Succubus On Top by Richelle Mead Page B

while, but sleep proved more elusive for me this time, as I turned over his words. I thought about someone breaking his heart and wondered if I’d be the next culprit, intentionally or otherwise.
    When sleep came, I immediately dropped into a steamy dream in which Seth and I were having mad, passionate sex. He’d tied my hands to my bedposts, and naturally, he was huge. Each thrust made my headboard bang against the wall, so much so that my neighbors complained.
    I woke up with a start, suddenly thinking being so entwined with him wasn’t such a great idea. Of course, I was apparently the only one who had a problem with it. Seth slept on peacefully and heavily, like I wasn’t even there, no doubt having properly chaste dreams. A paradigm of virtue and resolve.
    I watched him for a long time, admiring the way the soft lighting fell across his features. The fit muscles of his upper body. Eyelashes I wished I could have had as a mortal. Biting my lip, I resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. It was lust and something else, something that just wanted to be close to him. It scared me. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who could walk away from this with a broken heart.
    I wiggled my own weak self away to the other side of the bed, putting what space I could between us. As I lay there, my back to him, Aubrey jumped up and lay next to my stomach. I stroked her black-speckled white head and sighed.
    â€œThey were all wrong, Aub,” I whispered. “There’s at least one guy in this world not trying to get laid.”

Chapter 6
    O ne thing about working in a bookstore is you have immediate access to print media:

    Nocturnal Admission is a treat for the senses, one of those rare jewels that emerges from the dark obscurity of small clubs and restaurants. Of course, after last night’s performance at the Verona, it’s unlikely they’ll be playing shoddy venues again. Nocturnal Admission is well on its way to becoming a household name—not only at the local level, but the national one as well.

    The opening staff and I oohed and aahed over the concert review in the Seattle Times , all of us clustering around the information desk, rereading our favorite quotes over and over. The writer had even provided a few words of Doug’s bio—after several other lines praising his voice and onstage persona—adding that he worked at a “local bookstore.” We loved that; the nondescript reference almost made us feel like celebrities too.
    I let them chat on a bit longer, reveling in my own pride and pleasure for Doug, before finally breaking things up. “All right, kids, I hate to crack the whip, but I see customers at the door.”
    They dispersed reluctantly, but I saw Andy smirking when he thought I didn’t notice him whispering something to Casey. The only word I caught was “whip.” Charming. One would think having a dominatrix reputation would at least make me a more formidable authority figure, rather than a source of ridicule.
    And today, I was the only authority figure. Paige was out sick again, so I had to unofficially work both her job and my own. At least the staff was in good form despite the late night, which made things easier.
    Casey seemed unaffected by last night, which I found remarkable. Maybe it was the resilience of youth. After drinking and smoking that much, I doubted I’d have been in as good a shape as she was—and I had the advantage of supernatural healing and recovery. My misgivings about Alec must have been premature, I decided, considering what a good mood she appeared to be in.
    She smiled every time I saw her during the day and was always ready with a friendly comment to customers and coworkers alike. When I stopped by to take something from a neighboring register, I heard a customer ask her if she knew offhand whether his books would total under twentyfive dollars or not. She flipped through the stack expertly and had an