Page 48 of Wicked Chains
This isn't just the alcohol talking. It's something deeper that I recognize all too well. Loneliness is an old friend of mine.
"You should rest," I say, but I don't pull away.
She kicks the door shut behind us and releases my wrist only to place both hands on my chest, pushing me back against the closed door.
"I don't want sleep," she says, her eyes lifting to mine. They're glassy with alcohol but clear with intent. "I want you."
My body responds instantly, of course it does. I'm an incubus. Desire is my element, my nature, my curse. I can smell hers, rich and heady, mixing with the champagne on her breath.
"You're drunk," I remind her, my voice tight.
"So?" Her hands slide up my chest, tangling in my hair. "I still know what I want."
She presses against me, her body soft where mine is hard, and rises on her tiptoes to bring her mouth to mine. I turn my head at the last second, and her lips miss, landing on my jaw.
"No," I say, though it’s fucking painful. "Not like this."
"Why not?" she demands, frustrated. "Don't tell me the demon professor suddenly developed a conscience."
I place my hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. "Right now, what you need is water and a nap, not me."
She pouts, actually pouts, and it would be funny if it weren't so tempting. "You're no fun."
"I'm incredibly fun," I tell her. "When my partners are sober enough to remember it the next day."
Her hands drop to my belt, fingers teasing at the buckle. "I promise I'll remember every detail."
I grab her wrists, firm but gentle. "Rose. Stop."
She looks up at me, her bottom lip between her teeth. My restraint is hanging by a thread. "Why? I know you want me. I can feel it." She presses forward, against the evidence of my desire. "Right there."
"What I want," I grind out, "has never been the issue."
"Then what is the issue?"
"You're not in a state to ask me for what you’re asking. And I've already told you that I won’t do this unless you ask. Properly."
She pulls back slightly, studying me with narrowed eyes. "Wait. You're actually turning me down? You?"
I can't help the bark of laughter that escapes me. "Try not to sound so shocked. It happens occasionally."
"But you're an incubus." She says it like she's reminding me of my own nature. "Aren't you supposed to be, like, all about the seduction and feeding on sexual energy?"
"Yes, and when it’s freely given and taken, the energy tastes better," I say dryly. "Like free-range chicken versus factory-farmed."
Her face scrunches in disgust. "Did you just compare me to poultry?"
I sigh. "The point is, you're drunk. Get some water. Sober up. Then, if you still want to make bad decisions, I'll be overjoyed to help."
She steps back, crossing her arms, her lips pursed in thought. Then, suddenly, her eyes widen with what I can only describe as unholy glee.
"Oh my god," she says. "I'm so stupid. I can just magic myself sober!"
I blink. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm a witch!" she exclaims, throwing her arms wide. "I have magic! I can just..." She wiggles her fingers in front of her face. "Poof! No more drunk Rose!"
She closes her eyes, her face screwing up in concentration. A soft glow emanates from her skin, her wild, untrained magic stirring.It's fascinating to watch. Most witches need rituals, implements, focus. Rose just does it. She taps into the source.
