Succubus On Top by Richelle Mead Page A

heard this conversation, I’d be accused of more boring geekiness.
    Seth and I finally went to bed on the verge of hysterics, both of us still giggling once we were wrapped up in my covers.
    â€œYou smell good,” I told him, my face close to his neck. “What cologne is that?”
    He stifled a yawn. “I don’t wear cologne. Too strong.” “You must.” I pressed my face closer.
    â€œHey, be careful. You’re giving me funny ideas.”
    He had skin and sweat smells unique to him and him alone, deliriously delicious. With that, however, was a faint scent of something else. Almost like apples, but not in a girly, boutique sort of way. It was fleeting and lovely, mingled with musk and soft leather.
    â€œNo, it’s something. You must. Is it your deodorant?”
    â€œOh,” he mumbled, yawning again. “I bet it’s this soap Andrea and Terry got me. Came as part of some set.”
    â€œMmm. It’s perfect.” It made me want to eat his neck—among other things. “You know, you still owe me pancakes. I think I could go for . . . apple cinnamon ones now.”
    â€œApple cinnamon? You sure are demanding.”
    â€œIt’s all right. I think you’re man enough for it.”
    â€œThetis, if I actually believed you had either apples or cinnamon in your kitchen, I’d make them for you right now.”
    I didn’t answer. I was pretty sure I had some year-old Apple Jacks, but that was about it.
    Seth gave a low laugh at my silence and then kissed my temple. “I don’t know how anyone could think you were Genevieve. I couldn’t make up someone like you in a thousand years.”
    I considered that, not entirely sure if it was a compliment or not. “How do you come up with your characters then?”
    He laughed again. “If I didn’t know any better—and I’m sure I do—I’d say that sounds suspiciously like ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’”
    I blushed in the darkness. When he and I had first met, I’d taken a haughty high ground over that question, making fun of the fans that so often asked him that.
    â€œHey, it’s a totally different question.”
    I could sense his amusement as he contemplated an answer. Part of the reason he stumbled in conversation sometimes was because he didn’t like to blurt things out. He chose his words carefully.
    â€œThey come from my head, I guess. The stories too. They live there, screaming to get out. If I didn’t write them down, they’d eat me up. Give me less of a grip on the real world than I already have.”
    â€œNot that I’m complaining . . . but, if there’s so much inside, do you even need to care about the real world?”
    â€œWell, that’s the paradox. The stories are born in my head, but my inner self is fueled by my outer self. Symbiotic relationship of sorts. The stories’ ideas wouldn’t come if I didn’t have experiences to draw on. Jealousy. Love. Lust. Anger. Heartache. All that stuff.”
    Something pulled inside of me. “You had your heart broken much?”
    He paused. “Of course. Everyone does. Part of life.”
    â€œTell me her name. I’ll kick her ass. I don’t want anyone hurting you.”
    He rested his face against my hair, his tone even and gentle when he spoke. “You’re wondrous and powerful and gifted, but even you can’t save me from hurting. No one can do that for anyone. I can make things perfect in the fictions I create, but the real world isn’t so kind. That’s just how it is. And anyway, for every bad thing in life, there are more good things to tip the balance.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike little blond nieces. And royalty checks. And you.” I sighed and relaxed into him. His grip on me shifted into something more comfortable, and in a few minutes he was asleep. Amazing.
    I lay snuggled with him for a