“Hey,” Julian greets softly, his eyes tracing my face, searching for something.
“Hi,” I respond, taking up the space behind the podium where I left a book lying last night.
Just twenty-four hours ago, I was in this exact same spot, on my knees, coming all over myself as I swallowed Julian whole.
I shiver.
“I’m still reading theBlack Book,” he says. “It’s definitely some kind of dark magic.”
An uneasy feeling rattles in my stomach and chest. Ihatethe idea of him reading that book, of it being in my home in general. I’m not sure who built this room or found that book, but it must have been someone who lost their way. Most likely a servant with bad intentions from some time long ago.
The Chastains have always been God-fearing, good people. There is no way my ancestors practiced black magic.
But Julian believes he can find answers in it, and I don’t have the heart to rip it away and disappoint him, so I say nothing. As long as he’s not practicing the dark magic, it shouldn’t hurt us anyway.
Before I can think of a response, Julian is standing next to me, lifting a hand to cup my cheek. What for, I do not know. But what Idoknow is that I’m far too warm, too sensitive, to handle his touch and not beg him to fuck me right now.
I flinch away, unprepared to explain to him in this moment that we can’t continue our late-night touching.
The absolute devastation and obvious hurt on Julian’s face make me feel immediately horrendous. As if I have just slapped him or called him something nasty and cruel.
He steps back slowly, returning to the other side of the room where theBlack Bookrests on the altar.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“No! I didn’t mean… I just… I’m sorry too.” I fumble, searching for the right thing to say.
Julian lifts his gaze and eyes me again, curious and cautious.
Then, he asks, “Do you need any… assistance? You look very flushed.”
Oh.
He thinks I’m in a flare-up; he thinks it’s time to fuck me and help relieve me of this heat. And to be fair, though I’m not in a full-fledged flare-up, I am stillsowarm and dying to come.
He reads me too well. But how am I meant to explain to Julian in this moment that he isn’t allowed to touch me anymore? How can I say it without hurting him?
“Uh, no,” I start gently. “I don’t need any help. The incubus should visit me again soon, anyway, so I’ll be taken care of.”
This was, in fact, the wrong thing to say.
Julian’s eyes darken, then narrow significantly. He drops the page he was fiddling with and stands even straighter, squaring his shoulders.
“Are you… You’re serious right now?” he asks, and when I say nothing, he scoffs. “So you’ll let that disgusting ass fucker touch you but not—you know what? Never mind. I understand.I’m just gonna…” he waves loosely at the book, then diverts his attention.
I can feel the anger radiating off of him in violent waves. But what am I to do? Tell him I don’twantthat thing touching me, not now that I’ve felt him, but I don’t have a choice? No. That would make him feel guilty and miserable. I’d rather him be angry than in danger.
So I focus on my own text, pulling my phone out to decipher the pages. It’s nothing interesting: a book covering the beginning of Christianity. All information I already know, and nothing relating to the incubus.
I’m not paying much attention anyway. My eyes flicker back to Julian every few minutes, watching as he angrily shifts through pages, translating, sighing, and starting again.
It seems he isn’t having much luck either. Not that I want answers fromthatbook.
We stay this way for a long while. With me softly digging through my book and hardly reading a word, and Julian huffing and puffing against his.
Then, in a loud voice that startles me, Julian speaks again.
“I’m done for the night. Have a good one.” And with that, he closes the book, leaves it on the altar, and heads up the stairs without ever sparing me a glance.
