, trailing my finger down his chest. "No quarter. No mercy."

I'd figured our mutual attraction and constant tug-of-war to be a fairly level playing field until I'd seen Rohan in full-on rock god mode, prepping for our upcoming trip to Prague and his return to the spotlight. That's when I'd realized my hot fuck buddy was merely swimming with me in the kiddie pool because he felt like it, and that the deep end was calling again. 

I'd had two choices: A) the sane path of ending the mind-blowing sex aspect of our leisure time or B) amping my game. In the animal kingdom, challenging an alpha was a good way to get your throat ripped out. With this kinky boy, dominance games were foreplay. Thing is, despite his bitching about my no-kissing decree, I didn't see him swimming off yet. After the long dry spell of my sexual escapades, Rohan was an oasis I wanted to suck dry. As I'd barely begun to quench my thirst, no way was I the one tapping out first.

Rohan caught my hand before it reached his jeans. Trapping it.

I met his level stare, despite my lungs feeling two sizes too tight. Just because I refused to bow down didn't mean this came easy to me. Still, I shivered in delicious anticipation of what he might do next –like haul me into his room and screw me seven ways from Sunday. Then again, he might drown me in the pool out back then dump me in the forest. Given the wild gleam in the depths of his gold eyes, anything was a go.

That's when both our phones buzzed with texts. It was Drio. Get the fuck inside.





2





I scratched at the vral grime coating my skin. A shower would have to wait, because the second we stepped through the front door into the foyer with its cathedral ceiling, Drio snapped, "In here," in a way that left no room for discussion.

We hurried into the TV room with its brown leather man cave couches and comfortable clutter. The one place in the house that didn't feel straight out of Exclusive British Men's Club Monthly. Drio was perched on the fat arm of one sofa, staring in bewilderment at the massive flat screen TV mounted to the wall. "King's holding a press conference."

The sexy rumble of Drio's Italian accent combined with his olive skin, blond hair, and startling green eyes made him an irresistible combination. For most. His open loathing of me and sadistic hard-on for demon torture meant I could resist him just fine.