Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

crusted with whole grain mustard, I find it’s just as good. Flaky and moist and delicately flavored with lemon and dill to offset the strong taste of the mustard. The demon can cook. Really cook. I hate to admit it, but he cooks way better than I do.

It’s all good.

The face on the napkin shifts in a puff of smoke, the frown turning into a smile. The flaming brows remain. A demonic smiley.

Truce? appears below the smiley.

Yes, okay, truce.

I hear a car start outside and light washes across the window in the far wall.

Are you going out? I ask.

A chauffeur’s cap appears on the smiley and a new set of fiery letters scorch their way across the napkin. Want to come?

Definitely not. I might even be able to get some sleep, knowing he’s out.

You sure? You could use a little action.

With a flourish, the smiley rewrites itself into two stick figures. One bends over, stick hands on stick knees. The other one stands behind the first and gestures at its groin. Genitals bigger than an elephant’s scrawl themselves onto the second stick-figure’s crotch. It grins a huge D of a grin and begins merrily humping the bent-over stick. A speech bubble that says, “Harder! Harder!” appears over the two figures.

That’s sick.

No, that’s stick. The demon chuckles into my mind. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t wait up.

As if I would. If I knew of a way to ward the house against demons, he wouldn’t be getting in when he returns, either.

I eat the rest of the meal, enjoying everything, even the oaky white wine, which gives me a twinge, thinking of Rowena. The fiery stick figures on the napkin provide me with entertainment, screwing enthusiastically in a variety of positions. Each one more anatomically implausible than the last. Finally, as I’m finishing the last of the roasted veggies, the male stick screeches in exhaustion, burning droplets of sweat flying from his head, and collapses. His elephantine dick deflates. The female stick stands over the exhausted male, puts her stick hands on her stick hips, and gives him a kick. I laugh into my wine.

I wake to a loud groan. Blinking, I sit up.

Two fifteen, according to the clock on my bedside table. I slump back into the pillows and close my eyes. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.

Another loud groan, and a man’s voice, “God, yes. Just like that. Oh, right there. Right there! Don’t stop.”

I sit up again. Reach in my head for the demon. What on earth is going on?

I’m getting laid. Told you I was going to.

Not in my house!

Where did you think? Can’t go back to his place. He’s got a roommate.

I sputter mentally. There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t know where to start. I throw off my covers and begin to climb out of bed. A dim picture forms in my head, of bursting in like a vengeful fury on . . . whatever the demon’s doing.

A massive weight pins me to the bed and the demon roars into my mind. Don’t you even think about interrupting me! That fucking bitch starved me for months and I AM feeding so you stay in your fucking room and keep quiet!

Gasping, I struggle against the weight holding me down. It’s as heavy and immovable as the demon was when he had me pinned to Ro’s altar. I whine in protest, all the sound I can make with the little air I’m getting.

Stay still and I’ll let you breathe, the demon thinks.

Okay!

The weight lessens, but doesn’t let me up. The sheets and blankets throw themselves back over me and I huddle under them.

The noises from my guest bedroom grow louder. The rhythmic creak of bedsprings. The man’s voice, gasping, “Yes, yes, oh, God! Oh, yes! Do me! Don’t stop! God-god-god-god, yes!”

Noisy little fucker, isn’t he?

I press the quilt tight against my ears. Please, I don’t want to hear this.

Why? It’s just sex. A pause during which the man screams ecstatically. That’s it. He’s coming. Want a taste?

God, no.

The demon’s presence in my mind suddenly swells. Larger, warmer, somehow more defined. More him. The weight on me grows, too, becoming more real, more solid. I can smell him. Sweat and leather and that hint of hot ginger. I feel the brush of his mouth across mine, very warm, very real. An electric tingle runs through me.

My wrist stops hurting for the first time since he broke it.

Mmm, tasty. Not as tasty as you’ll be. But pretty tasty. A nine volt, I’d say. The demon’s wicked chuckle fills my head.

I curl into a ball around my healed wrist. Please stop this.

Go back to sleep, witchy-poo. I’ll keep the kid quiet for the next round. Give him something to choke on.

I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s no way I’m going to get back to sleep, even if it’s as silent as a tomb next door.

The demon’s lips brush my cheek. Nighty-night.

Sleep crashes down like a curtain falling.

I wake to golden light and the sounds of traffic.

Nine-something, my bedside clock reads, the red digits partially obscured by the petals of the blue rose that’s somehow made it to my bedside table.

I throw myself out of bed. Shit, I’ve overslept. Again. And in a foolish fit of optimism, I actually scheduled a ten o’clock appointment today. New clients, too. Being late never makes a good impression.

I rush through showering. In the bathroom mirror, my face looks less damaged than last night. I guess even a broken night’s sleep is nature’s best medicine. While I brush my teeth, I glare at my newly monotone hair. I hate my flat, brown, peasant hair. I’ll have to remember to pick up another highlighting kit from CVS today.

As I hurry from bathroom to bedroom, I glance down the hallway. The door to my guest bedroom is open. The bed’s empty. Neatly made.

I grind my teeth. One less thing to hate him for. Why couldn’t he be a