Chapter 5
Later that evening, after the golden caduceus has been mysteriously “returned” to the Federal Reserve (with a small demonic memory adjustment for the security guards), we have our first official “date.”
I insist on doing things properly, so I conjure appropriate attire—a tailored black suit that accommodates my wings should they manifest unexpectedly—and make reservations at what online reviews assure me is the finest restaurant in the city.
“You look… wow,” Finn says when I emerge from the bathroom in my suit. His eyes travel from my carefully styled hair (the horn nubs now appearing as fashionable, avant-garde hair accessories) down to my polished shoes.
“Is this acceptable human courting attire?” I ask, unnecessarily adjusting my cufflinks.
“Very acceptable,” he confirms, looking down at his own outfit—smart casual slacks and a blue button-down that brings out his eyes. “I feel underdressed now.”
“You look perfect,” I say before I can stop myself, the sincerity in my voice surprising us both.
The restaurant is elegant—soft lighting, linen tablecloths, attentive staff. I’ve arranged for the best table, of course, and ordered champagne in advance. Finn seems both impressed and slightly overwhelmed by the formality.
“This is… really fancy,” he whispers after we’re seated. “You didn’t have to go all out like this.”
“I told you I intended to court you properly.”
He smiles, shaking his head slightly. “I would have been happy with takeout on the couch, you know.”
“We do that every night,” I point out. “This is special.”
His expression softens. “Yeah, it is.”
The meal progresses pleasantly. I discover that I enjoy watching Finn experience the elaborate dishes, his expressive face registering each new flavor with unguarded enthusiasm.
He asks me questions about Hell (“Is it really all fire and brimstone?” “Only the tourist areas.”), and I find myself sharing stories I’ve never told anyone—about the beauty of the obsidian spires in my domain, the strange phosphorescent gardens, the music of the shadow orchestras.
In turn, he tells me about growing up in a small town, always knowing he wanted to work with animals, the struggle to open his own clinic and keep it running on limited funds.
“Most people thought I was crazy to open a nonprofit clinic in that neighborhood,” he explains. “But that’s where the need was greatest. People who can’t afford regular vet care still love their pets just as much.”
“Your compassion is… unusual,” I observe. “Most humans I’ve encountered are primarily self-serving.”
“Maybe you’ve been meeting the wrong humans,” he suggests. “Or maybe they’re just the ones who end up in Hell.”
“A fair point,” I concede.
As the evening progresses, I notice a change in the atmosphere between us.
The conversation flows easily, but there’s an underlying current of tension—not unpleasant, but charged with anticipation.
Finn’s eyes linger on mine longer than necessary.
My hand brushes his “accidentally” when reaching for the wine.
By dessert, the tension is palpable. When he licks chocolate from his lips, I find it impossible to look away.
“So,” he says as we wait for the check, “this was really nice. Very… successful courting, I’d say.”
“The evening isn’t over,” I point out. “Unless you wish it to be.”
His cheeks flush slightly. “I definitely don’t want it to be over.”
The walk home seems both interminable and too short. We don’t speak much, but our hands brush against each other until, with uncharacteristic hesitation, I take his in mine. His fingers intertwine with my larger ones, a small point of connection that somehow feels monumental.
When we reach the apartment, there’s a moment of awkwardness as we stand in the living room, the weight of possibility hanging between us.
“Would you like—” I begin.
“I really want—” he starts at the same time.
We both stop. Finn laughs softly, then steps closer, looking up at me with determined eyes.
“I really want to kiss you again,” he says. “Properly this time.”
“I would find that acceptable,” I reply, my voice rougher than intended.
He grins. “Wow, contain your enthusiasm.”
Before I can formulate a more appropriate response, he rises on his tiptoes, places his hands on my shoulders for balance, and presses his lips to mine.
This kiss is nothing like the brief contact from earlier. This is deliberate, exploratory. His lips are soft but insistent against mine, and when I respond—wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him—he makes a small sound of approval that sends heat coursing through me.
The kiss deepens naturally, his tongue tentatively tracing my lower lip until I grant access, my free hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. He tastes like chocolate and champagne, and something uniquely him that I find instantly addictive.
When we finally part, his breathing is uneven, pupils dilated, lips slightly swollen. He looks… magnificent.
“Wow,” he breathes. “That was…”
“Acceptable?” I suggest with a raised eyebrow.
He laughs, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. “Way better than acceptable. That was… demonic in the best possible way.”
I can feel my wings straining to manifest—a physical response to emotional intensity I’m still learning to control. “Would you like to continue this… exploration?”
His eyes darken further. “Yes. Definitely yes.”
We move to the bedroom—his bedroom, which I’ve respectfully avoided until now. It’s simply furnished but comfortable, with a large bed that dominates the space. Finn turns on a small lamp, casting the room in soft golden light.
There’s a moment of uncertainty as we stand beside the bed, the reality of what we’re about to do settling over us.
“I haven’t done this in… a while,” Finn admits, fingers working at his shirt buttons with unusual clumsiness. “And never with a, you know, Duke of Hell.”
“I have certain advantages in this area,” I inform him, gently moving his hands aside to unbutton his shirt myself. “Centuries of experience, enhanced stamina, detailed knowledge of human pleasure points…”
He laughs, the sound trailing off into a soft intake of breath as I push his shirt off his shoulders. “That sounds… promising.”
“I intend to be very thorough,” I promise, bending to place a kiss on the newly exposed skin of his shoulder.
His hands come up to my suit jacket, pushing it off before starting on my shirt buttons. “Can I see them?” he asks quietly. “Your wings?”
The request surprises me. “You want to see my true form?”
He nods, fingers pausing on my half-unbuttoned shirt. “I want to see you. The real you.”
Something profound and unfamiliar moves through me at his words. No one has ever asked to see my true form out of desire rather than fear or necessity.
I step back slightly, focusing my energy, and allow my form to shift. My skin darkens to its natural obsidian, horns extending to their full impressive curve, and my wings unfurl behind me, stretching nearly wall to wall in the modest bedroom.
Finn’s eyes widen, but not in fear. In wonder.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, reaching out tentatively. “Can I touch them? Your wings?”
I extend one wing forward in silent permission. His fingers make contact with the leathery surface, tracing one of the prominent veins with gentle curiosity. The sensation is shockingly intimate—wings are sensitive appendages rarely touched by others.
“They’re warm,” he observes, continuing his exploration. “And softer than they look.”
His touch sends currents of pleasure through me, and I can’t suppress a low rumble of appreciation that seems to emanate from deep in my chest.
“Did you just… purr?” Finn asks with a grin.
“Absolutely not,” I growl, embarrassed. “That was a… demonic expression of approval.”
“Uh-huh. Sounded like a purr to me.” His grin widens. “Some things never change, cat or demon.”
To silence his teasing, I pull him against me and capture his mouth in a fierce kiss. He responds immediately, arms wrapping around my neck, body pressing against mine. The sensation of his warm skin against my cooler demonic form is electrifying.
We move to the bed, my wings carefully folding to accommodate the space. I lay him down with deliberate gentleness, hovering above him to admire the sight—his flushed skin, tousled hair, the rise and fall of his chest.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he complains, reaching for my partially unbuttoned shirt.
I smile, finishing what he started, unbuttoning the shirt completely and shrugging it off. His eyes roam appreciatively over my exposed torso, taking in the obsidian skin that seems to absorb light, the subtle patterns etched into it like ancient runes.
“Definitely not a normal human,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace one of the patterns on my chest. “Definitely not complaining.”
I bend to kiss him again, deeper this time, more demanding. His hands explore my back, carefully avoiding the sensitive wing joints, while mine work at the fastenings of his pants. When my fingers brush against the obvious hardness beneath the fabric, he gasps into my mouth.
“Too fast?” I ask, pausing.
“No,” he breathes. “Not fast enough.”
That’s all the encouragement I need. I help him out of his remaining clothes, then remove my own, until we’re both naked on the bed, skin against skin, nothing between us.
I take my time exploring his body, mapping every inch with hands and mouth.
I discover the sensitive spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the ticklish area along his ribs, the way his breath catches when I kiss the inside of his wrist. Each reaction is catalogued, each sound of pleasure committed to memory.
When I finally take him in my mouth, he arches off the bed with a sharp cry, fingers tangling in my hair, careful even in his pleasure to avoid my horns.
“Morax,” he gasps, “that’s—oh god—”