Page 19 of Whispers From The Dark

I open my eyes for just a moment as I check the water’s temperature. When I close them once more, just before stepping into the shower, Az growls in what I can only interpret as disappointment.

Despite the heat of the water, every nerve ending stands on edge as I react to that feral sound reverberating up my spine.

This is biological, prey reacting to predator.

“How badly do you want to see me, Az? Enough to amend our deal?” I ask, feeling almost silly because he knows better than I do just how forced this confidence is.

“Not enough to leave, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “You’ll grow accustomed to my being here eventually. I can wait.”

I clumsily run my hands over the bottles until I think I’ve found my shampoo and conditioner, hoping I grabbed the right one. When I smell my rosehip shampoo, I smile, thinking I can keep this up for a very long time.

“Too bad,” I say, laughing as I lather my hair. I always have a faint scent when I get home from Last Drop, depending on the clientele. When Roman drank from me, I smelled mint on his breath, and it had lingered afterward. I like the ritual of rinsing the bar off and belonging only to myself once more.

“And to me—tonight anyway,” he says, unable to mind his own business.

“Zip it, demon.”

Conditioner next. I’m very careful to face away from the stream, not wanting the water to touch my piercings and get me more hot and bothered than I already am. The satisfaction of edging Asmodeus is almost enough to make the delayed gratification for myself worth it.

“Darling, I have once waited hundreds of years for a conquest. Your lifespan is not one that can support what it would take to edge me.”

Another demon, I suppose in my mind, but he doesn’t confirm or deny. I guess it doesn’t matter, but I’m feeling defeated that I’m not having an effect on him.

“Wrong.”

He says nothing else, but I can feel the intensity. Like an athlete at the starting block, waiting for the gun to go off, the entity currently possessing me is strung tightly. Perhaps he needs my release more than I do.

I reach for the body wash and finally open my eyes when I can’t find it. As I bend at the waist to grab it from a lower shelf, the stream of water hits my nipples and something between a wince and a sigh escapes me. Sore from my piercings being pressed against my bra for hours at work, the warm water feels amazing. In this moment, I realize I forgot to grab a washcloth.

“Use your hands,” Asmodeus grits out. If he had a body, I would think he was in pain.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I argue.

Yet, I obey. I lean against the wall of the shower as I bring the body wash to a lather in my hands. I don’t close my eyes as I gently clean my chest, careful to avoid where I’m still sensitive. Knowing Az is seeing this, watching as bubbles slowly slide down my slick skin, makes me clench my thighs together.

I’m not convinced that Az’s influence isn’t impacting me, because as I rub my hands across my skin, drawing the bubbles beneath my chest and subconsciously pushing my tits together, I don’t know if it’s only me. Every time he’s taken over my body, it has felt total and complete, but maybe this time he’s given me the illusion of control.

Because otherwise that means I want him to see me, want him to feel me and be aroused by me. And that’s insane.

“All you, angel. Do you want proof?”

I roll my lips inward, uncertain. Do I need to know the depravity I’ve sunk to in only a few hours?

My hands creep lower as the soap glides down. I trail my hands across my lower belly and my hips. Lower. Just above my pussy.

“I’ll give you my proof, anyway,” he says.

And then I can no longer control my hands. But only my hands. I can adjust my stance, tilt my head back, and moan as hands that don’t seem to belong to me caress either side of my pussy. My fingertips tarry along the creases of my thighs, tender and teasing.

“Breach of contract,” I murmur, but somehow I can’t bring myself to really care.

Gently, fingertips that I know logically belong to me, part the lips of my pussy and touch my clit. With small circles, Asmodeus strokes me in a way that is just different enough to be new but just familiar enough to be comfortable.

“Do you want me to stop, Petra? Or do you want to relax?”

I bite my lip as my fingertip applies more pressure on my clit. Slowly, I, he, we—whoever—dip my middle finger into my entrance, dragging the slick evidence of my arousal out and up, circling my clit with more force. It feels so good and just the way I like it—without me having to ask or guide.

And then he stops.