I don’t ask him to.
I don’t want to be on the floor. I don’t want to be anywhere but righthere, where the sun heats my side and his strength holds me far away from my worries.
His gaze traces my nose to my lips, and warmth glows inside me, flushing my cheeks. His thumb slides along my bare skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. I hunger for more than just a stroke of his thumb.
He smirks, his eyes locking back on mine. “Arousedagain?”
Instinct tells me to deny it. To harden myself and ignore my needs. But what if I told the truth? What would this fantasy creature do?
He could laugh. Look at that smirk. It’s not worth the embarrassment.
Bastian ducks down, our faces only inches apart. “Shut up, Jerry.”
“Fine.” My heart thunders in my ears. “Yes. I am.”
He blinks slowly, a fang poking into his bottom lip as his smile widens.
“MEROW!”
I gasp and release Bastian, trying to pretend as if my cat-son did not just catch me flirting with the sexy dragon man.
“Um, time for his breakfast,” I say, pushing against his chest.
He grunts. “That beast has you wrapped around his little paw.”
He lowers my feet to the floor and releases me with a tiny shove that’s almost a pat on the ass. I look over my shoulder with a huff and his grin turns Cheshire.
I scoff. “Cute.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I know.”
I shake my head as I walk to Oscar’s bowl. A heaping scoop of kibble and a squeeze of the vitamin duck paste on top makes him purr like a machine gun.
I get myself a slice of leftover pizza and rummage through my laundry for something clean to wear, then head toward the shower, painfully aware of Bastian’s lingering gaze the whole time. If I look at him, I know I might say something dumb, or worse, start catching feelings. He’s hot, but he’s also A) a dragon, B) a jerk, and C) very possessive. I don’t need anything like that in my life.
So, don’t look at—
Bastian’s wings snap out in my peripheral vision, and I can’t help but stare. The scars of his back shimmer with gold-flecked black ink, as if the old wounds are being filled in. His wing joints bend and his muscles flex, highlighting his immense strength.
I slurp a little drool from the corner of my mouth—all pizza related, of course—and turn my attention back to the bathroom.
One much too cold shower later, I step into a fresh set of clothes and open my to-do list. I write “Binding for DemiDevil” at the top, scootching down all the other things like appliances, groceries, and hardware trip.
With my priorities straightened, I deflate the mattress and put it up. I go to one of the few boxes that made the trip in the car with us and take out my tools and glue. Next is the air-tight bag filled with the manuscript, the lettering cutouts, designs for the spine, the cardboard for the cover, and the needle and dark purple thread for the binding.
I spread everything out on my tattered craft blanket on the floor and nod, confirming I have all that I need to get this done today.
“Tunes,” I say, grabbing my phone.
I put on a playlist of Taylor Swift, shoot Demi a message that “I’mso down,” and get to work.
Threading the manuscript is almost therapeutic. The rhythmic puncture, push, pull of the needle through the thick, sheer white paper gets me in a meditative state. Along with my playlist I’ve heard a hundred times over, I’m in my element.
When everything is stitched, I put the bookmark down beside my glue brush, so I don’t forget it. It’s a thick, purple ribbon with gold thread on the trim and a gorgeous gold-coated scythe charm at the end. So pretty!
I pop the lid on my adhesive and pour some into the very worn and stained plastic bowl I bought from a thrift store ages ago. It’s just the right size for the perfect amount of glue and has a little notch on the side where my brush can sit.
I pin the manuscript between two wooden boards and cover the spine in a liberal amount of glue before moving on to the next step—cutting the end pages!
