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God, I love that sound. It sends fire shooting through my body until I’m aching for him. I fumble with his dress pants, unlatching his belt buckle and working that button between my fingers. Then, I kiss him some more.
“Ann.” He says it more aggressively this time, breathing heavily when he pulls away. His hand is firm when he places it over mine, stopping me from undressing him. Somewhere in the background, a car horn blares. “We can’t.”
We definitely can.
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off before I get the chance.
“What about Daemon?”
Hearing his name is the equivalent of getting ice water tossed on me. Narrowing my gaze at him, I crawl out of Christopher’s lap and cross my arms. “What about Daemon?”
“You have feelings for him.” He says it matter-of-fact. And I’m not dumb enough to deny it—nor do I want to. Not after he was so honest with me. “Before we do anything, I want you to sort those out. I don’t want to be a second choice.”
“You aren’t—”
“Please, Ann.”
And I nod because it’s a perfectly reasonable request. Still, disappointment consumes me. My pussy aches as I back away from him and return to my spot on the other side of the table. I’ve never met a man who cockblocked himself. Wordlessly, I return to the puzzle. When Christopher makes idle conversation, I participate, but my heart isn’t in it anymore.
The disappointments keep coming when I find onions on the pizza.
God, I really hate onions.
14
THE PLAN
When Christopher kisses me goodbye, it’s on the cheek. Leaning over the driver’s seat, he stashes a business card in my jeans’ pocket, then tells me to call him once I’ve gotten my phone back and everything with Daemon is sorted. I slide out of his sports car and onto the busy downtown sidewalk, staring at him as he pulls away.
When he says “get everything sorted,” he doesn’t mean emotionally—at least I don’t think he does. He needs to confirm that Daemon will participate in our investigation; otherwise, it’ll be over before it ever begins. Last night, I invited Christopher to come with me, but he declined, saying light witches and demons don’t mix. All correspondence is supposed to go through me.
It’s inconvenient to say the least. Still, I should be grateful that Christopher is helping at all; it’s more than Daemon would do were the roles reversed.
Dressed in my dirty jeans from last night, and one of my mate’s baggy dress shirts, I walk a little ways toward an ice cream parlor. It’s pink and white striped with oversized windows that show off their cases of ice cream—chocolate chip, rocky road, lemonade and peppermint, plus a dozen other flavors I’ve never tried. The display is bright and colorful, and the air conditioning blows out into the street, sending goosebumps pricking my skin.
Sunshine warms the sidewalk, but I dodge it, stepping into a shadowed and familiar alleyway. I don’t bother rolling up my shirtsleeve. I don’t need to. Even hidden, I can feel Daemon’s mark and summon him through it. Besides, I don’t want Daemon to see the now pink tattoo and realize what I’ve done—not yet. Not until I’ve had time to explain.
Please. I think the word, but push it toward him. I need you.
In a blink, he appears at my side, pink purse in hand. Smiling, Daemon dangles the purse in front of me. “I was wondering when you’d start missing this. Your phone’s been blowing up.”
“Yeah right.” I roll my eyes at the sarcasm, and his smile falters as he takes me in, staring at Christopher’s dress shirt. I spilled coffee on my top on the drive over, and Christopher had a spare, but I know that isn’t what it looks like. Neither of us say anything as I snatch the bag from him and rummage through it, collecting my surprisingly alive and fully charged phone.
He must have plugged it in for me. It’s something he’s done dozens of times before, but now…
I tug on the hemline of my shirt and fidget with it, for the first time in my life not knowing what to say to him. I settle for a thank you.
“I thought I’d encourage your social media addiction,” he says. “I can see now you found something else to occupy your time.”
“That’s awfully judgy coming from an incubus.”
That shuts him up.
He straightens his suit jacket, then peers around the alley as if searching for my mate. A never-ending stampede of foot traffic passes by us, and a dozen different conversations echo across the brickwork. When he doesn’t find Christopher, his attention shoots back to me.
“You have your phone back. Can I go now?”
Daemon is pissed. I can tell.
