Chapter 208: Empty Casino, Oiled Demon Girl

"Got a hoard to defend. Got a woman to publicly demolish, honestly its a standard day for me, really."

Lyra makes a noise that’s somewhere between amused and unconscious, already drifting back down, and I let her, content just to lie there feeling her breathe against me, cataloguing the exact rhythm of it, filing it away next to everything else I’ve already collected off her.

[System: You gonna lie there sniffing your girlfriend all morning, or are we doing this casino thing?]

Give me five more minutes.

[System: You said that four minutes ago.]

Then give me one more minute, Old Mate, Jesus.

He doesn’t answer, which I take as tacit approval, and I stay right where I am, smoke curling lazily over the both of us, one more stone quietly settling into the pile.

The satisfaction is a physical thing, curling in my chest and down my spine. I savour it, then let myself sprawl next to her, smoke tail wrapping around her waist just for the hell of it.

"What’s the problem? You seemed to like it last night." I wriggle my eyebrows, or at least try to. Not sure if I have those anymore.

She groans louder and buries her head under a pillow. "You’re a menace," comes the muffled reply. "Why does your tongue have fingers? Who thought that was fair?"

I grin, letting my fangs show a little. "Evolution, babe. Nature finds a way."

She surfaces again, just her nose and eyes peeking out from under the pillow, and stares at me for a long moment. Then she does something unexpected: she smiles. Not a smirk, not a predatory grin, just a soft, tired, real smile that makes my chest go all weird and tight.

"You’re such a freak," she says, but there’s a warmth in it, like she’s saying it just for the two of us.

[System: Adorable. But we got a schedule, remember? Gotta prep for the opening tomorrow!]

I sigh theatrically and roll off the bed, landing light as air and not bothering to hide the fact that I’m floating a foot above the carpet. "Duty calls," I say, then flick her gently with the tip of my tail. "Shower’s yours first, if you can crawl that far."

She flips me off with a limp hand, then immediately tucks it back under her chin and closes her eyes again, already half asleep.

I don’t leave footprints anymore. No need for towels, either, but I grab one anyway because the memory of old routines is hard to shake. I swat it over my head, watch it settle, then coil around the edge of the shower like a boa constrictor trying to learn how plumbing works.

I crank the water up as hot as it’ll go. There’s something about the hiss of steam and the smell of hotel shampoo that makes me feel fully alive. I let the water play over my coils, watching the weird way it beads and runs off my scales. There’s no logical reason for a snake-boy to need a shower, but it’s one of the only leftover rituals from my human life that makes sense. The rest being coffee.

Halfway through lathering up, and yes, I use the fancy stuff; yes, I’m a degenerate, I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do today before the opening.

By the time I’m dry, or as dry as a floating smoke snake gets, the answer to that question walks itself into the room wearing nothing but a towel and an expression like she already knows she’s in trouble.

Cherry’s horns are twitching; that’s a bad sign or a good sign. Both, honestly; it depends on how you look at it.

"You said the casino’s empty today," she says, not quite meeting my eyes, fingers white-knuckled on the towel like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor.

"Empty as a politician’s promise." I let my tail uncoil off the bed, drift lazily through the air toward her. "Lyra’s sleeping today. Staff don’t come in till tomorrow; we get the whole floor to ourselves."

Her breath hitches. I hear it, filed and catalogued before I even register doing it, another little data point stacked on the pile marked Cherry in whatever weird mental vault I keep her in. Heart rate ticking up. Pupils doing that thing where the colour bleeds from soft pink to something deeper.

"So." I let the word hang there, cold and flat, mafia-boss voice sliding into place like a mask I’ve worn so many times it barely feels like acting anymore. "Get dressed all pretty in your favourite lingerie, and I’ll meet you at the elevator."

Cherry nods her beautiful head and replies with a "Mhm."

She takes about fifteen minutes, which in Cherry-time probably means she changed her mind four times and put everything back on the exact same way. When the elevator doors slide open and she steps out into the hallway, I forget how to form words for a solid three seconds.

She’s oiled up, somehow, skin catching the hallway light as she rubbed herself down in something expensive and shiny, and the lingerie is criss-crossed red and black straps pulled so tight I genuinely worry about her circulation. Garter belt matching. Heels matching, and her broken horn stumps twitching away like they’ve got their own heartbeat.

She’s blushing so hard it’s practically a heat signature.

"You good?" I ask, even though I already know the answer, because watching her squirm is half the fun.

"I’m fine," she says, voice already dipping lower than usual, and she’s not looking at me; she’s looking at the floor like the carpet pattern is the most interesting thing in the building.

I drift closer instead of answering, because words are overrated right now, and I lean in right at the curve of her neck and just breathe her in. Deep and slow. Filing it away, same as everything else, except this one hits different, sharper, like her whole body is broadcasting on a frequency only I can pick up.

She moans. Quiet, almost swallowed, but I catch it anyway.

I chuckle, low, right against her skin. "Easy, my love."

Smoke curls off my shoulder before I even decide to do it, a thin tendril winding out and around her throat, gentle at first, then not so gentle, cinching down into something shaped exactly like a collar. A little chain follows, dangling off the front, and I give it the smallest tug.

"Mine," I whisper.