But I didn’t suck at crocheting. And since it was also the thing that I’d found when I needed something to do with my hands, to focus on, when my sad moments got too overwhelming, it seemed fitting that I had a day full of it to turn to.

And maybe I’d get out of my own head long enough to formulate a plan for saving my soul.

8. No Pressure …

Chapter 8

No Pressure …

SJ

I dried myself off in the Hell vent after a very long, very bubbly bath. Although, while my body felt clean, my mind felt very, very dirty.

Three back-to-back orgasms, all while picturing her round buttocks peeking out of that red thing. And then a fourth, which was now seared into my memory. Those girls on her shirt—the spicy ones—were seared into my brain, her tits straining against them.

I banged my horns against the lava stone. Sparks jetted across the room with each thunk.

“You (thunk) are not (thunk) supposed (thunk) to find the (thunk) humans (thunk) erotic (thunk), you stupid, stupid devil,” I muttered.

Thunk.

Having chastised myself thoroughly, I tugged on my breeches, replaying the whole interlude with Jemma Bliss.

I thought, somewhat vindictively, that Jemma Bliss had no idea what she was talking about when it came to the ‘special downstairs extras’ of the Lucifer family. I could fuck my way through a dozen orgasms without stopping, and she would never get to experience the pleasure of that particular ‘dick trick’.

And then there was the other ‘trick’ …

She thought she was so clever, getting the final word in, while I was too shocked to respond after hearing her say ‘Satan’s cock’ in that cheeky, purring tone. I would show her. Every defiant word from her only made me more determined to torment her mercilessly before I finally took all of her soul for myself …

Well, for Hell. Not for me.

I left the springs, heading back in the direction of my chambers. I needed to brainstorm with the Hounds. We had a lot of planning to do, considering last night had been very much a fly-by-the-seats-of-our-pants experience. I hadn’t the foggiest what I would do with Jemma Bliss, to make her think she had a chance to earn her soul back without it ever truly being possible.

I needed to know more about her. What really made her tick—besides an addiction to boxes with grapes on them and donuts coated with delicious crunchy grains. I needed to know what things would humiliate, or anger, or upset her.

And I had to use them against her.

My pocket burned against my thigh. With a hiss, I reached in, drawing out the Soul Token with the very tips of my claws. It pulsed, hot pink, then white, then hot pink again.