“Okay,” she says, shoulders drooping as she takes possession of the certificate. “Thank you.” Though polite, her words are devoid of emotion. “Good night, Amazra.”
Giving her the prize was supposed to bring her joy, yet her posture as she walks away and the sound of muffled sniffling indicate I have done the opposite.
Nine
The next day
AMAZRA
My back is to the entrance when the chime over the 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. Her presence always compels me to breathe, as if I were alive in the way that she is. The moment her scent reaches my nose, my entire being is aware, alert, and ready for all the things I would do to give her pleasure.
That will not happen. A creature as beautiful and good as Lilah deserves much better than a demon who has wrung immeasurable pain from souls condemned to hell. I could not even bring her simple joy with the prize last night.
She has graced me with acceptance, compassion, and friendship in the time I have known her, but she is not mine. All I can do is supply her with the baked goods she enjoys while continuing to suffer my endless desire and the impossible feelings she has brought forth.
“Good afternoon, Lilah,” I say as I turn toward her. It is nearing the end of my business day. My shelves have little to choose from, but she will never be disappointed. A box of her favorites is always set aside, though out of sight. I cannot have her in all the ways I crave, but I can extend the minutes spent in her presence.
The season has brought warm weather that some of the 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 fans to lessen their discomfort.
Watching the artificial breeze lift her long, dark hair as Lilah approaches the counter is another small form of torture. Nightly, I imagine threading my fingers through strands that surely feel like silk. In my endless thoughts, I wrap its length around my fist and direct her head backward so I can witness the ecstasy on her face while I plunge my cock deep into her soft, curvy body.
“No cinnamon scones left?” she asks after scanning the bakery case. Once upon a time, her cheeks would flush a deep rose when she spoke to me. With few exceptions, the blush no longer tints her cheeks when we converse in the bakery. She has developed a level of ease with me. Today, though, her delivery of the familiar question lacks its usual brightness. Her tone is flat. Neutral. As it has been each time she has visited today.
“I always keep some for you.”
This is our daily exchange. Her unnecessary question because she knows the answer. Without taking my eyes from the woman who consumes my thoughts, I reach under the counter for the box I have prepared.
They are not the same cinnamon scones I sell to others. I make a small batch for her alone, with a dash of poudre douce for extra sweetness.
I should set the box on the counter. Step back. Instead, I hold the box, a silent invitation for her to take it. I crave having her skin close to mine, even though the package is large enough that our hands need not touch.
Except 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, nonliteral‘you’re so hot’way doesn’t mean you aren’t.” Now, her voice holds emotion. Now she blushes. A shade reminiscent of summer apples.
“I understood the meaning of your words, and demons cannot be offended. I do not require false assurances.”
Distinct grooves form between her dark eyebrows as her lips pull into a frown. “And just because I’m not a hell demon whose words are always literal and is incapable of telling a lie doesn’t mean I’m a person who says false things.”
“That was not my implication. I know you are a good and honest person.”
“Then you know I didn’t awkwardly and indirectly compliment you for any reason other than it’s the truth. My truth.” She reclaims the step backward she took a moment ago, setting the bakery box on the surface between us and leaning against the counter. “If I compliment you, ever, in any way, it’s because I mean it, Amazra.”
Hearing her say my name sends a spike of heat straight to my cock. There is little I would not give to have her say it while her voluptuous body is taking every inch of me. While she is comingapart 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. “Are you okay?”
“A thought distracted me.”
Again, her expression dims. Hair curtains her face as she reaches into her handbag to retrieve her payment method. Another part of our unscripted daily routine.
“I do not want payment from you.”
There is no light in her eyes when she looks up at me. “You say that every day, and this is where I usually smile, say thank you, maybe talk a bit more, then leave, but not anymore.” A long exhalation of breath ends with her shoulders lower and curved forward. “I’m just a customer like anyone else. There’s no reason for you to treat me any differently. I should be paying.”
