Page 12 of Snowed In with an Incubus

“What?” he asked, self-conscious. It wasn’t that weird, right? He’d hurt her, he got her a Band-Aid. Anyone would do that.

She shook her head, settling back against him. “Nothing. Potion?”

“For the hunger,” he explained. “Most incubi take it. Sometimes, anyway. It just makes things easier.”

“Like, for when you’re in between partners?”

“Sure,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her that this was the first time he’d fed during sex. He didn’t admit it to fellowincubi, most of whom had started feeding during sex when they were teenagers. And he sure as hell didn’t admit it to humans,or even other monsters, who regarded incubi as one of the more “dangerous” monsters.

You could really hurt someone if you fed from them too much. Go past the desire and start sucking life force, leaving themsick, or in the worst cases, dead. It took some serious effort to kill someone via feeding, but it could still happen, andit freaked Sam the hell out. It was much better not to feed at all. But now he’d had a taste, and the idea of going back tothat potion made his soul shrivel in his chest. He’d think about Jaz every time he uncorked that bottle. How warm she wasunder him. How she squeezed him with her thighs. How she giggled in his ear, urging him on. The way she’d looked at him after he transformed.

He’d always expected that if someone wasn’t disgusted, then they’d be weirdly fetishistic. But she hadn’t looked at him likehe was a thing. She’d looked … awed. Like he was showing her something spectacular. Like he was something spectacular.

She sighed, pillowing her head on his narrow chest. “Well, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a new one. That wasgreat. Brandon always acted like it was a chore. Getting me off, I mean.”

Sam rubbed a circle into the skin above her covered tattoo, ignoring the sting that hit him every time someone implied thatincubi’s main draw was sex. Guys always acted like it was the best thing ever, being a male incubus. Maybe it was the bestthing ever for some guys. Not for Sam. If he didn’t get some sort of connection, he left the encounter feeling weirdly empty.Although if the sex was like that every time, maybe those shallow assholes were right and he could start fucking girls left and right, no connection needed.Sam doubted it. He still would’ve had that empty feeling if Jaz had left right after or if they hadn’t had time to get toknow each other beforehand. Enough to be intrigued, anyway.

“Yeah, well,” he said sourly. “I’m an emotional wall, remember? I don’t exactly have girls lining up at my door.”

“I don’t know. I’ve known a lot of emotional walls that make it work.” Jaz paused, touching the plastic wrap over her sun tattoo. Before he could tell herto leave it alone—they’d already messed up by making her sweat so soon after the session—she continued: “You’re not that bad. Wall-wise. You opened up to me, and you barely know me. You just needed a push.”

“Right,” he said. “I just need to start starving myself before I go on dates.”

“Hey, if it works …” She grinned at the look on his face. “Fine, maybe not. What do your tattoos mean?”

He blinked at the sudden subject change. Part of him wanted to tell her they should go to sleep. Another part of him wantedto stay here like this, holding her in his arms, and talk until the sun came up. But one option was easy, and the other onewas hard. Like wanting to go to the gym or stay home and binge another season of reality TV. Only one of them was going tomake him feel good in the long run, but the other one was so much easier, and so damn tempting. For someone who didn’t wantto have sex with girls he didn’t connect with, he wasn’t willing to put in the effort to connect.

She’s leaving, anyway, he reminded himself. Just give yourself the night. It was somehow easier to open up to Jaz when he knew she’d be gone in the morning.

“Who says they have to have a meaning?” he asked. “I’m a tattoo artist. I get bored.”

She chuckled. “Like when I worked at a sunglasses kiosk and ended up with a million pairs!”

“Exactly.”

“Seriously.” Jaz tapped the shrimp over his heart. “What does this mean?”

He considered telling her that it really didn’t mean anything. He had a few tattoos on his legs that were just because hegot bored or had a spare fifty bucks during a flash day at one of the local studios. But it was his favorite tattoo.

“Kinda stupid,” he said. “So there was this sushi place near high school that marked everything half price after three o’clock,’cause they closed at four. Me and my cousin Reg, we were there every day after school buying shrimp. He was in a bodybuildingphase and wanted the protein; I just wanted cheap seafood. Anyway, we started calling each other Shrimp Cousins. Got matchingtattoos after graduation. And that’s … that’s the story.”

He grimaced. It sounded lamer than the last time he’d explained it. Which, if he remembered correctly, was … six yearsago? He didn’t think he’d ever explained the tattoo sober. That definitely didn’t help. The story was much stupider when he was in his thirties and not showing his tattoo to some girl ata bar while Reg cackled beside him.

“Aw,” Jaz crooned. “Shrimp Cousins. That’s so cute!”

“Cute is a word for it.”

Jaz stroked the neon pink curl nestled in his chest hair. “Are you guys still close?”

“He’s the reason I’m here,” Sam admitted. “He moved here after college. Said I should come along. I held out for a while.Then I turned thirty, found myself at a bunch of loose ends—girlfriend dumped me, the studio I was at went under—so I decided,y’know, time to try Claw Haven.”

“Claw Haven,” she repeated. “Is that where we are?”

He looked down at her, trying to parse if that was a joke.

She made an apologetic face up at him. “I didn’t really see the sign. And Google Maps was not helping me. I just drove until I saw a tattoo shop. So, Claw Haven?”

“Claw Haven,” he agreed, fighting back a smile, “for the monster who wants some peace and quiet.”