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And on a date, people asked questions.

They got to know each other first.

All I had to do was keep it simple. Start with something casual, maybe ease into something a little more flirty. Set the mood. And once we’d built up the tension—once the atmosphere had been properly guided into the right kind of anticipation—then we could move on to something physical.

Unfortunately, my brain had other plans.

The second I tried to conjure a sensible first-date question, my mind immediately purged itself of anything remotely useful. And Devlin—still watching me in that weirdly endearing trance of his—wasn’t exactly rushing to fill the silence.

Panic set in.

With absolutely nothing left in my arsenal of reasonable, sane-person icebreakers, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out: “Would you rather have cooked spaghetti for fingers... or cooked spaghetti for a dick?”

Nailed it, a sarcastic voice snapped from the depths of my mind.

My treacherous mind suddenly flooded with all the questions I should have asked, likeTell me more about yourself, andWhat’s your favorite book?But no! I had to ask a sex demon if he would consider having limp spaghetti for a dick.

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

To my complete and utter surprise, Devlin threw his head back and laughed. A deep, rumbling, genuine laugh that creased the corners of his eyes and settled around me like a warm, fuzzy glow.

Well, seduction might be off the table, but if I could make him laugh like that, I’d take it as a win.

Finally, still chuckling, Devlin shook his head and asked, “Do I still have spaghetti fingers when I shift into whatever vision is most attractive to my partner?”

I gulped.Follow-up questions?

“Well, of course,” I said, as if it were obvious. “Otherwise, it’d be aridiculousquestion to ask.”

His lips curled into a soft, bemused smile. “Okay... can I wear gloves?”

I shrugged. “If you think you can shove your limp spaghetti fingers into a glove, then sure, be my guest.”

Devlin fell into deep thought, his brows furrowing like this was the most important decision he’d ever made. “Do my spaghetti appendages still have full functionality?”

I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. “I’m afraid they function as nothing more than... well, limp, over-boiled pasta.”

He nodded solemnly.

I glanced down at my imaginary wristwatch and tapped it. “I’m going to need an answer, Devlin.”

He let out a long breath, then, with absolute conviction, said, “I think I’ll go with the limp spaghetti dick.”

I barked out a laugh, but Devlin’s features remained completely serious.

“You—a sex demon—would rather have limp spaghetti for a dick than for fingers?” I asked, still half expecting him to crack.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said with a casual shrug.

I fought the urge to giggle. “You’re gonna have to elaborate on that.”

Devlin tilted his head, as if the answer was painfully obvious. “Well, I don’t think I’d attract many partners if I had slimy pasta fingers. Therefore,” he continued, “having a functional dick would be a moot point. Besides”—he flexed his fingers, his voice dipping into a low, velvety rumble—“I don’t need penetrative sex to feed.” His eyes darkened, and suddenly, the playful absurdity of our conversation melted into something entirely different. “I can draw out my partner’s desire just as effectively with my fingers.” Heat cracked through my spine. “And my tongue.” A slow, devilish grin flashed across his face.

It took every ounce of restraint not to throw myself across the blanket and demand an immediate demonstration of said fingers and tongue. Instead, I somehow managed to say, “I can’t believe any incubus demon would choose celibacy over pasta fingers.”

“You’d be surprised. One of my best friends has been celibate for the last few years—at least, in terms of penetrative sex.”

My brows shot up. “But... he’s a sex demon.”