Page 22 of Summoning Mr. Wrong (Hotter than Hell #1)

We spent the rest of the day “testing” his remaining powers, which conveniently required multiple rounds of increasingly creative sex.

The energy transfer still worked, though perhaps less intensely than before.

The tattoos still moved and could still extend onto my skin during intimate contact, creating those patterns of shared pleasure that I’d come to crave.

By evening, sprawled across my bed in pleasant exhaustion, we had a pretty good inventory of what had changed.

Deus could no longer telekinetically move objects or manifest things out of thin air (a disappointing discovery when we realized we’d run out of lube).

He couldn’t teleport, though he hadn’t tried that much in my apartment anyway.

He retained his supernatural strength, his ability to change his appearance, and his unnaturally perfect cooking skills (thank goodness).

“So basically you’re just a slightly-more-than-human boyfriend now,” I summarized, tracing patterns on his chest. “With awesome tattoos and minor supernatural abilities.”

“And bound to stay within a hundred miles of you,” he added, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm. “Which I would have done anyway.”

“A hundred miles is a pretty good range,” I pointed out. “We could even take a trip somewhere, if we wanted.”

“We could,” he agreed thoughtfully. “I haven’t been a tourist in decades. Too busy with contracts and favors.”

“What will you do now?” I asked, suddenly realizing a key practical concern. “I mean, you don’t have to fulfill the favor anymore, but you also can’t go back to… whatever you normally do between contracts.”

Deus was quiet for a moment, considering. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’ve never had a probationary period like this before. Never stayed with a summoner beyond the completion of a favor.” He glanced at me. “Any suggestions?”

I thought about it. “Well, you’re pretty good with books. Maybe you could work at the store with me? Or we could build on that graduate student backstory—you could actually take some classes, study something you’re interested in.”

“Hmm, student or bookseller,” he mused. “Both have their appeal. Or I could be a chef—I do make excellent pasta.”

“You could do anything,” I realized. “You have centuries of knowledge and experience. Plus, you’re charming when you want to be.”

“Only when I want to be?” he asked with mock offense.

I laughed, poking him in the ribs. “You know what I mean. You could do whatever makes you happy.”

He pulled me closer, his expression turning serious. “What would make me happy is being with you,” he said simply. “The rest is just details.”

The sincerity in his voice made my heart swell. “We’ll figure it out,” I promised. “We have a year.”

“A year,” he repeated. “It’s strange—for a being as old as I am, a year should feel like nothing. A blink. But thinking about a year with you… it feels significant. Precious.”

“It is precious,” I agreed, settling against his chest. “And it’s just the beginning.”

As I drifted toward sleep, wrapped in his supernatural warmth, I marveled at how completely my life had changed in the three months since that desperate ritual. I’d gone from broke and alone to employed and in love with a demon who was now my officially-contracted boyfriend.

Not the abundance I’d been trying to manifest, perhaps, but infinitely more valuable.