Hung by the FIreplace

If demons aren't supposed to be able to love, then why does Incubus Jerry Romani keep going all goo-goo eyed every time Riona Dade's around?
Is there something about the redhead that's different from the other women he's been dispatched by Hell to seduce?
And why, oh why, does the Devil himself want this sexy yet prosaic mortal tagged and tailed?
Things between the embedded demon and the sultry statistician start to heat up just as the temperatures outside take a dive, and Jerry soon realizes Riona will be opening more than just his package come Christmas. She's opening his heart, and with it, a world of possibility about what their futures might hold.

DEMONIC FAQ
So, admission: the first time I read the term “FAQ”, I thought it meant something really, really different than what it actually means. Look at it like it’s a word spelled f-a-q. Say it slowly. OUT LOUD. Listen to yourself.

Right? Right! Yeah, sure, a little different from fuck, but I’ve been to Boston, I know how people “speak” there. That FAQ actually means frequently asked questions…nowhere near as exciting as it sounds at first blush. But, useful, I guess. Not as useful as the other thing, but meh — I’ll take it for what it’s worth.
And what it’s worth is this: In my two millennia as a demon, working on behalf of the Grigori — the all-star squad of fallen angels who got all big in their halos and tried to overthrow heaven — I’ve developed my own personal FAQ list. It goes something like this:

Q: Where did you come from?

Depends on the position we favored — from the back, from the front, or somewhere in between while suspended from elastic cables.
What? I’m kidding! Come on…
So, the secret is, I started out human, just like all demons. We’re, like, recycled sinners, ones who screwed up in our mortal lives enough to permanently head south when we died. And I don’t mean in the sexy-fun-times way. I mean in the having-a-timeshare-overlooking-the-River-Styx way. You get the joke here, right? When I’m finally done seducing a target and it’s time for me to expose her for the sinner she really is, she invariably tells me, “Go to
Hell.”
Which is precisely what I do after I clock out.

Q: What are you doing to me?

If I’m in your life, I’m there to get into your pants and your soul. Demons come in two varieties: the type that beats things up, and the type that beats things off. I’m that second kind; fucking is just what I do. Technically I’m what’s called a “gnosis” demon, meaning my agenda is to know… things. That includes getting to know southbound sinners in a biblical sense. Believe you me, however, I get far less out of it than you. To some guys, I’m sure the concept of an eternity having the dirtiest, roughest, most aggressive sex with an endless parade of every generation’s hotties sounds like a dream, but remember: it’s my penance. How is that punishment, you ask? Simple, I can’t feel a (and this is literal, people) goddamned thing. I can’t even get aroused without magic. I kid you not. It’s like I have to use a remote control to turn the thing on. If I were a kid at Hogwarts, my best spell would be Accio Erecto.
Anyway, I digress…

My job is to seek out souls on the teetering edge of sin and salvation and pull them over to our side with seduction. I mean, I’m not a one-dimensional demon; I’ve got other mad skills that don’t require the use of my demonic assets if you know what I mean. Search from here to Hyannisport and back, and you’re never going to find a guy who can alphabetize a CD collection like
me. Human carryover: I was a collector of sorts, and I’ve got a thing for sorting things into their right places. Oh, and I have some magical prowess. Not that that’s unique to me; most demons can pull off the basics. You know, like a glamour (because we look like the result of a bad love connection between a Surinam toad and David Duchovny. I don’t care how good a man is in bed, no one’s rushing to be seduced by the amphibian version of Mulder), coercion, and stealth. But me? I’ve got a little extra somethin’ somethin’ going on.
Let’s just say my occupation when I was above the ground leant itself well to my employment once I found myself under it. I was a Pure Soul. Yup, the irony, right? Me, a member of the wiccan trio whose sole mission it is to kill, harm, and otherwise slight the whole of demonkind. Not my fault, though. Lucifer, aka the Devil, totally tricked me into damning myself when I was human. Nevertheless, I guess I’m technically a traitor, being that I do use all the magical knowledge and supernatural connections I honed during that time to maximize my efficiency in my immortal bondage to the darkness. Understand, however, the while light magic is emotionally fulfilling, dark magic’s side pays better.

Q: Was going to Hell worth the sin?

Of course, the worst part of my existence is this bitter truth: I feel nothing good anymore, and that is both a metaphorical and literal statement. My life is an endless parade of women I can have without consequence, a dream come true for countless “men”. Since I can’t get chicks pregnant (because, hello, my shooters died back before Caesar got gang-shanked), and as I’m already damned, my life should be all blue skies and rainbows. But there is where this grand scheme goes wrong.
I can give pleasure to induce sin, but I can never feel the type of rapture that might redeem my soul.
And that, my friends, is why I am truly and eternally fucked.