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

messy demon? It’s easier to hate him for small things than the big things. Invading my house. Having sex with a strange man in my guest bedroom. Angling for my soul.

I throw on the first clothes to hand. Cargo pants, a tee, a sweater. All in shades of blue. That counts as matching in my book. They’ll be mostly covered by my work smock anyway, so if the sweater’s getting a little ragged at the hem, no one will notice.

I run downstairs, pulling on my socks as I go.

“Eggs, witchy-poo,” the demon calls from the kitchen.

His voice stops me in mid-step. I thought he’d be gone. No such luck, obviously.

“I’m late. No time.”

“I already called your office. Lin’s taking your ten o’clock.” His wicked chuckle. “Your receptionist has a thing for me. Think she’d be interested in a deal? What’s she want? Health, wealth and happiness?”

I storm into the kitchen. “Leave Evonne alone!”

The demon looks up from where he’s scooping scrambled eggs out of a pan onto two plates. “It was a joke, witchy-poo. Your receptionist’s cute, but she doesn’t have enough juice to light a five-watt bulb. Not my type.”

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the good smells of scrambled eggs, bacon and coffee. Oh, God, he made coffee. “What is your type—?” I begin acidly.

The demon lifts a dark eyebrow. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“You!” I spit. “You and your rudeness and your presumption—”

“Presumption?” He tilts his head and considers me for a moment. “Presumption, huh.”

“This is my house.”

“No question. If it was my place, I’da never picked those blinds.” He nods at the kitchen blinds, which I inherited from the previous owners.

I grind my teeth and glare at him.

He balances the two plates in one hand and strolls over to the kitchen table. He moves like a cat, all slow-rolling muscles and the sense of strength lazily contained. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black jeans, unbuttoned, and my tooth around his neck. His skin gleams in the morning light. There’s a huge hickey on his right shoulder. He looks disgustingly pleased with himself. “Huevos rancheros,” he says, putting the plates down. “Eat up.”

“Fuck you!”

He leans against the table and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right now? Mind if we eat first? I’m kinda hungry. Long night.”

I glare at him, my jaw working. “I want you out.”

“This ain’t about me bein’ here. This is about last night.”

“I don’t give a shit about last night,” I spit.

“You’re a lousy fucking liar. It bugged you that I got laid, didn’t it? What’s wrong, witchy-poo? You feelin’ lonely? Did listening to me fuck that kid make you itchy?” He runs his hand along the open vee of his jeans, dipping his fingers down beneath the denim. “’Cause I can help you scratch that itch.”

“As if I’d let that anywhere near me after where it’s been! I want you out of my house!”

He watches me for a moment, his eyes glowing. Then he slides around the table and sits down in front of one plate. He picks up a fork – a silver fork from my Dala’s wedding set – and begins eating lazily.

“Get out!” I scream at him.

“No,” he says quietly. “An’ screamin’ at me ain’t gonna make any difference.”

I hate him in that moment. I’ve never hated anyone or anything. Except maybe Republicans. But I hate him.

Hate me all you want. Hate tastes almost as good as lust.

I stagger. His voice in my head is a shock. As is the sense of him licking his mental lips.

Sit down and eat your eggs.

I glare at them. I don’t want anything he’s made. “They’ll be cold,” I say grudgingly.

He reaches out and holds his hand above the plate. Steam rises from the pile of eggs to curl around his fingers. He glances up at me.

Grimacing, I sit down and pick up my fork.

“So, a real live homophobe,” the demon says.

“I’m not homophobic.” I spear a bite of eggs. Taste them reluctantly. God, they’re good. The eggs are creamy. The salsa adds bite. A dollop of sour cream smoothes away the heat. He can really cook.

“Coulda fooled me.” He picks up a piece of bacon. Crunches it thoughtfully.

“I have lots of gay friends.” Well, one gay friend. But that’s not the point. “I’m not homophobic. I am against you having sex with strange men in my guest bedroom.”

He shrugs. “I told you I was gonna get laid. Since I don’t know anyone except you and you won’t gimme any, yet.” He leers around the bacon. “That pretty much means I’d be fucking a stranger, don’t it?”

I shake my head in disgust. “What did you do, pick him up in a bar in Harvard Square?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“That’s an excellent way to get a sexually-transmitted disease. I hope you practiced safe sex.”

The demon finally bristles. “I don’t get human diseases. Are you always this much of a fucking prude?”

“I’m not a prude,” I snap back.

“You’re doin’ a good imitation of one.”

“Oh, excuse me if I’m offended by what you did last night. You preyed on that boy—”

The demon throws his fork onto his plate with a clatter. “He sought me out. Asked to come home with me. An’ he had the night of his life. What’s so wrong with that? What offends your delicate sensibilities?”

“What offends me,” I grit. “Is that you did it in my house. And that that boy—”

“He was twenty-fuckin’-three—”

I ignore him. College kids lie about their age all the time. “Is now damned because of a one-night stand.”

The demon rises and growls across the table at me. “What do you know about damnation? I gave him what he wanted. He wanted a wild night. He got one. He wants to graduate at the top of his class. He will. He’ll be everything he wants. Successful. Rich. And, yeah, I get his soul. You know what? He’ll never miss it. He’ll always figure he got the best end of the deal. You make