More rules

The incubus didn’t touch her—not yet. But his presence was everywhere, like heat rising from stone. His gaze swept down her body slowly, reverently, as if memorizing every bare inch. She owns this moment now, he thought, and fuck, that makes it even hotter.

He turned toward the window, pulling a chair out with one hand. “Sit,” he said—then corrected himself with a low chuckle, “unless you prefer to pace like a queen ready to be worshipped.”

Lila didn’t move. Not at first. Her heart pounded beneath her ribs like a drum heralding war. Her body still burned, alive with the tension of power claimed but not yet wielded. She wanted—gods, she wanted—but not yet. Not before she knew.

Instead, she crossed to the window and leaned against the sill, cock hanging full now between her thighs, her nipples tight from the room’s subtle chill and the incubus’s not-so-subtle attention. “Start with limits,” she said coolly, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the glass. “What can’t I write?”

The incubus reclined slightly, one knee bent, his posture deceptively casual. But his hands gripped the arms of the chair too tightly to keep up the act. “You can’t write what doesn’t already exist within you. The journal draws from your instincts, not invention. If you can’t feel it, you can’t **** it.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “So I couldn’t write myself wings?”

“You could,” he said slowly. “But only if you ache to fly. Only if it’s a hunger you’ve tasted in your bones.”

Lila let that settle, eyes drifting back to the book on the desk. So it’s not just about what I want. It’s about what I need. What I ache for. What burns under my skin when I close my eyes.

“And if I try to cheat?”

The incubus grinned. “It’ll bite. Twists the words. The more powerful the spell, the more literal the interpretation. Say you write ‘He will love me forever’—”

“—and he drops dead the moment he says it,” she finished, voice dry.

He laughed. “Exactly. Or worse. Love is just a word. The journal only gives it meaning through the hunger that feeds it.”

His voice dropped lower. “But if you write from the center of your need—deep, wet, unfiltered—it will obey you with the devotion of a lover.”

Lila shifted slightly against the sill, pressing her thighs together to ease the ache. Her body was begging for friction, and the longer he talked, the worse it got. “So desire is the ink. Emotion is the anchor.”

He gave a slow, approving nod. “And intent is the blade.”

She closed her eyes for a breath. The knowledge was sinking in—hot, decadent, dangerous. It felt like foreplay. And maybe it was.

When she opened them, she caught him staring at her again. Not her eyes—her hips, her breasts, her cock twitching with restraint.

She smiled.

“Getting hard just from a lecture?” she teased, letting the words drip with condescension and heat.

His jaw tightened. “You’re the one who made the world crave your voice, remember?”

She stepped forward then, slow and deliberate. Not closing the distance—yet—but reducing it. The air between them felt tight, electric.

“Keep going,” she whispered. “I want to know everything. Before I let you earn me.”

The incubus inhaled sharply and rose from his seat, every motion drenched in erotic control. He stalked toward her until only inches separated them.

“I’ll give you every secret,” he murmured. “But by the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me to stop talking and take you.”

Lila’s smile didn’t falter.

“Then you better speak slowly,” she whispered.