My Personal Demon

18:21

He wastes no time taking off my pants, pulling the fabric over my thighs with ease. He kisses my neck, moving closer as he pulls my legs apart. Jesper pauses to tug his shirt up, giving me a wolfish grin before emerging with his torso bare.

I liked his hunger. I liked the way that he touched me, full of desire but without the edge of desperation. I liked our easy closeness, the smoothness of his motions as he stripped me of anything that stood between us.

So why did this feel so wrong?

He covers me with his warmth, none the wiser to my thoughts. I'm still soft and pliant in his hands, but I feel a wall of resistance slowly form inside me.

I grabbed him by the back of his head, tugging his hair so that I could see his face. My dead husband's baleful blue eyes stare back at me. A wave of guilt washes over me.

"I can't do this," I said, pushing him back.

He looks at me with disbelief. "Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head, turning my back to him. "It's not that."

"Something made you sad. What is it?"

"You remind me too much of him," I confessed. "Your face is uncanny. It's like he died all over again."

"I'm not him," he insisted. "I'm a demon that can't die. Don't compare me to him. I would never leave you alone."

"He loved me. And I was about to sleep in our bed with another man."

"He's not here anymore," Jesper said delicately. "You aren't being unfaithful. I've seen cheaters in Hell and you aren't one of them."

"It doesn't feel right." I pull my legs to my chest, curling up into a ball. "It's like he's watching me from beyond the grave."

His face unravels, peeling away the rest of his disguise. He reveals himself to me, all horns and lamplit eyes. The handsome demon graced my bed again.

"Is this better?"

I touch his face, grazing his cheek with my fingers. His mien was an ever-changing thing, shifting with his mood. Even as my eyes perceived him, I could tell that he was altering his features to be more pleasing to me.

I close my eyes, getting dizzy. "Stop that. Keep your face still. I like you as you are."

He obeys, letting the magic settle over his face.

"We moved too fast," he said. "You're still getting over him. We should've just stuck to the kissing."

I didn't know if there was anything I could say that would make him feel better.

"I think you're a lovely person," I began.

He holds up a hand to silence me. "It sounds like you're rejecting me. I think we both know that you don't want to do that, right?"

No, what I wanted was to touch him without feeling guilty. I wanted him in my skin, dripping in our mutual sweat.

"Let me show you something," he said, interrupting my thoughts.

He helps me into my clothes before guiding me into my studio. We stand in front of an easel, his painting of magnolias to be exact. The messy brushstrokes fill the canvas in hues of pink and white, a girlish splatter of colors. He had painted magnolias in the metaphorical sense, abandoning their true forms and twisting them into something else. There, among the abstract flowers, was my face. If I hadn't focused so much on the petals I would've seen it sooner.

It was just like the painting I made of him except he was much more intentional with sculpting my face. While I thought of roses when I had made my painting, he was thinking of me. The magnolias were secondary.