Beck
I don’t want to share you.
It was a dangerous thought, and one I almost let slip while standing across from Zephyr in the lonely hall. Since the moment I approached him at the bar, I’d deviated from my every intention.
I hadn’t dismissed him with a handshake and parting thanks.
I hadn’t paid him.
I hadn’t ended anything.
Instead, I asked him what he wanted, and he all but admitted he wanted me.
He meant as a food source. Nourishment. But I wasn’t bothered by that. Sex was vital to him, and taking part in it made me vital too. More essential than I’d been in what felt like lifetimes.
It bore consideration, though. In a place like this, how could Zephyr be anything less than sated? Between thestage performances and activities in the executive suites, lust was practically oozing out of the walls. Then there was… that room. The sex dungeon turned recording studio.
There were plenty of people in Vegas who’d line up to bed an incubus—and pay extra for a recording of the experience. Something to jerk off to later. An X-rated souvenir.
If that was happening, Zephyr should’ve had no use for me. But… was it happening? The hallway had been empty. No line of horny johns adjusting their zippers, making sure they were hard for the main event. The room itself had been pristine, without sights or smells of recent use, and Zephyr had looked terrified. Clinging to the doorframe like he thought it might swallow him whole.
Which begged another question: what happened to a creature who feared his own nature?
Reentering the club’s main room, I was assaulted by a blast of sound. My attention tunneled through the crowd, seeking the bar where Colette had promised to wait. She was there, balancing a martini glass while clapping along to the music.
A glance at the stage found Marvel front and center. He wore a metallic green G-string and a cape that fluttered as he marched along the row of footlights, striking poses and flexing his muscles to the tune of “My Hero” by the Foo Fighters.
The crush and chaos of the club must have dulled Colette’s hound senses because I was able to weave through the mob and get close enough to tap her shoulder, breaking her rapt attention.
She spun toward me, free hand twitching toward her hidden revolver before she broke into a grin. “This is pretty good!” she called over the racket.
My lips pulled into a tight smile. “Something to be said for nubile demon boys, after all?”
Colette raised her glass in a mock toast. “They make a strong case for themselves.” Her gaze drifted toward the main event and lingered there as she commented, “I think this one could crush me with his arms. Or his thighs.”
The observation forced me to look again, noticing the sheen of oil that highlighted the deep cut of Marvel’s abs and the bulge of his biceps as he set his feet and flexed. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and tall enough to look down on most men, he was quite the specimen.
“That’s a good thing?” I asked.
“It’s certainly not bad.” Colette took a sip of her cocktail, relaxing while the urgency of my mission caught up to me.
“Listen,” I told her, leaning in to attempt discretion while whisper-shouting. “I’m taking Zephyr to the car.”
Colette fixed me with a narrow glance. “Not stealing him, are you? I think you only pay to borrow, not purchase.”
I waved her off. “I’m not stealing him, just?—”
“Borrowing.” She gave an exaggerated nod. “For how long? Five, ten minutes? Should I make myself comfortable?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “Help me get him outside,thenyou can come back and… get comfortable.”
Her red lips quirked. “Why do you need help with that? Can’t he walk out on his own?”
I hesitated to answer that when I didn’t fully understand it myself. Comments Maslow had made about his business model left a foul taste in my mouth. Suffice to say, it felt important to get Zephyr out of this place, the same way it had felt important to give him my suit coat. An offer of protection and a promise to return.
Coletteremained unconvinced. “You see how this sounds like you’re stealing him.” She looked past me as though searching for the incubus I’d abandoned. “Do you have him gagged and bound somewhere? Rolled up in a rug?”
“A rug?” I repeated. “Where’d you see that?”
