Page 4 of Summoning Mr. Wrong (Hotter than Hell #1)

Work was a disaster. I broke a mug, messed up three orders, and nearly burned myself twice because I couldn’t stop thinking about my new roommate situation. What was Deus doing in my apartment? Rearranging furniture? Summoning more demons? Going through my browser history?

Oh god, my browser history.

By the time my shift ended, I was a nervous wreck. I practically ran the four blocks home, taking the stairs two at a time despite my apartment being on the fifth floor (the elevator hadn’t worked since the Obama administration).

I burst through the door, out of breath, and stopped short.

My apartment was… clean. Not just tidy, but actually clean. The floor had been vacuumed, the dishes washed, the sad collection of plants watered. It smelled like lemon furniture polish and something delicious cooking.

Deus emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron. An actual apron, over his black jeans and t-shirt. “You’re home! Perfect timing. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I stood in the doorway, keys still in hand. “You… cleaned? And cooked?”

“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve been around for millennia. Picked up a few skills.” He gestured for me to come in. “Hope you like pasta. I had to improvise with what you had, which wasn’t much. Seriously, do you only eat ramen and cereal?”

“I’m on a budget,” I said defensively, following him into the kitchen.

My tiny kitchen table was set with actual plates (where did those come from?) and a bottle of wine I definitely didn’t own.

“Where did—”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Deus said with a wink, serving up plates of pasta that looked and smelled like actual restaurant food.

I sat down cautiously. “Is this… safe to eat? No weird demon ingredients or anything?”

He rolled his eyes. “If I wanted to corrupt your soul, I wouldn’t use pasta.” He sat across from me. “It’s just garlic, olive oil, and the sad little bits of vegetables I found in your fridge.”

I took a tentative bite and couldn’t hold back a moan of appreciation. It was delicious.

“Good, right?” Deus looked smug.

“Okay, yes, it’s amazing,” I admitted. “But this doesn’t change anything. We still need to figure out how to get you back to… wherever.”

“Not happening until I complete the favor.” He sipped the wine. “Just enjoy the perks of having a demon roommate in the meantime.”

After dinner, Deus insisted on watching a movie, claiming he needed to “study contemporary human culture.” Which is how I ended up sitting on my couch next to a demon, watching The Devil Wears Prada (his choice, ironically).

“Meryl Streep is not an accurate representation of demonic authority figures,” he commented, sprawled comfortably beside me. “Our bosses are much worse.”

“You have bosses?” I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.

“Of course. Supernatural bureaucracy makes your human versions look efficient.” He stretched, his arm casually extending along the back of the couch behind me. “The paperwork for this summoning alone will take a century to process.”

I was acutely aware of how close he was, how his body seemed to radiate heat. The tattoos on his exposed forearms continued to shift and move, hypnotic in the blue light from the TV.

“What do the tattoos mean?” I found myself asking.

Deus glanced down at his arms. “They’re my history. Every assignment, every era, every significant moment.” He held out his arm. “See this one? Pompeii, 79 AD. Bad timing on my part.”

I leaned closer, fascinated despite myself. The tattoo was moving, showing tiny figures running from what looked like a volcanic eruption.

“You were at Pompeii?”

“I get around.” He grinned. “Been everywhere, seen everything. Perks of the job.”

“And what exactly is your job? Besides annoying humans and stealing their cereal?”

“I’m in the desire business,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Helping people figure out what they really want. Sometimes what they need.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. His amber eyes seemed to glow brighter in the dimness of my living room.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced abruptly, standing up. This conversation was heading into dangerous territory. “You can… I don’t know, do whatever demons do at night.”

“Usually I’d go find someone to tempt into sin,” he said casually, “but I’m feeling lazy tonight. Mind if I use your shower?”

Before I could answer, he was already heading toward the bathroom. I heard the water start running a moment later.

I retreated to my bedroom, changing quickly into sleep shorts and a t-shirt. The events of the day caught up with me all at once, and exhaustion hit like a truck. I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of my life.

I have a demon in my shower. A hot, tattooed demon who cooks pasta and watches Meryl Streep movies.

The sound of the shower running was oddly soothing, and I felt my eyes growing heavy. Then the water shut off, and a few minutes later, I heard humming from the bathroom. Curious, I crept to my partially open bedroom door and peeked out.

The bathroom door was ajar, steam billowing out.

Through the gap, I could see Deus, a towel slung low on his hips, using another towel to dry his hair.

His back was to me, giving me a perfect view of the tattooed expanse of his shoulders and back, the defined muscles moving under his skin.

The tattoos were more active now, swirling and shifting rapidly.

I should have looked away. I should have closed my door and gone to bed.

I didn’t.

Deus dropped the towel he was using on his hair and reached for something on the sink. The movement made the towel around his waist slip dangerously lower, revealing the dimples at the base of his spine and the beginning curve of his ass.

Then he turned slightly, and I realized what he was reaching for. He’d found my bottle of lotion, and he was now slowly applying it to his chest and arms, his hands moving in long, deliberate strokes over his skin.

My mouth went dry.

His reflection caught my eye in the bathroom mirror, and a knowing smile curved his lips. He knew I was watching. Of course he knew.

Still maintaining eye contact through the mirror, he let the towel drop completely.

I made a small, strangled sound and stumbled back from my door, heart pounding. I heard his low chuckle from the bathroom.

“Sweet dreams, Julian,” he called out.

I dove under my covers, mortified and inexplicably aroused. Sleep was going to be impossible now, with the mental image of naked, wet Deus burned into my retinas.

I lay there, trying to think about anything else—tax forms, my student loan debt, that weird mole on my back I should probably get checked—but my traitorous mind kept returning to those shifting tattoos, that knowing smile, the way water droplets had traced paths down his chest.

This is insane. He’s a literal demon. Not boyfriend material. Not even hookup material. Dangerous, immortal, probably eat-your-soul-for-breakfast material.

But my body wasn’t listening to these very reasonable concerns. Under the covers, I was embarrassingly hard.

I waited, listening carefully. The apartment had gone quiet. Deus was presumably done in the bathroom, but where was he sleeping? I hadn’t thought to ask. The couch, probably. Or maybe demons didn’t sleep.

After what felt like an eternity, I cautiously slipped a hand beneath my shorts, hating myself a little but too turned on to care. I closed my eyes, trying to think of anything but Deus as I wrapped my fingers around myself.

It didn’t work. All I could see was amber eyes, moving tattoos, that infuriating smirk. I bit my lip to keep quiet as I stroked myself, imagining what might have happened if I hadn’t retreated to my room. If I’d stepped into the bathroom instead.

Would his skin be hot to the touch? Would those tattoos move faster under my fingers? Would he taste like smoke and cinnamon?

My pace quickened, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I was close, embarrassingly close, after just a few minutes.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside my room, and I froze, hand still down my shorts. Was he listening? Could demons sense… this kind of thing?

The thought should have killed the mood. Instead, it pushed me over the edge. I came with a muffled groan, shoving my face into my pillow to stifle the sound, my body shuddering with release.

As the pleasure subsided, mortification took its place. I’d just jerked off thinking about the demon in my apartment, who could very possibly sense exactly what I was doing.

Great job, Julian. Day one of demon summoning, and you’re already a walking cliché.

I cleaned up quickly with tissues from my nightstand, then buried myself under the covers, determined to fall asleep and pretend none of this had happened.

Tomorrow, I’d figure out how to get rid of Deus. Or at least establish some serious boundaries. Like “no dropping towels” and “no being supernaturally hot” and “no making me question my life choices more than I already do.”

Simple, right?