Consumed (Devoured, #2)(8)

Releasing my hair and my hip, he moves both his hands down so that he can grip my ass. “I don’t know about all that. Never met anyone who plays piano like you.” He looks so ridiculously sexy right now that I can’t resist moving my face closer to his until our lips touch. “Besides, if I wanted you to sing, you’d do it,” he says in a low voice between kisses.

“Abso-f*cking-lutely not,” I murmur as he moves his erection up against me.

He shifts his hips, rolling me onto my stomach in a couple of well-executed motions. “Put your hands against the headboard.” I am utterly vulnerable to him—completely his—and I feel the wood against my fingertips just as he nudges one finger inside of me. I cry out.

“Come on tour with me, Sienna.”

And there it is. Five words not spoken in a question, but a statement, and each word scares the hell out of me. Not even 24 hours have passed since Lucas literally forced his way back into my life. Since he ran out on me earlier this year, I have an entire new list of commitments.

I still haven’t talked to Gram to let her know I’m okay—I had simply left a note and a voicemail when I picked up and left last night.

“I need you with me.”

I peek back over my shoulder at him. “What about—” I start to mention my job, but he glides another finger into me, and I splay my hands out on the headboard and squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck,” I groan, burying my face into pillows.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m getting there, Sienna. After you say yes. And before you ask, you’ll have a job,” he says, and I open my eyes to look at him. The grin he’s wearing widens. “I need your wardrobe expertise, but I’m not going to lie and tell you my reasons for wanting you with me aren’t mostly fueled by greed.”


The part of my brain that’s not a blurry hot mess from what he’s doing to my body realizes just how much sense this proposal makes. I’ve been working as a personal wardrobe consultant ever since I moved back to Nashville—and I’ve worked freelance for a few musicians. Plus, Lucas’s music and my job are the reason why we initially met two and a half years ago in the first place. I’d worked wardrobe on the set of the “All Over You” music video, and Lucas and I had hit it off. Clearly, it hadn’t worked out, but my time on set with his band had a lasting impression on me.

“I’m not much for cramped spaces,” I blurt out.

“I am.” He gives me a wicked smile as his fingers pick up speed inside me. I dig my fingernails into the pillows, the headboard—whatever my hands come in contact with— and he rubs the pad of his thumb around my clit. “And don’t worry, we’ll be in a hotel more than on a tour bus.”

But we’d still be on a bus. And despite what Lucas has said about wanting to keep me around, anything could happen. I’m not aware that I’ve started to clench my teeth until Lucas stops touching me. It’s always been a nervous habit of mine and it drives him insane. “Please don’t stop,” I hiss.

“Come on tour with me.”

He’s asking a lot, he has to know that. I can’t give him a direct answer right now because it’s not possible—how can it be when I’m shivering beneath him, and I can feel every inch of him pressed up against my hip as he touches me?

I run my tongue over my lips and nod. “I promise I’ll think about it.”

His shoulders relax a bit, and I let out a satisfied moan when he slides his erection inside of me. He takes his time, going agonizingly slow, until he’s balls deep and I’m biting my lip to keep from clenching my teeth. And he sighs. Lucas-Effing-Wolfe actually sighs. For me.

“I’ll just have to f*cking convince you to come,” he growls.





Over the next couple of days, Lucas doesn’t directly ask me to come with him on the band’s tour again. Instead, he uses his mouth and hands and body, and his music, to persuade me to come on the road with him. By the time he drives me to the airport in Knoxville on Friday morning, I’m tempted to tell him I need another couple days of convincing, despite the fact I’ve had a very limited amount of sleep in the last several hours and my body feels like I’ve spent days doing nothing but hardcore Pilates.

Then I remind myself that I have been contracted to do a job this weekend—wardrobe for a debut singer’s photo shoot in downtown Nashville. I have to go back, even if it’s just to take care of one obligation.

My flight home is scheduled to leave at 10:45 a.m., and Lucas gets me to the airport with an hour to spare. As I check my bag in, I can feel his eyes on me, and I know he’s expecting me to give him an answer about the tour before I leave.

“When are you driving back to L.A.?” I ask as he walks me to security.

“Flying. Leaving late this evening, and Kylie’s driving my car back after she uses my place this weekend.” He gives me a distant smile. “I want you coming home with me, Sienna.”

I’m sure if I could see his eyes, I’d tell him anything he wanted to hear. Luckily he’s wearing sunglasses—the same ones he put on the few times we left his place during the last 48 hours— but any diehard Your Toxic Sequel fan would be able to spot him from a mile away.

He’s that memorable, and the tattoos don’t exactly help him blend in.