Devoured (Devoured, #1)(31)

I scamper over the back of the couch, landing on my knees on the bed. He hisses in a deep breath of air, and my head pops up, red hair flying everywhere. He’s frozen in place, looking down at me with his face drawn and his full lips parted.

“What?” I whisper.

“Don’t do things like that, that’s what,” he growls

I drag my hands through my hair, knotting it into a loose pile at the top of my head. “You’re incredibly uptight.”

“Try living with someone that’s hard to resist.”

“Or someone you want to control?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

Now painfully aware of his every move, his every inhale and exhale, I show him the clothes. He murmurs appreciatively at the piles of rocker-friendly gear, rubbing his fingertips over edgy t-shirts and vintage lace tops and the leather jacket I’d picked out. I’m folding the clothes into neat piles when I hear something crinkling.

I look up to see the red and black flyer for the Your Toxic Sequel cover band in his hand, held between his index and middle finger. When I make a move towards it, he backs up, shooing me away. I watch with my heart in my throat as he unfolds the paper. He reads it carefully, a shit-eating grin growing wider and wider as his eyes scan the page.

After smoothing out the wrinkles and folding the flyer into neat creases, Lucas drops it on top the clothes I’ve just folded. “You’re going to be my DD tonight, Sienna.”

I groan and he cocks an eyebrow at me. Plastering on a smile, I grind out, “Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN





Lucas and I argue for what seems like an eternity before he clasps his hands together almost demurely and tells me to go pick up his dinner. By time I return from the part of town we’ve just came from, he’s already dressed to go out to Jessica’s parents’ bar.

I’ve got to give him credit—he’s managed to perfect his disguise. And I have a feeling that’s all thanks to the fact that in Los Angeles, he doesn’t get to enjoy the peace he’s found in Nashville. During the video shoot for “All Over You” there were daily incidents of fangirls (and fanboys) finding ways to sneak themselves on set to try and hook up with members of the band, not to mention the diehard Your Toxic Sequel fans who’d camped outside the studio every day to get a glimpse of Lucas and the rest of the guys.

Tonight, Lucas is wearing his usual jeans, but instead of boots, he’s got on old school Converse shoes. A black and white Henley covers every last one of his tattoos. His messy hair is covered by an oversized black beanie and he’s wearing . . . glasses. Nerdy ones at that.

I stand at the door to his office for a moment, taking in the sight of him. No man should look that sexy in nerdy glasses.

“Borrowed from wardrobe?” I ask, making his head jerk up toward me. He bites his bottom lip and instinctively, I nibble mine too. “The glasses, I mean.”

He beckons me to come into the office and I comply, sitting the Styrofoam platter of food on the desk. Up close to him, I realize that those glasses have to be—hands down—the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen him wear.

He laughs, “Not borrowed. A nearsighted bitch.”

“You look . . . rocker geek.”

Tilting his head to one side, he considers what I said for a moment then bites the tip of his tongue to suppress a grin. “You’re not going to take pics and send them to the paparazzi, are you?” he teases.

“Only if you’re doing this to humiliate my friend’s boyfriend,” I say. “You’re not, are you?”

He’s on his feet and towering over me an instant later, his eyes unreadable. “I’d never hurt my fans. There the reason I’m here and not in Atlanta strung out on something. But to answer your question . . . I’ve got a soft spot for cover bands.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Google’s your friend,” he says, winking at me. “Now go get dressed—your clothes are on your bed.”

I move to go and do what he’s asked me to, but then ice travels down my body, freezing me. What am I doing? This is the first time he’s issued me a command where my mind automatically compelled me to follow it, and that’s a realization that frightens me.

“You want to get me dressed, too, Mr. Wolfe?” I demand, forcing a sugary smile when I say his name.

He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, and then blows a stray strand of hair away from my neck. “God, if only. You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? We’re only three days in, and you already want to give in to me.” Despite his words, there’s not the slightest hint of mockery behind his voice. It’s teasing—yes—but so full of promise. I back up until the desk hits my bottom. My fingers curl around the wood.

“If I did?” I whisper breathlessly.

He thinks for a moment and then grants me a look that’s so delicious it sends heat spiraling through me. “At this point I’m not sure if I’d f*ck you or spank you with that drumstick over there.” He motions to a set of signed sticks on the opposite end of the desk. “Maybe both. Maybe just tie you to a chair and taste you ‘til you can’t move or think or breathe.”

“And after?”

“There are seven more days,” he reminds me. “There’s so much I can teach you, so much we can do, and after that . . .”