“Variations of your uniform. We need to do some test runs to see which one has the best response.”
“Excuse me,what?Uniform?” My eyes snap back up to his as he arches that brow again.
“Yes? If you are going to become The Easter Bunny, we cannot have you prancing around looking likethis, can we?” He gestures at me, and my composure slips as my lip pulls up in a snarl.
“We’ve returned to this, then? Schoolyard insults of my appearance?”
He scoffs, and his fingers squeeze into a fist as his chest rises and falls in a long, controlled breath. “That isnotwhat I am doing. It’s a simple fact that if the humans expect arabbit, I cannot throw a demon at them and believe it will be enough.”
Logic tells me he’s right, but a stubborn part of me wants to keep fighting. Wants to provoke him once more and watch as his cheeks redden—rile him up until a flustered softness overcomes him. I fight the urge for the sake of my sanity, though, and only offer him a snarky smile. “And you believe you’re the most qualified to style me?”
“Of course.”
I hum a contrite, unconvinced sound. “If you say so.”
“What isthatsupposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing.” I hold my hands up with my palms facing him. He glares for a long time, and I wait until he nods and looks away to say, “It’s just that… fashion advice from a man that slathers himself in oil before he leaves home? Not what I’d call the best choice, but what do I know?”
That spark of electricity behind his eyes flashes for a moment as his lips pull into an irritated sneer. “I do notslathermyself in anything.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
“Oh, on the contrary,Micah,” I say as a victorious smile spreads across my mouth.“You slathered yourself in front of me just days ago. I havevividmemories of it.” He takes a long, shaky inhale before pushing it out of his nose, and excitement burns in my gut as I brace myself for the fight.
But he returns his attention to the papers on the table. “I’ve chosen a few options we can test. Once we see how the humans react to them, we can make better decisions.”
Wait…
That’sit?
That’s all I get?
Where’s the snapping temper and screaming match? The crawling across the table and trying to choke me before I pin him to the ground? The fucking sweet, delirious moans as I dry-hump his ass until he begs me to come all over his back?
As I’m fuming in confused horniness, he glances up with that condescendingly sharp eyebrow. “Did you need something?”
“Nothing at all,” I insist, and I don’t miss the way he smirks as I fume at the table, acting as if he doesn’t exist. The longer we sit here in silence, the more uncomfortable it gets. Neither of us is willing to break this stalemate, and instead we’re both pretending to be busy even though I finished reading his notes minutes ago.
The longest sections of text discuss the origins of Easter—which, might I add, are remarkably incorrect. This whole ‘He is Risen’ thing got taken entirely too far when Jesus crawled his way out of a three-day bender.
It’s like the old game of telephone, and a perfect example of how gossip gets twisted as it spreads from one person to the next. An innocent comment about how you’ve been dead to the world all weekend suddenly turns into a resurrection. That cluster of groupies that always chased him around caught wind of it, and they repeated everything he’d ever said as gospel.
How it spiraled into something involving giant rabbits and chicken eggs is beyond me.
“How much time have you spent with humans?” Micah finally asks, and I silently celebrate the fact that he cracked first. I glance up to find his eyes darting across the papers. It doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s faking, though. I’ve already read everything twice, and he wrote the fucking things. He doesn’tneed to read them again—he just refuses to admit his attention is on me instead of the notes.
“I haven’t spent much time with humanity aside from the tortured souls in Hell.”
His eyes flick up to mine for a brief second, and I swear a slight pink hue builds on his cheekbones. “Tortured souls? Do you get off on making them suffer? Tying them up and prodding at them when you’re bored?”
I scoff, and he looks at me again. “Way to show your judgmental side, asshole. If you must know, I’m only ever around the souls for administrative purposes. Someone has to ensure everyone’s accounted for and that their identification is up to date. There’s a lot more to Hell than eternal damnation, but I’m pretty sure you already know that.” He nods as he stares at the papers once more, trying to appear disinterested when his original question registers in my mind. “You are awfully curious about my ability to tie a good knot, Micah.”
“Just making conversation.” He doesn’t bother looking up, and I grin as I scoot my chair closer until my knee bumps his.
“Thinking about me tying you up? Are you wondering how it would feel to be open and exposed to me with no means to fight back?”
“Of course not,” he snaps, but he squirms in his seat. If he were to stand up right now, there’s no doubt in my mind that his thick cock would be perfectly outlined in those ridiculously tight pants.
