Huh. My eyebrows pull down and the urge to grin falls. That’s not what I expected.
I’m stumped. I can’t tell if she’s serious, but decide to take her at her word. I’ll satisfy my demon by hanging around outside for a bit, like I usually do.
I drop my arm and step back with a nod, ready to leave her in peace, but then she speaks again.
“Fine,” she huffs, rolling her eyes.
“No, I don’t want to inconvenience you,” I say. I also don’treallywant to be where I’m not wanted. I think that’s a pretty basic thing, to want to be wanted. My demon might want to be near her, to follow and know and possess her, but I don’t want to be anywhere I’m truly not welcome.
Her eyes soften, as does her voice.
“You’re not an inconvenience,” she says. “Please, come in.”
Lor steps back, swinging the door open wide, and then turns around, expecting me to follow. I hesitate for a heartbeat, warring with myself. But then I remind myself that Lor isn’t the type of person to do anything she doesn’t want to do, so if she didn’t want me here, she wouldn’t have invited me in.
She had no problem telling me to get lost in the past.
I step inside and push the door closed behind me, my eyes sharpening on her ass as she saunters into the kitchen. Sheglances over her shoulder and smirks when she catches me looking, but I don’t mind. I grin and shrug.
“What? You’re hot,” I say.
Lor rolls her eyes again—and again, I catch the hint of a smile as she turns away. Why does she always try to hide it?
“You can get yourself some coffee if you want,” she says, gesturing to a cupboard on her left. I take the invitation to snoop, making myself at home as my demon purrs with contentment in my chest at being invited into her space.
12
BOUNDARIES? NEVER MET THEM.
June 30, 1988: I’m so tired. My bones, my blood, my very soul is tired.
Lor
I can’t believe Ro is in my apartment.
Of course, right as I’m recovering from the most unwelcome sex dream of my life, he has to show up on my doorstep like a godsdamned wet dream come to life. My eyes start at his feet and trail a path up his body as time slows.
High top canvas shoes, light blue jeans held together on one side of his hips with a silver chain, laced up like a shoelace. My eyes get stuck on the flash of skin beneath… Is he not wearing boxers?
I suck in a breath, my core clenching. A tight white tank bares an inch of skin above his pants and he has a loose, unbuttoned ombre rainbow tee on top. It hangs open, framing his lean, muscular chest. His wrists are covered in leather, beaded, and silver bracelets, and he has a single silver chain dangling from his neck with a crescent moon charm hanging to the middle ofhis sternum. His lip ring, the eyebrow piercing, the messy brown hair, his smoldering eyes—they all torture me.
It’s really not fair.
My skin is extra sensitive, every nerve alight so it feels like there are bees in my veins when he’s not touching me. Ever since he asked to hold my hand, all I want is his skin on mine again. My body yearns for it, like with every breath I’m being drawn closer, deeper into his orbit.
He snoops around my kitchen while I stare at him, and I find that I don’t mind it. Even if he finds the stardust, he’s seen me collecting it, so it wouldn’t be a surprise to see what he hopefully assumes is a bag of dirt sitting around.
Ro finds the mug cupboard and pokes around, not seeming to find what he wants. He eventually pulls out a chipped purple one, the most colorful and least boring mug I own, then pours some coffee before opening the fridge.
“I don’t have any creamer,” I say, assuming that’s what he’s looking for.
He shrugs, closing the fridge, but I can see the slight disappointment in his expression. I click my tongue against my teeth, then angle around him to open a drawer he hasn’t explored yet.
“Here,” I say, tossing a few sugar packets at him. “Best I can do.”
He beams at me.
I swear, a ray of sunlight shoots from his eyes, and it’s obnoxious as heck. I pinch my lips, ignoring how it warms me from the inside as he tears open the first packet and stirs it in, a pleased little smile on his lips.
