The Ring

Chapter 6: Jaerinn

The ring wants me to materialize. It's doing everything it can to force me, but I'm not going to just pop up in front of this lone woman in her apartment and scare her half to death.

Sweet Asmodeus, I hate being an incubus.

When she slips the ring on a chain and it settles between her soft breasts, I can practically hear the ring mocking me. Taunting me.

She steps into the bathroom, and I resolutely refuse to follow, instead hanging like a little black raincloud in her kitchen to wait out this mini drama that I am now certain the ring has orchestrated on my behalf. It's never fallen off before in all my long years. I may look young by human standards, but I've been around for a very long time. And nothing, I mean nothing, like this has ever happened before. I've been bearer of this ring for over 500 years.

What the actual fuck, dude?

It continues to mock me from the shower and when her soapy hands slide over her round, firm breasts, her fingers caressing the stiff peaks of her nipples, I hit the kitchen linoleum with a resounding thump. Shit. I couldn't keep it together enough to remain incorporeal. Now, my physical form is sprawled across her kitchen floor, and I can't dematerialize again. Believe me, I keep trying.

There's no way to hide a six-foot-two incubus body in this tiny apartment.

The shower shuts off and I hold my breath, not moving, still splayed on the floor. I release a slow exhale when the water clunks back on with a screeching groan and push myself off the floor. I dust my hands and look around the neat and tidy kitchen, recognizing the same meticulous order she maintains at the tavern.

I groan against the throb in my undercarriage as the ring telegraphs a play-by-play of Clara's every move in the shower and I shudder, attempting to block it from my mind. Instead, I distract myself by poking through her things.

She has a bookcase. In her kitchen. Who does that?

It's full of cookbooks as well as other tomes related to food, food science, kitchen gadgetry, and other kitchen related topics. She has an entire textbook on the history and science of chocolate. My teeth tug at my bottom lip and my eyes unfocus as my fingers trace my hardening length. Tendrils of lust unfurl from my body as I lift the book from the shelf and flip it open somewhere towards the middle. The pages are worn and stained in places. One page has a dark blotch on the corner, and I lift it to my face, sniffing.

The smell of books and chocolate hit me with concussive force. I give an experimental lick to the page. Dark. Sweet. Intoxicating. Arousing.

The page details the process for making chocolate, bean to bar. Penciled notes in a tiny, neat hand embellish the margins enumerating multiple attempts, with a final re-worked and edited version claiming the best result. Clearly, she doesn't keep these books for a sense of homey décor.

As my eyes scan the page, I become immersed in the details of the process. With the open book balanced on one hand, my other loosens my breeches to stroke myself; I've never been this hard.

Sudden silence crashes in on me as I realize the shower has stopped. Fuck. If she walks into her kitchen right now, Clara will find me getting off to her books and I will never live this down; never.

With a cringe-inducing pop, I slap the book shut and jam it back onto the shelf, then stuff my protesting dick back into my pants. Sweet Asmodeus, I think I'm learning some things about myself here.

With all the stealth I can muster, I press against the wall near the kitchen door and peek out. Soft, padding footsteps from the hallway pace back and forth and the groan and slam of wooden drawers come through the open bedroom door.

I creep out into the living space and for the first time, look around. Simple furnishings are crammed between more bookshelves. Not just the kitchen then. I'd love nothing more than to peruse these shelves, but the tug of the Ring drags me toward the bedroom.

Gods dammit. This whole thing was a huge mistake.

I slip down the short hall, really just a corridor between the bathroom and the bedroom, and lean into the wall so I can't be seen through the still open doorway. Once again, I try to dematerialize, only to feel the mocking gloat from the Ring. Damn, cursed jewelry.

Eyes closed, I drop my head back against the wall and think. If she sees me, I'm done. Maybe I can just sleep on the sofa and try to explain tomorrow. When she wakes up and finds me in her living room. Like a fucking creep.

A rush of tingles reverberates though my body and my dick goes hard. Shit. She's holding the Ring again.