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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, like Tell me more about yourself , and What’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 a ridiculous question 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.”

Devlin hesitated, gnawing his bottom lip, clearly debating how much to say. Finally, he settled on, “Not every sex demon enjoys having sex. For some, it’s just a means of survival.”

That sobered me real quick. Because I knew—without him saying it outright—that he was one of those demons.

He didn’t enjoy sex. He would rather have a limp pasta dick than pasta fingers. He was on vacation—not to indulge, not to feed, but to take a break from being an incubus demon. He wanted to make an emotional connection rather than just fuck someone.

Devlin doesn’t enjoy sex.

And here I was, about to force him into going down on me after this fake date, when all he really wanted was to meet someone who didn’t immediately sexualize him. Guilt curled tight in my stomach, shame whispering through my veins.

Quietly, I asked, “What about you, Devlin?”

He let out a long breath, his voice careful as he said, “I want to enjoy sex. And I think I can only do that with someone who sees me for me. Someone who likes me as a person—not just as an incubus.”

I like you, I wanted to say.

More than like, a quiet, insistent voice murmured from the depths of my mind.

But before I could gather the courage to speak—to fumble through what would inevitably be a complete disaster of a confession—Devlin continued, “And I intend to stick to the promise I made to myself—to only do what I’m comfortable with, with someone I’m comfortable with.”

My heart braced itself for the drop, for the quiet rejection I was sure would come next.

“That’s you , Jen.”

Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading like wildfire through my limbs and pooling hot in my cheeks.

Devlin’s lips curled into a wickedly seductive smile.

He leaned in, his hand reaching out to cup my cheek.

My heart pounded so hard, my ribs struggled to contain it.

His voice was pure sin, dripping with every ounce of incubus charm he possessed as he murmured, “Then I have just one question for you, little witch.”

I swallowed hard. “Anything,” I breathed, surprised to hear my own voice match his allure. “Ask me anything, Devlin.”

He paused, letting the silence simmer . Each pulse of blood in my veins heated my core, until I was convinced I might actually combust before he even got the words out.

Finally, his chest vibrating with barely contained laughter, he asked, “Would you rather have a unicorn’s horn on your forehead... or its tail on your ass?”

I glowered at him, smacking his arm gently. “Definitely the horn, so I could disembowel you for ruining the moment.”

Devlin threw his head back and laughed, full-bodied and unapologetic.

I tried— really tried—to maintain my glare, but my lips betrayed me, twitching at the corners until I was grinning like an idiot. Within seconds, I was giggling right alongside him.

“Best date I’ve ever been on,” Devlin said once his laughter finally died down.

“It’s the only date you’ve ever been on.”

He shrugged. “Still the best.”

The teasing air between us lingered—until he inhaled deeply, his expression shifting. His gaze locked onto mine, dark and intent. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, delicious rumble, thick with promise. “I think it’s my turn to hold up my end of the bargain.”