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“Have I ever told you how much I hate living in a city so humid?” “Almost constantly.” “It always destroys my curls,” Genevieve griped as if Ophelia hadn’t spoken. “Hell must be less humid than this.” Ophelia snorted. “You know what they say. Come to Hell—we may have Devils and Demons, but at least your hair won’t get frizzy.”
Of course, as with the magic, Ophelia was quickly learning that the idea of something was only pleasurable when it stayed an idea. A distant daydream.
“Well, he clearly doesn’t have a brain if he threw away his opportunity with you,” Ophelia commented. Genevieve snorted. “That’s alright. I fucked his best friend on the back of the float as revenge.”
His green eyes tracked the gesture, but he didn’t bother to comment on it; he only answered, “No. There is no before in my mind. I remember every contestant I’ve worked with, and every city we’ve traveled to, but nothing outside of Phantasma’s competitions. A shame, too. I feel robbed of my first time laying eyes on you.”
“I can’t stand it,” he told her, his voice deepening as he fought for control of his emotions. “I can’t fucking stand the thought of him—of anyone—pleasuring you except me. I’d rather cease to exist than know you’ve looked at anyone else the way you look at me when I’m touching you.”
😩
“In a different life, in a fair one, I would’ve kept you until my eternal soul withered away to dust,” he vowed to her.
“Firstly, let me reintroduce myself.” He dipped his head in a formal bow. “My name is Salemaestrus Erasmus Blackwell, Prince of the Devils. But you, angel, may call me Salem.”
Knew itttttt
