Page 5 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
I have a demon in my shower. A hot, tattooed demon who cooks pasta and watches Meryl Streep movies.
The sound of the shower running was oddly soothing, and I felt my eyes growing heavy. Then the water shut off, and a few minutes later, I heard humming from the bathroom. Curious, I crept to my partially open bedroom door and peeked out.
The bathroom door was ajar, steam billowing out. Through the gap, I could see Deus, a towel slung low on his hips, using another towel to dry his hair. His back was to me, giving me a perfect view of the tattooed expanse of his shoulders and back, the defined muscles moving under his skin. The tattoos were more active now, swirling and shifting rapidly.
I should have looked away. I should have closed my door and gone to bed.
I didn’t.
Deus dropped the towel he was using on his hair and reached for something on the sink. The movement made the towel around his waist slip dangerously lower, revealing the dimples at the base of his spine and the beginning curve of his ass.
Then he turned slightly, and I realized what he was reaching for. He’d found my bottle of lotion, and he was now slowly applying it to his chest and arms, his hands moving in long, deliberate strokes over his skin.
My mouth went dry.
His reflection caught my eye in the bathroom mirror, and a knowing smile curved his lips. He knew I was watching. Of course he knew.
Still maintaining eye contact through the mirror, he let the towel drop completely.
I made a small, strangled sound and stumbled back from my door, heart pounding. I heard his low chuckle from the bathroom.
“Sweet dreams, Julian,” he called out.
I dove under my covers, mortified and inexplicably aroused. Sleep was going to be impossible now, with the mental image of naked, wet Deus burned into my retinas.
I lay there, trying to think about anything else—tax forms, my student loan debt, that weird mole on my back I should probably get checked—but my traitorous mind kept returning to those shifting tattoos, that knowing smile, the way water droplets had traced paths down his chest.
This is insane. He’s a literal demon. Not boyfriend material. Not even hookup material. Dangerous, immortal, probably eat-your-soul-for-breakfast material.
But my body wasn’t listening to these very reasonable concerns. Under the covers, I was embarrassingly hard.
I waited, listening carefully. The apartment had gone quiet. Deus was presumably done in the bathroom, but where was he sleeping? I hadn’t thought to ask. The couch, probably. Or maybe demons didn’t sleep.
After what felt like an eternity, I cautiously slipped a hand beneath my shorts, hating myself a little but too turned on to care. I closed my eyes, trying to think of anything but Deus as I wrapped my fingers around myself.
It didn’t work. All I could see was amber eyes, moving tattoos, that infuriating smirk. I bit my lip to keep quiet as I stroked myself, imagining what might have happened if I hadn’t retreated to my room. If I’d stepped into the bathroom instead.
Would his skin be hot to the touch? Would those tattoos move faster under my fingers? Would he taste like smoke and cinnamon?
My pace quickened, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I was close, embarrassingly close, after just a few minutes.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside my room, and I froze, hand still down my shorts. Was he listening? Could demons sense… this kind of thing?
The thought should have killed the mood. Instead, it pushed me over the edge. I came with a muffled groan, shoving my face into my pillow to stifle the sound, my body shuddering with release.
As the pleasure subsided, mortification took its place. I’d just jerked off thinking about the demon in my apartment, who could very possibly sense exactly what I was doing.
Great job, Julian. Day one of demon summoning, and you’re already a walking cliché.
I cleaned up quickly with tissues from my nightstand, then buried myself under the covers, determined to fall asleep and pretend none of this had happened.
Tomorrow, I’d figure out how to get rid of Deus. Or at least establish some serious boundaries. Like “no dropping towels” and “no being supernaturally hot” and “no making me question my life choices more than I already do.”
Simple, right?
Chapter 4
Two weeks into my unwanted demon roommate situation, I had to admit things weren’t… terrible. Deus was annoying, boundary-challenged, and had a disturbing habit of appearing silently behind me when I least expected it, but he also cooked, cleaned, and somehow fixed my perpetually leaking bathroom sink.
