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Most of the humans are dressed like me, although some aren’t dressed at all. There’s a few men buried in the flashing crowd, but most of the pets are women. I assume somewhere there’s a succubus club where the reverse is true.
“Dance with me?” Daemon says. He phrases it like a question, even though he doesn’t have to. Letting go of my waist, he steps beside me and offers me his dark red hand, the black claws longer than my fingernails. I don’t look at him—I’m too scared to—as I place my much smaller palm in his and let him drag me toward the dance floor.
Though the incubi have their wings tucked—Daemon included—I still bump into them, but they don’t seem to notice. They’re too busy playing with their humans, and Daemon follows suit. Once we’re deep enough in the crowd, he grabs me by the waist and yanks me against his hard chest. His leather riding jacket is gone now, replaced by the designer suit I’m used to. Soft fabric brushes up against my bare skin. Something hard presses against my thigh.
Two somethings.
At first, I think I can’t be right. Daemon can’t have two penises. But then he grabs my hand and slides it between us, over his rapidly growing erections—as in plural. I swallow as I cup them, and they pulse against me, hot and hard and ready.
In my periphery, Daemon throws back his head and groans. “Fuck. If you keep touching me like that, I’m going to…”
He doesn’t finish that sentence, and I don’t need him to. I don’t know what comes over me, but I squeeze him—both of hims—through the thin fabric and his neck strains, a vein bulging in the side of it. When I finally peer up at Daemon’s face, I see him for the first time since he shifted. The man is massive, even more so than the shadows made him look. Black horns jut from his messy black hair, and his red eyes are glowing and pupil-less.
Mouth open in pleasure, Daemon’s sharp canines glint in the darkness, and a metal spike spears the space below his dark red lips. His muscles are so big, I’m shocked they don’t rip the suit, and a long red tail pokes from his pants, the tip pointed and pyramid-shaped. My heart thuds against my ribcage as the tail flicks from side to side, and suddenly I’m very aware that I’m stroking this beast of a man. Terrified, I start to remove my hand, but he holds it there.
And then I remember what he said.
Don’t pull away.
People are watching.
And they are watching.
Near the front of the room is a huge projection screen, blasting random clubbers on it like the world’s most fucked-up kiss cam. I don’t see the incubus who’s filming us, but a woman a few feet away pops up on the screen, her boobs bouncing as a demon spins her.
Daemon bends to reach me, and still can’t. His lips graze the top of my head rather than my earlobe. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he whispers. “I’m still the same person.”
And to his credit, he does still sound like the same person. A very large, very scary version of the same person. His erections continue to press against my palm, and I can’t stop the word vomit that spews out of my mouth.
“Your dicks are huge,” I blurt, and then immediately blush.
Daemon roars out a laugh. But thankfully, he doesn’t comment on my remark. Voice low, his words vibrate my scalp as he speaks into it. “Come on. Dance with me and we’ll work our way around the room. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find them in the crowd.”
Finally, he shifts my hand, curling it around his waist, then grinding into me. I stare at him as a server comes by with a tray full of shots, and Daemon plucks one off, then downs it in a single gulp. He plucks another and passes it to me.
“Stop looking at me,” he says. “It’s screwing with the stone.”
Sure enough, it is. The grounding stone is vibrating, but it’s faint compared to the deep vibrations of the dance floor that shake my bones. I force myself to break eye contact—although can it really be called that when there’s no discernible eye-parts to stare at? Peering at the demons around us, I down the shot Daemon gave me and cough.
Liquid fire burns my tongue and throat. The alcohol is spicy like a ghost pepper and sweet like cherries, and it hits my head straight away. Still coughing, I grab Daemon tighter to steady my woozy self, then focus on the grounding stone.
“I forgot how much of a lightweight you are,” he says.
Fingers curled in his suit jacket, I stick my tongue out and begin scanning demons through blurry vision. “I’m not a lightweight,” I say.
To prove his point, Daemon spins me, and I stumble into him. A laughing fit comes over me, my face smushing into his chest. The second I can breathe again, the server takes the empty glasses from us, and I reach over to grab a second.
This stuff does wonders for nervousness.
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Daemon says. The glass is already pressed against my lips, and I consume it before he can stop me.
We’re here to find a murderer, but who says we can’t have a little fun?
Seven shots later—ten for Daemon—we’ve successfully scoured every inch of the dance floor. Although it’s cold in here, sweat plasters hair to the sides of my cheeks. Daemon swipes the hair away, cupping my face as I run my hands along his chest, feeling the deep grooves there.
God, I want to do tequila shots and lick salt off his abs.
Somewhere, a metaphorical angel on my shoulder reminds me that’s inappropriate—I have a mate—but then Daemon scoops up a fistful of my now ratty locks and yanks my chin up. We’re on the not-kiss-kiss-cam, and he makes a show of it. Shoving two fingers in my mouth, he orders me to suck on them, and fuck, I don’t even hesitate.
