Page 139 of Monsters in Love: Lost in the Underworld

A DASH OF DEMON

KARLA DOYLE

Amazra

My back isto the entrance when the chime over the bakery’s front door announces an incoming customer. I need not turn to know who it is. Not only because she always visits precisely at this time of day. But even without the knowledge of her daily routine, her scent tells me who has entered the small shop. And the moment it reaches my nose, my entire being is aware, alert, and ready for all the things I would do, were I able to claim this lovely human for my own.

That will never happen. All I can do is sell her baked goods and continue to silently suffer my endless desire for her. Inhaling, I draw her unique fragrance inside me. For the briefest moment, I permit myself the luxury of savoring it on the back of my tongue. The closest I will ever come to tasting her. Even taking in this much of her personal scent is an invasion of her privacy.

All hell-born demons possess heightened senses which can be useful in the earthly realm. I have benefited from mine, using my enhanced sense of taste and smell to create foods my customers cannot resist. I could have drawn Lilah’s full scent inside me thousands of times already. With each visit to my shop, the temptation increases. But the stories and secrets her intimate fragrance hold are not for me to know. Only the creature lucky enough to claim her has the right to know her that way.

“Good afternoon, Lilah,” I say as I turn toward her. It’s nearing the end of my business day. My shelves have little to choose from, but she will not be disappointed; I know her preferences and always keep them on hand—but out of sight. I cannot have her in all the ways I crave, but I can extend the minutes spent in her presence. I can create the need for her to speak to me. Because gods above and lords below, her voice is the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

The season has brought warm weather that some of the town’s residents find uncomfortable, so I have several fans operating to offset what they refer to as “thick heat,” a concept none of them can truly comprehend, having never visited a hell realm. Nonetheless, I utilize the fans to lessen their discomfort. Watching the artificial breeze lift Lilah’s long, dark hair as she approaches the counter is another small form of torture. Surely it is soft, like strands of silk. So many times, I have imaginedthreading my fingers through it. Wrapping its length around my fist and directing her head backward so I can see the ecstasy on her face while I plunge my cock deep into her delicate, curvy body.

“You’re sold out of cinnamon scones?” Every day, she scans the cases before asking. Once upon a time, her cheeks would flush with a deep rose when she spoke to me. The blush no longer tints her cheeks when we converse. She has developed a level of ease with me. As she should have, since I am nothing more to her than the local baker.

“I always keep some for you.” Without taking my eyes from the beautiful woman who consumes my thoughts, I reach under the counter for the box I have prepared.

They are not the basic cinnamon scones I sell to others. I add a dash of poudre douce to the ones she purchases on her way home from work because I know she has a sweet tooth, in addition to enjoying spice.

I could set the box on the counter. I should. Instead, I hold it out for her to take, just to have her fingers close to mine, even though the package is large enough that they need not touch.

Except, today, they do. And that simple press of her fingers against mine is like lightning, igniting a blaze that races through me like wildfire.

A startled gasp leaves the perfect O her lips have formed. “You’re so hot.” She pulls her hand away. “I meant the temperature of your skin.”

“Of course.”

“Just because I didn’t mean it in the other ‘you’re so hot’ way that time doesn’t mean you aren’t.”Now, she blushes. A deeper shade than any of the times before.

“I took no offense; your false assurances are not necessary.”

Youthful as she is, deep lines form between her dark eyebrows as her lips pull into a frown. “I’m not the kind of person who says false things.”

“That was not my implication. I have been acquainted with you for several years and know you are a good, honest person.”

“If that’s truly your opinion, then you know I didn’t make that comment just to be nice.” She reclaims the step backward she took a moment ago, setting the bakery box on the surface between us, and leaning against the counter’s edge. “You know that if I compliment you, then, now, or ever, it’s sincere. Right, Amazra?”

Hearing her say my name sends a spike of heat straight to my cock. What I wouldn’t give to have her say it while her graceful body is taking every inch of me. While her tight feminine sheath is squeezing my hard cock, milking it as she comes apart from the pleasure of my many bumps and ridges rubbing her most sensitive places.

“Amazra?” she says again, this time while waving a hand in front of my face.

“My apologies. A thought distracted me.”

Again, her expression falls to one which lacks her usual lightness. “I understand.” Her hair curtains her face as she reaches into her handbag, presumably to retrieve her payment method.

“There is no charge for the scones. I will be closing soon, and if you do not take them, I will give them to someone else, as I always do with anything leftover.”

Her brown eyes flick up to meet mine. “You say that every day, and this is where I usually say thank you and leave, but not today. I’m aware you keep certain things aside just for me, as a thoughtful courtesy, so those don’t count as end-of-day items. I should be paying you.”

“I would prefer you did not. Knowing you enjoy these things which I have made with my hands is payment enough.” When she lowers her gaze to where my hands rest with the palms pressed to the countertop, it takes concentrated effort not to flex my fingers in a show of strength. Though, perhaps I should. If I were to scare her, she might not come back. The torture of wanting what I cannot have would be less without her thrice-daily visits. Not gone entirely, but less.

“Okay, well, thanks,” she says, not meeting my eyes while collecting the box. Or while turning away. Only when she reaches the door does she look back at me, and when she does, her face is again flush with roses. “I meant what I said. About meaning what I say, and you know, the part about you being hot, even though it wasn’t the context when I originally said it. It applies. It always has.”

By the time I have sorted out the convoluted thread of phrases, the bakery door has closed, with Lilah on the other side, and making her way down the street. I prefer having these small moments alone with Lilah, but this would have been a good time to have my storefront employee present. Though Dauphine is not human like Lilah, she is female, and always ready to give an opinion. I rarely desire the elf’s commentary, but a female perspective would be helpful right now.

Because it sounded as though Lilah finds me appealing. And if that were true, I would bring her so much pleasure, she would lose her beautiful, soft voice from screaming my name. Then I would do it again, every day, for the rest of her life.

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