The Demon You Love: A Paranormal Chick Lit Novel

the demon you love

with bonus content

tami lund

THE DEMON YOU LOVE

includes bonus prequel:

How I Fell Into Bed With A Demon

Cover Design: Cozy Cover Designs

Editor: Julie Sturgeon

The Demon You Love Copyright: 2020 by Tami Lund LLC

How I Fell Into Bed With A Demon Copyright: 2021 by Tami Lund LLC

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

Thank you for your support.

All entities, locations, businesses, etc. in this book are either used fictitiously or are figments of the author’s overactive imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Questions, comments, or desires to seek permission to use any part of this book for your own purposes should be directed to [email protected].

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

Sign up for Tami Lund’s newsletter:

https://tamilund.com/tj-bell-newsletter-signup/

Tami Lund started a new pen name, TJ Bell, and now publishes all paranormal and fantasy romance under this name. If you’d like to sign up for TJ Bell’s newsletter:

https://tamilund.com/tj-bell-newsletter-signup/

contents

It All Started When…

The Demon You Love

The Demon You Love

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

The Art of the Hunt

Chapter 1

Paranormal Romance by Tami Lund

Writing as TJ Bell

More Books by Tami Lund

About the Author

it all started when…

Clarissa Andrews was finally starting to get on with her life. Sort of.

Hey, her dad’s death had rattled her; she had every right to take a minute—or a couple of years—to get her act together.

Sure, she didn’t go out much, preferring instead to curl up with a good book or any number of totally adorable romcom movies she’d already seen a hundred times, but hey, she wasn’t wallowing anymore.

And, at this time of year, as spring was slowly making its way across the state of Michigan, she liked to get outside and kneel in the dirt in her flowerbeds. Weeding, adding mulch, rearranging the perennials because, as she recalled from last summer and fall, this one overtook that one and this section of the bed didn’t have nearly as much color. It was good for her soul.

So she had books, movies, and flowers. Oh, and lunch with her mom, twice per week. What else did she need?

This very thought drifted through her head as she knelt in the grass in front of her house, wearing a pair of tiny, pink running shorts; unfortunately, her ass thrust into the air due to the position she needed to assume in order to carefully reach underneath a rose bush to convince a particularly stubborn dandelion to relinquish its determined hold in the soil.

She almost had it too when she heard the wolf whistle, followed by, Hot damn. That is the most spectacular ass I have ever seen, and let me tell you, I’ve seen plenty in my day.

Oh, that jerk was about to get a piece of her mind—she tried to sit straight up instead of slithering out from under the bush, which was a giant mistake because holy hell, rose thorns freaking hurt!

She cried out because, along with the short shorts, she was also wearing a thin, ribbed tank top, and that damn bush had just scratched the ever-loving daylights out of her back.

And then she dropped onto her belly in the dirt, smashing a couple of freshly planted petunias in the process.

Whoa, are you okay? Is that blood on your back? What the heck did you do?

The voice was getting closer, but Clarissa didn’t glance over her shoulder or acknowledge the person in any way. Honestly, she just wanted him to go away and leave her to cry underneath her rosebush alone.

A few seconds later, she heard a thwack that sounded suspiciously like the handle of a rake slamming into a body part, quite possibly the guy’s face. And then the person who had presumably been coming to her aid let out a painful-sounding shout and dropped to his knees next to her leg.

She finally twisted her head and glanced over her shoulder. The guy—it was definitely a guy, not only based on the timbre of his voice but also the width of those incredibly muscular shoulders—was holding his face and there was blood seeping between his fingers.

Oh my God, you’re bleeding! She started to straighten again, recalled the rosebush this time, and instead slithered out to go to the guy’s aid.

So are you, he said, his voice sounding nasally.

She glanced down at herself but didn’t see any sign of redness other than the scratches on her arms. Oh, these are no big deal. But your face. What happened?

I’ve never been called Butter Face before.

She frowned. I wasn’t⁠—

He pointed with his other hand and said, Your back. That’s where you’re bleeding. Come on, let’s go inside and get you cleaned up.

"Me? What about you? Also, this is my house, so shouldn’t I be the one to invite you inside?"

He shrugged. Invite me in then.

That was actually mistake number one. If she had simply acknowledged his injury, apologized for leaving her rake with the tines sticking up in the middle of the lawn, and told him to have a nice day, this story would have turned out very, very differently.

But she didn’t do that.

Come on, she said, motioning for him to follow as she walked around to enter through the garage door so she could kick off her shoes and not make a mess on her living room floor.

Nice pad, he said, eyeing her outdated kitchen while blood still seeped through his fingers.

She glanced down at his feet, which were encased in shoes that had trailed grass clippings and dirt through her small house.

Opening a drawer and snagging a rag from the pile she used for cleaning, she ran it under cold water from the sink before offering it to him. I just bought it. It’s a fixer upper. But I paid cash, so… She shrugged.

Smart, he said, using the cloth to wipe at his nose, which, she noticed, didn’t look broken or even very swollen. That fact slowly came to her attention, like fog burning away from a spectacular landscape, after she took in his impressive height, his shaggy, dark hair, equally as dark eyes, broad chest, massive arms, and that smile that made her want to lose her panties. Permanently.

Luckily, the blood, or lack thereof, distracted her, momentarily, at least, from the man’s dazzling beauty. Two swipes of the rag and the trickle of blood that had been escaping was gone.

She canted her head and studied him. He’d appeared human at first glance—albeit an outrageously gorgeous one—except humans didn’t heal that fast. 

What are you? she asked.

He smiled. It was charming, enigmatic, sexy, sweet, and any number of other utterly positive attributes that immediately set alarm bells off in her head.

Turn around, let me check out your injuries, he said without responding to her question.

She turned around. Probably because his smile looked so damn sincere.

He tsked and gently ran a finger over her back, which sent shivers down her spine and heat coiling in another part of her body. Mm-hmm.

She twisted to look over her shoulder and watched him suck on his finger, dragging it slowly over his lower lip while she stared and saliva pooled in her mouth.

Are you a vampire? she blurted.

He chuckled and fluttered his fingers in the shaft of sunlight splashed across the counter.

Oh, right. Of course. Then what are you?

I don’t suppose you have anything to drink? Something strong to take away the pain?

She waved at his face. You don’t look like you’re in pain.

I was actually concerned for you, although I’m happy to imbibe with you.

She rolled her shoulders. I feel fine too.

He rolled his eyes. Fine. How about just invite me to stay and have a drink with you?

She crossed her arms. Why should I?

Because you want to?

She kind of did. Which was strange. Why do I want to?

I can’t read your mind. Although if I had to guess, I’d say my spectacular biceps or maybe my bedroom eyes.

She canted her head. You do have bedroom eyes. Very sexy.

He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Thank you.

She shook her head. What the heck? What am I saying? I’ve literally never had this sort of conversation before.

Glad to hear it.

You are?

Sure. Makes me feel… He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, like he was trying to find the right word. Tingly, was what he finally settled on.

She could relate.

Come on, he said, show me to your bathroom so I can clean up your back.

That’s not necessary.

I know.

She hesitated. A shower—alone—would obviously do the trick, yet she was intrigued enough by this guy to want to take him up on his offer.

I don’t even know your name.

He cleared his throat. Call me D.

Okay, D, I’m Clarissa. She offered her hand to shake.

He enveloped her smaller one in his own, and, good Lord, the zing that shot through her body was so heady she could feel her face heating.

Maybe that drink is a good idea first, she said, tugging her hand free and moving around him to the counter. Do you like margaritas?

I like whatever you like.

Her hand shook as she reached for the tequila, her mind reviewing all of her favorite sexual positions. Which was not at all what he was referring to.

It wasn’t, was it?

Once they both had drinks in hand, he again offered to clean up her back, and she finally decided to let him. She didn’t need any bacteria or dirt to settle into the wounds and cause an infection, after all.

Cozy, he remarked when they were both standing in her tiny bathroom and she was rummaging through the cabinet, searching for gauze and antiseptic and bandages.

Yeah, well, normally I’m in here by myself and there’s plenty of room.

Fair. Take off your shirt.

"What?"

He flapped his hand. It will be easier to clean up your back. Here, I’ll turn around.

He turned toward the mirror.

How about the other way?

He tossed her a cheeky grin through the looking glass and then faced the wall.

She quickly shed her tank, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were small, and she was in her mid-twenties and hadn’t had kids yet, so hell yes, she had perky breasts that did not require elastic and satin and wires to hold them in place.

Holding the shirt to her breasts, said, Okay, and turned away from him so that he could tend to her wounds.

They both fell silent for a few minutes. How nice his hands felt on her skin, first gentle, like he was brushing his fingertips over the various contours of her back. Then it felt like he placed his palms flat on her back, which was really interesting and, yeah, a whole lot stimulating. She could feel the magic pouring from his touch into her body. He definitely wasn’t human, although for the life of her she couldn’t determine what he was.

Shapeshifter maybe? Although they tended to be hairier and more growly than this guy, who was all charm and goodwill. And they’d already clarified that he wasn’t a vampire. A warlock? That was possible, she supposed, although his magic did not feel at all familiar, and generally a witch could distinguish the magic of another witch or warlock.

There were plenty of other possibilities, but, honestly, Clarissa had lived a pretty sheltered life and wasn’t up on all the various supernatural beings who were out there, just like her, living among the humans, who were completely oblivious to their presence.

 Not insisting he tell her his species was mistake number two.

This particular mistake she eventually blamed entirely on him. Because he knew full well what he was doing. He was deliberately not informing her, and she was enjoying his ministrations far too much to make any demands beyond groaning and letting her head drop forward when he smoothed his palms up her back and began massaging her shoulders.

The man had magic hands. Literally.

Are you a masseuse by profession? she murmured, her eyes closed, her body going so lax she was in danger of falling sideways off