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She tipped her head to the side. “Could you find a person?”
I shrug. “I suppose I could, if that was what was asked. My clients usually want me to find their lost heirlooms, or items that augment their magic.”
“What did you bring Dagon?”
My fingers twitched, itching to pull the stone eye from my pocket for her approval.
“I’m sorry. Confidentiality is a big part of my business. But in your case— ” I paused, fighting to get the words out against what felt like a compulsion to consent to Samara’s wishes, “I’m sure Mr. Thorn will show you anything he wants you to see.”
Beads of sweat dotted my forehead, and my neck became damp. Another pang of envy hits me. Yet, this time, I’m unsure if it was because he had sex with her and not me—or becauseshehad sex with him and not me.
What the hell are you, Samara?
In response, I felt his presence. Like before, I got a sense of longing, need, and sexual hunger that made the desire that hit me in the library an hour ago feel like light teasing.
Succubus.
Well, shit. There’s no competing with that. The real question is, why do I suddenly need to measure up to her?
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, then Thorn walked in, dressed in a Henley and a pair of lounge pants that hung from his narrow hips like they’d fall off at the slightest touch.
Not that I’d notice or anything.
Samara rose from her seat and went to him, pressing her body against him and kissing him hungrily.
“No business after midnight, remember?” she said in a breathy voice that made Marilyn Monroe sound like an amateur.
Thorn sighed and stepped around her. “I always take care of business when it needs doing, Sam. You know that.” He gives me a long look. “Did you take care of yours?”
“My business?” I blinked as I thought of risky business, frisky business, and the business end of somebody’s dick. “Yes, Mr. Thorn, I took care of my business.” I reached for my pocket.
But he shakes his head. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
I drop my hand. “Okay.” But it’s not okay. I don’t want to sit in here while he fucks her, and I suspected that would happen. Especially if Samara had anything to say about it.
He took his succubus by the arm, and she giggled, leaning into him. I don’t know if it’s my observation or his, but I got the impression she’s putting on a show, and it turned my stomach. Now that I know what she is, I can see the razor-sharp calculation behind her green eyes, and a part of me can’t wait to leave.
Still, her act appeared to have worked because right now, there was nowhere I wanted to be less than this pristine, heaven-on-earth kitchen, waiting for her to satisfy him before he claimed the prize resting in my pocket.
My ears pricked when Samara giggled loud enough to be heard from the bedroom. A rush of sensations flooded me. Shit. It filtered through the connection between Thorn and me. She’d done some trick to—well, to his dick to turn him on. It’s TMI, but another wave of lust rolled through me. Fucking A. It’s not mine, but it’s hitting me between the legs, anyway.
I shifted in my seat as Thorn’s voice rumbled across the penthouse, drawing my eyes toward the bedroom. Hellfire. The door wasn’t even closed, and Samara’s bare breasts bobbed into view. Her panties are now missing, great. I slammed my gaze to her face, and she grinned like the Cheshire cat when my eyes met hers, mortifying me.
I attempted to turn away, but I seemed stuck.
Thorn’s bare ass loomed into view, muscular and taut, and the sight of it made me slick with desire.
Finally, I wrested control of my faculties and shrunk back into the kitchen to await further instruction. They’re both moaning now, and I can hear their bodies slamming against each other. How the fuck did I get mixed up in this? It’s embarrassing as hell, and based on the impressions that filter through me, I’m not sure physically vacating the space will spare me the intimate details.
I considered sticking the pilfered artifact in the freezer and texting him its location. It was a good bet the only cooking “Sam” did for Thorn was in the sack, so there was no danger of her peeking in the ice box. Then a second thought hit me. What if this is her place?
I glanced around, trying to distract myself, peeking at the contents of the fridge, quietly skulking in the cupboards, but I didn’t know what I was searching for. Pink plates? Cans of White Claw in the beverage drawer?
Nervous that I’d get caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar, I took up my latte again, sat at the island, and waited.
Samara moaned twice. “Dagon,” she called, and my cheeks flamed. The tension built, and she screamed something in a language I didn’t understand. He growled, and I shoved my fingers in my ears and thought of England.
I don’t know what “thinking of England” meant, but apparently, it’s something English ladies were once advised to do when having sex with their husbands. Here, I’m faced with one demon having sex with another, and it’s a sweaty and pheromone ladened affair surrounding me with animalistic lust beyond reasoning. And as much as I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t. Sweat beaded on my forehead and under my breasts, my breath grows ragged, and fire crawled between my legs. It’s all I could do to keep my hands from wandering to give myself relief, but I refused to participate in this weird menagé a trois.
