No Rest For The Wicked:
The Q Collection, Volume One
Ever wonder why men fall asleep after sex?
Because shooting our load releases a shit-ton of a hormone called prolactin. Sure, it mixes with a couple of other hormones to make for the best go-sleepy-bye cocktail ever, but mostly it’s the prolactin. Now, for human males, sex isn’t vital for sleep. Hell, overindulging on burgers and beer is enough to knock out their lightweight asses. But for an incubus? Well, we sex demons need our prolactin cocktails. Without sex, we don’t sleep a wink.
And I haven’t had sex in over a year.
Fuck, I’m tired.
“Boss? Are you awake?”
My assistant, Bianca, hands me my second triple espresso of the evening and then neatly places a stack of papers on the desk in front of me. I stiffen as she brushes against me. Was that her breast I felt against my shoulder? No. That would never happen. My sleep-deprived brain is playing tricks on me again.
I blink my weary eyes at the paper, at the line after line of nonsensical gibberish she’s forcing me to look at. “What are these?”
She hands me my reading glasses. “Résumés for the head bartender job.” She’s all business. “Rob leaves for Europe in two weeks. You can’t put this off any longer.”
I stare at the glasses in her outstretched hand. Stupid human body. In my true form, I am a specimen of physical perfection—tall, healthy, 20/10 vision. In my human form, shit, I’m still a specimen of physical perfection, but having to disguise my demon eyes means my eyesight kinda sucks.
Bianca stares at me like I’m dense and waves the glasses under my nose. I take them and resist the urge to throw them out the window. I wonder how she’d react if I showed her what I truly look like without the dumb glasses or my human façade? As demons go, incubi are pretty standard fare. Red skin, horns, tail, cloven feet, abs you could wash your laundry on. But unlike most of demonkind, incubi are blessed with pretty faces, too. So pretty in fact that many of my incubi brethren are models here in the human realm. No, not the fashion show–type models. With their crappy vision, they’d walk off the end of the runway. But the hot guys you see in those fancy eyewear commercials? Yeah. They’re demons.
With a sigh, I slide the glasses up my nose and then reach for my coffee. The hot, bitter deliciousness slides down my throat, and it takes but a moment for the extra-strong caffeine to take effect. My mind clears, focuses. Résumés. Bartender. Check. But before I begin, I cast one last glance in Bianca’s direction and catch her adjusting her bra strap.
I stay caught.
She has her back to me. I watch her delicate fingers slide under the neckline of her shirt to fidget with the strap holding up her big, beautiful breasts. My fingers twitch, so does my cock. A few months ago, my insomnia made me stupid, made me forget to bite my tongue when she leaned over my desk and gave me a front row ticket to the best show in town. I’d blurted out, “Fuck, you have great tits.” But instead of crying or quitting or threatening to sue for sexual harassment, she’d laughed, and then she’d grinned and said, “Don’t get too excited. It’s just a really good bra.”
I’ve been dying to see that bra ever since.
She shrugs as if still uncomfortable, but stops fidgeting and straightens her collar. She’s wearing a blouse today, pale pink with little black skulls printed all over it and silver skull buttons. Metal. As. Fuck! I always love the way Bianca dresses, but I thank God especially on days like today. Yes, God. He created these wondrous beings, after all, gave them breasts. Breasts that fill out that blouse to the point I fear—hope—the buttons will burst, and they’ll spill out into the open….
I straighten in my chair and clear my throat. I don’t have time to daydream. Résumés. Bartender. So tired.
I’m Rugaal, by the way, or Ryan as I’m known here in the human realm, and this is my club, Grind. My office is conveniently located above the main-floor bathrooms, with a large glass window overlooking the dance floor and bar.
I say convenient because, as an incubus, especially one who’s not currently getting any, I require the people around me to have sex instead, and you’d be surprised how many people have sex in nightclub bathrooms. Every time someone gets some, and I mean everything from heavy petting to full-on down-and-dirty bumping uglies, a buttload of sexual energy is released into the ether, and if an incubus just happens to be nearby, thanks for the meal. And while devouring the sexual energy of others doesn’t feed me as well as having actual sex with an actual human, it’s enough to keep me alive.
Tired, but alive.
So why don’t I just have sex with someone and get a good night’s sleep?
Because thirteen months ago, I hired Bianca.
I’d skimmed over her résumé before she ever set foot in my office, so I knew she had the qualifications I required, and her letters of recommendation glowed brighter than an angel’s ass at Christmas. The job was hers. Sight unseen. But then I saw her.
And she was nothing like I’d expected.