Devoured (Devoured, #1)(16)

“Your f*cking hair . . .”

“What do want from me?” I ask

“Everything,” he whispers, turning his head so that his lips touch my temple. He inhales the scent of me in before speaking again. When he does, he almost sounds intoxicated. “But for now . . . I want you to work for me.”

He draws back and puts a—dare I say—professional amount of room between us. I’m stunned to realize that the cheese and vegetables have been cleared away and now there’s a salad sitting in front of us. I was so wrapped up in the moment with Lucas that I hadn’t noticed the server’s return.

Damn Lucas for driving me to distraction over and over and over again.

And f*ck myself for letting him. Why do I do this to myself?

Lucas spears a fork into his salad and takes a bite. I study the way he chews—slow, deliberate movements. Tiny flicks of his tongue that causes my body to burn. He turns eating, something that is so basic, into a seductive art. I catch myself sinking my teeth into my own lip as I imagine him drawing it in between his teeth.

“I’m offering you Ms. Previn’s home in exchange for your . . . services. Ten days. My rules. And you have to cater to my every need. Then, I’ll personally sign over the deed to your grandmother’s home.”

I let his words sink into my brain sluggishly, like spoiled molasses. Let the shame wash over me. “I’m not like that,” I whisper, turning my face away from him so he doesn’t see the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks and ruin the makeup I so carefully applied.

He catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look at him. To face him. He gives me a sarcastic, pouty expression and I clench my fingers into the fabric of my dress so I don’t try to smack it right off. “I never said you were. Just took you for the type who likes to work for the things she wants.”

What he’s just said—it takes everything cruel comment Preston ever made to me when we were dating, adds them together, and multiplies them. “I’m not going to f*ck you for money, Lucas.”

He doesn’t try to stop me as I stiffly maneuver my way out of the booth.

I’m three steps away from the table, and struggling with the bitter urge to just break down bawling, when he says, “There’s no f*cking involved.” His voice is so soft and cold, it makes me shiver, like a gust of wind has just swept through the room.

Warily, I take a peek over my right shoulder. He’s pushed his salad away, and has his arm draped over the back of the booth, expecting me to sit back down. But what’s surprising is his face. The sardonic look is gone, and is replaced by one that’s apologetic—a look that’s earnest.

“What?”

“Sit and we’ll talk.”

Another order, but he has my attention. He knows there’s no way in hell I’m exiting this restaurant without finishing this conversation now. Quietly, I climb into the booth, sitting in a way that we’re facing each other. I can feel his eyes blistering into me as I play with my fork, twirling it between my fingers while I wait for him to explain himself.

He lets me sweat for a couple minutes—allows me to think of so many scenarios that I’m squirming in my seat. I tap the toe of my shoes on the hard floor, beating out a staccato rhythm. He takes a breath and then, at last, he speaks.

“Kylie’s going on vacation to New Orleans and I need a personal assistant while she’s away.”

“A personal assistant,” I repeat, and he bows his head, smiling at me so politely I’m sure it hurts his face. Polite on Lucas Wolfe is about the same as aggressive on me—outright awkward.

“Mmmhmm, and naturally I want someone I already know. You.”

Me—the same wardrobe girl who was banned from ever working on the set of a Your Toxic Sequel anything ever again. The same girl who’d shot him down after he tried to convince her to be bound to his bed.

The same girl he still wants to bind.

“You want me to work for you because you just want to have sex with me,” I snarl. Blowing out a noisy breath, I continue, “You can call me a personal assistant all you want, but this is because of sex. So why not just ask me to screw you?”

He smiles that unsettling smile that makes me question my sanity for still being near him. The same smile that also makes me wonder why I'm not throwing my body into his arms right this instant. Because of what he’ll do to you, that little voice in the back of my head warns me. He’ll take everything and won't give a damn thing in return.

“I told you already,” he says. “This is work of the non-sexual variety.”

“And where does my grandma's house come into play?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’ll be your paycheck. You play my game for ten days, I give you the house.”

The sip of water I’m swallowing goes down the wrong way, and I choke on it, clutching at my chest. He moves closer, his face wrinkled with concern. Gasping, I manage to assure him that I’m fine. Then I squeeze the bridge of my burning nose as I try to give his words a chance to fully register.

He wants me to work for him. In exchange for Gram’s house.

Ho-ly f*ck.

“Are you smoking crack?” I demand, in a rough voice I’ve never even heard myself use before. His eyebrows arch, and the corners of his lips quirk up. “That’s not even—is that even plausible? That would have to be the most idiotic business decision ever.”