The door of the apartment sounded heavy when it shut, the deadbolt engaging with a sharp metallic snap.
Before Jadelyn Rosco could reach the light switch, a heavy force hit her. Alistair Triste, in his demon form, crowded her backward, his broad chest pressing her firmly against the drywall. The cedar-scented air of his immaculate apartment was instantly eclipsed by the sharp smell of fractured concrete and ozone.
He kissed her with a hunger that heightened the second their lips met. It wasn't the measured touch of the deadpan archivist she worked with. This was a feral, ancient hunger. His mouth crashed down on hers, demanding and open, the kiss so urgent Jadelyn felt the physical pull of her own center of gravity shifting entirely toward his massive frame.
'Oh Gods,' she swore in her head, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She didn't push him away, She didn't want to.
