Devoured: A Novel(28)

Because starting to tomorrow, while Mr. Wolfe is taking pleasure in training me as his assistant, I will begin counting down the days until the deed is in my hands.





CHAPTER EIGHT





I don’t sleep well. I’m fitful and nervous about the coming days so it takes no physical effort at all to leave the comfort of my bed behind at 5am. The force holding me back is mental, emotional, and I take my time carefully making the bed, running my fingertips over the worn pink and orange comforter as I smooth it out over the sheets.

“Jesus Christ, Jensen, pull your shit together,” I mutter to myself, clenching a large chunk of fabric in either hand and then re-tucking it. By the way I’m acting, you’d think it were the last time I’ll ever see Gram’s house and not like I’m going only six miles up the road.

To a house where I’m expected to do as I’m told, but still.

After I open up an Internet radio station, I flip my suitcase open and set about the tedious task of pulling my clothes down from the hangers and neatly storing them into the bag. As I work, I sit as many of my black items of clothing aside.

Black drop waist dress that I’ve only worn once.

Ankle pants and a tight black cardigan, a lace edged camisole.

The flutter sleeve top I wore when I first came her and the 4-inch pumps that Tori swears make my legs look amazing but I’ve always been skeptical because they boost me up to well over 6 feet. The tweed pencil skirt, too, which is charcoal gray, but I doubt he’ll notice.

The music straining softly from my laptop switches to another song—an older Your Toxic Sequel sex ballad called “Crave It”. Automatically, the corners of my lips drag up into a nervous smile because of the irony of it all.

“I’ll hold out ‘til you crave it,” Lucas Wolfe sings and tingles that border pain and pleasure streak through me, from my nipples to between my legs.

“Ten days,” I muse aloud. “I can hold out on your ass for ten days.” I pad into the bathroom, shrugging out of the spaghetti strap tank top and shorts I wore to bed last night. The tips of my thumbs skim over the dampness in the skimpy pink shorts, and I shiver. “I mean, I’ve worked for Tomas for more than 10 months.”

Of course, Tomas is a short, balding guy prone to temper tantrums and breaking things. Lucas Wolfe is a rock god with the ability to inspire spontaneous wetness just by me listening to him over Internet radio. Lucas Wolfe is a gorgeous and infuriating and unavoidable man prone to . . .

Dominant behavior.

Pressing my forehead against the shower wall, I support myself with my forearm and let the downpour of water beat down upon me, first icy cold and then so hot my skin screams. Neither really bothers me at all. My mind focuses on Lucas, on whether today and the nine following it will work well in my favor.

I’m still thinking of Lucas when my fingertips push past my damp folds, seeking out my swollen clit. My breath catches in my throat as I draw the sensitive flesh between my thumb and forefinger, carefully rubbing my fingers in a back and forth motion. Slip and slide. Forward and back. My knees buckle, and I moan. Trailing my fingers away from my clit, I slip two inside of me, moving against them. My hipbone beats against the tile wall but I imagine it’s Lucas’s body touching me, his hands digging into my hips as he plunges his cock into my tightness.

I sink my teeth into the wrist of the arm supporting me to hold back a sob. When I think of his face hovering above mine—and his sweat-dampened hair clinging to my wet skin—I come quick and hard. Slumping, I reach up and grab the shower bar for support. I tell myself that by getting this over now I won’t want him. I won’t let myself be sucked in by the inevitable that he swears by.

But damn me, he’s still on my mind as I send Tori a message, a brand new lie for yet another person I care about. Hey, I’m still alive. Still immune to Lucas’s charms. Still . . . well, you get the picture. I’ll call you when I get the chance—things are busy around here what with everything going on. Miss you.

I dress in the ankle pants, the cardigan, and the camisole—all black, just as he’s requested.

And I wear red underwear beneath my clothes.

?



My grandmother insists on preparing breakfast for me, though to be honest, I’m not the least bit hungry. I feel nervous about lying to her. And sick to my stomach whenever I think about the next week and a half. There are millions of tiny butterflies in the pit of my stomach, swarming around, making me more and more nauseous as the time seems to zoom by.