Read Online Succubus in the City by Nina Harper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nina Harper
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depressing, and suddenly I felt sad. But not for this jerk, who was trying to yodel and wake up my neighbors. I was only doing the world a good and valuable service.
“Hush!” I told him as Vincent rang for the elevator. It was a long ride to the sixth floor. I crossed my fingers and only prayed to Ishtar (because I really can’t bother Satan with these minor things) that he wouldn’t throw up. I hate it when they throw up.
The doors opened and I herded him down the hall to my door. Once he was inside he sat down heavily on the floor holding his head.
“I don’t feel too good,” he admitted.
Whoops. “Bathroom’s this way.” I pushed him up and dragged him the last few feet to the bath. I did not want this creature vomiting on my carpet. For once my luck held and I got him over the tile before he lost it. Then he groaned and sank to the floor holding his head. “Just be a minute,” he said. “You won’t be sorry, nope, gonna do you good when I feel just a little better.”
It was my own fault. I should know not to pick up drunks. Not only are they messy, but if they can’t function, I can’t deliver them. Well, maybe the next morning, but I didn’t want this puling example of unattractive humanity in my apartment that long. I wanted him blasted, flamed, and gone. And if that meant cleaning him up a bit, then so be it.
“Hey,” I said in my most chipper tone. I turned on the shower full blast and proceeded to strip in front of him. At least that got his attention. When I was down to my La Perla bra and matching thong, I leaned over him and started to tug his baby blue polo shirt over his head.
“Mmmm, up?” I lifted him under his arms, noticing that he had no definition and what might generously be thought of as athletic bulk was well on the way to fat.
“Can’t,” he protested.
“C’mon,” I said, wiggling my hips a bit to encourage him. “It’ll be fun. In the shower.”
He groped my breasts, kneading me as if trying out koosh balls in a toy store. I backed into the tub, entirely regretting my new pale pink bra with Venice lace. I’d been so pleased when I’d tried it on and now I only hoped it would survive the pummeling it was about to get.
He followed me into the tub and sat down again in his wet jeans. I hadn’t been able to get them off in the three steps from the door, and he didn’t have enough coordination to remove them himself. Which was only going to make it harder. Wet denim is impossible, and I wanted him out of those clothes before he dripped all over my hardwood floors and antique carpets.
Unless—no, it was too good to hope for.
I slipped my fingers under the waistband of his jeans and undid the buttons. They were 501s, no zipper, buttons all the way down.
He leered at me, and attempted a grin. “You can’t wait for it, can you?” he said, his arrogance entirely comparable to the major minions of Hell. Damn, I’d hate to think of him in the Hierarchy. Yuck.
Under the jeans he was wearing Tony the Tiger boxers. I am not making this up. My imagination might be prodigious, but there are just places I can’t go and Tony the Tiger boxers is one of them.
The shower was going full blast now and I had managed to leave the new lingerie on the floor and well away from the toilet (just in case). I took my prey by the hand and made a low humming sound in my throat. “Let’s get all hot and wet and slippery,” I purred in his ear as I held up a fresh bar of Provençal sage soap.
Wonder of wonders, he actually managed to hold himself upright in the spray. I soaped him all over, slipping my well-lathered hands over his chest and up his legs. I pulled off his boxers and used my fingers to stimulate him gently without expecting any results. He was too drunk, and I’d probably have to keep him until morning.
There are some decent guys out there. There are the smart ones and the kind ones, and a few who actually like and respect women. There are men who love kids and
“Hush!” I told him as Vincent rang for the elevator. It was a long ride to the sixth floor. I crossed my fingers and only prayed to Ishtar (because I really can’t bother Satan with these minor things) that he wouldn’t throw up. I hate it when they throw up.
The doors opened and I herded him down the hall to my door. Once he was inside he sat down heavily on the floor holding his head.
“I don’t feel too good,” he admitted.
Whoops. “Bathroom’s this way.” I pushed him up and dragged him the last few feet to the bath. I did not want this creature vomiting on my carpet. For once my luck held and I got him over the tile before he lost it. Then he groaned and sank to the floor holding his head. “Just be a minute,” he said. “You won’t be sorry, nope, gonna do you good when I feel just a little better.”
It was my own fault. I should know not to pick up drunks. Not only are they messy, but if they can’t function, I can’t deliver them. Well, maybe the next morning, but I didn’t want this puling example of unattractive humanity in my apartment that long. I wanted him blasted, flamed, and gone. And if that meant cleaning him up a bit, then so be it.
“Hey,” I said in my most chipper tone. I turned on the shower full blast and proceeded to strip in front of him. At least that got his attention. When I was down to my La Perla bra and matching thong, I leaned over him and started to tug his baby blue polo shirt over his head.
“Mmmm, up?” I lifted him under his arms, noticing that he had no definition and what might generously be thought of as athletic bulk was well on the way to fat.
“Can’t,” he protested.
“C’mon,” I said, wiggling my hips a bit to encourage him. “It’ll be fun. In the shower.”
He groped my breasts, kneading me as if trying out koosh balls in a toy store. I backed into the tub, entirely regretting my new pale pink bra with Venice lace. I’d been so pleased when I’d tried it on and now I only hoped it would survive the pummeling it was about to get.
He followed me into the tub and sat down again in his wet jeans. I hadn’t been able to get them off in the three steps from the door, and he didn’t have enough coordination to remove them himself. Which was only going to make it harder. Wet denim is impossible, and I wanted him out of those clothes before he dripped all over my hardwood floors and antique carpets.
Unless—no, it was too good to hope for.
I slipped my fingers under the waistband of his jeans and undid the buttons. They were 501s, no zipper, buttons all the way down.
He leered at me, and attempted a grin. “You can’t wait for it, can you?” he said, his arrogance entirely comparable to the major minions of Hell. Damn, I’d hate to think of him in the Hierarchy. Yuck.
Under the jeans he was wearing Tony the Tiger boxers. I am not making this up. My imagination might be prodigious, but there are just places I can’t go and Tony the Tiger boxers is one of them.
The shower was going full blast now and I had managed to leave the new lingerie on the floor and well away from the toilet (just in case). I took my prey by the hand and made a low humming sound in my throat. “Let’s get all hot and wet and slippery,” I purred in his ear as I held up a fresh bar of Provençal sage soap.
Wonder of wonders, he actually managed to hold himself upright in the spray. I soaped him all over, slipping my well-lathered hands over his chest and up his legs. I pulled off his boxers and used my fingers to stimulate him gently without expecting any results. He was too drunk, and I’d probably have to keep him until morning.
There are some decent guys out there. There are the smart ones and the kind ones, and a few who actually like and respect women. There are men who love kids and
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