And somehow, this demon could smell it on her like cheap perfume.
Even if he was a hallucination, he felt like the first person who’d actually seen her in longer than she wanted to admit. Not just the jokes and the hard shell, but the loneliness she never said out loud. And God help her, part of her wanted to be seen.
She adjusted her grip on the Swiffer, but it was hard to look intimidating with mint-green plastic and anxiety sweat down her spine.
He didn’t seem concerned. In fact, he looked delighted.
Like a man who knew her. Like a man who knew what it would take to unmake her.
“What’s your name?” she asked, aiming for control and landing somewhere around breathless.
He tilted his head, amused. “Do you want my true name, or the one you can pronounce without rupturing a blood vessel?”
“Oh, good. You’re also a cryptic asshole.” She edged toward the couch. “So you’re really a demon?”
“You can call me Ashar, and I’m a pleasure demon,” he said again, as if it were on a business card. “Bound to fill your needs, whatever they are, physical, emotional, or carnal. Whatever your date left in ruins.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not neglected.”
He looked at her legs. “You smell like disappointment and Axe body spray.”
She gasped. “Excuse me.”
“And glitter,” he added. “Which, honestly, is a choice.”
She hurled a throw pillow at him.
He caught it without effort, grinning. “Fiery. I like that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So if I believe you, which I don’t, you’re only here until I’m, what, fulfilled?”
“That’s how the bond works.” His voice dipped lower, wrapping around her like silk. “You called because you were left wanting. When you’re no longer needing, I’m gone.”
And that?
That made her stomach twist in ways no dream hallucination had the right to.
Because no, she wasn’t okay, she hadn’t been in a long time. And the worst part? She’d stopped believing anyone would ever notice.
He stepped closer. Not threatening, just undeniably there. The surrounding air shimmered, like heat off asphalt. The candle flame leaned toward him.
Her breath hitched.
“Okay,” she said shakily, “you’re very confident for someone who might be a figment of my trauma response.”
He smirked. “I’d prove I’m real, but beautiful, I’m not sureyou could handle it.”
Her whole body betrayed her. Heat pooled low in her stomach, and her grip on reality frayed like cheap lace. It had been a long time since someone called her beautiful; she heard sexy, hot, but beautiful?
She answered before her mind could stop it.
“Try me.”
3
Bench Press My Trauma, Daddy
“Alright, Mr. Sex Demon,” Blair said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Prove it.”
