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My fingers tighten around the bucket.

Need.

No.

Want.

Absolutely fucking not.

My Devil is a horny bastard at the best of times.

Now that I’m forty and barely keeping myself human, apparently the sight of a beautiful woman in a tight skirt is enough to send every instinct I possess running amok.

That’s all this is.

Lust.

And bad timing.

Because I’m a Jersey Devil barely holding on to my humanity, with no fucking manners to speak of.

Then she looks at me.

Our eyes meet.

Something inside my chest—stops.

Her lips part. The cinnamon-and-honey scent intensifies.

My tail curls before I can stop it.

Fuck.

She notices me. Her gaze travels down my body.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

My cocky little Devil practically preens.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I should walk away. Instead, I hear myself bark, “Who the hell are you?”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Excuse me?”

Excellent, Damian.

Forty years old. Billionaire. Educated on two continents.

And apparently, I introduce myself to beautiful women by shouting at them while holding a bucket of ghost slime.

“You heard me. Who are you?”

“Oh.” She adjusts her purse on one shoulder. “Well, when you ask so sweetly, how can I resist?”