Devoured (Devoured, #1)(36)

He stands, slides the bench to the wall and gestures almost sarcastically to the piano. “Play it again.”

I don’t argue. I’m too tired and too worked up and all I want is to go back upstairs and climb in bed. I stand behind the keyboard and repeat the chords.

“Again. Slower. And this time, close your eyes, Red.”

I do what he asks. The moment I smell his cologne, though, I miss a key. “This is when you tell me to have sex with you then make me run out for Cheetos, right?” I ask, my voice high-pitched and strained.

He laughs. I swear I feel his mouth on my skin, even though he’s not touching me. “Cheetos suck. And you know what you have to do for me to have sex with you,” he says.

Gritting my teeth, I slam my palms down on the piano. The keys make a horrible screeching noise. I glance over my shoulder into his hazel eyes. “Since you don’t need me, can I go to bed, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Abso-f*cking-lutely not. Look Si . . . all you’ve got to do is say the words.”

“And what would those be?”

He dips his face down, bringing his mouth so close to mine we’re only a breath away from kissing. From tearing each other down. From the inevitable. “Take me all the way, Lucas,” he drawls in his best impersonation of my accent. “And that’s what you’re going to say the first time we f*ck. My name. Just Lucas.”

But the thing is, the last—and only—time I was weak enough to avoid the inevitable with this man, he treated me like shit. I won’t let him do that to me again. “Fuck you, Lucas.”

My words don’t faze him. He’s boasting that cocky look that always makes me want to chop him in the throat. Instead—like an idiot—I rise up on my toes and crush my mouth to his. His tongue parts my lips. He still refuses to touch me, so I whisper, “Please . . . your hands . . . I want your hands touching me from now on.”

I’m safe as long as I’m in control.

Keep telling yourself that.

He doesn’t cup my face or touch my hair or anything romantic like that. He roams his hand down my body, over the curve of my hips, until he’s between my legs, his palm pressing against my panties. He draws his mouth away from mine. “Fuck me, you’re wet,” he says. “Say the words.”

“No.”

“Turn around, and play. Same as before and don’t stop,” he orders.

I expect him to take his hands away from me when I start, but he doesn’t. I’m one chord in when his fingers slide under my panties. Three measures when he pushes one finger inside me. I gasp and he growls in my ear.

“Don’t. Fucking. Stop.”

He slips another finger inside of my body, and then moves his hand, hard and fast. Back and forth until I swear I’m dying. I whimper. He breathes heavily into my hair, and I curve my bottom toward him. He’s hard. He’s so f*cking hard that I’m suddenly grinding against his hand. And the moment his calloused thumb presses on my clit, I come. I slump against the keyboard on my elbows, my ass in the air. I don’t have it in me to play anymore, but I don’t think he could give two shits. He’s staring down at me with his lips pressed into a thin line and all I can think of is how I want them and his tongue on me.

And my mouth on him.

“Lucas, I want yo—”

“Go to bed, Sienna.”

Carefully, he pulls his fingers out of my body, and I shudder again. Though my flesh feels like it’s scorching, I manage to stand upright. “No,” I say.

“Let’s try this the way you’re familiar with then: Get the f*ck out. I need to work and like I’ve told you before, you’re f*cking horrible for music.”

Something sharp and prickly twists my chest. He knows exactly what to say to piss me off. I want to tell him he’s the dumbass who came up with this arrangement in the first place, but I choke back the words. All he’ll do is turn it back on me and remind me why I agreed, throw the deed in my face. I keep my face emotionless and my hands clenched by my sides as I say, “Good night, Mr. Wolfe.”

As I leave the room, I become aware that my panties are still pushed aside. And that as long as I’m around Lucas, he’ll keep consuming me until there’s nothing left.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





I spend the rest of the night alternating between tossing and turning and hating myself, and wishing Lucas was between the sheets with me. When the alarm on my phone goes off at 7am, I drag myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom. Stripping down, I climb into the shower, turn the water as hot as it will go, and stand under the stream with my head leaned against the tile wall. The heat is uncomfortable—in fact, it burns— but it’s helping the vomit-inducing headache beating the hell out of my skull. Today, I’ll need my brain totally clear to deal with Lucas-f*cking-Wolfe.

What the hell was I thinking when I asked him to put his hands on me last night? Frustrated, I bang my fist against the shower wall. Pain shoots through my hand. I ignore it. I’m more concerned at the way I’d melted in Lucas’s hand—literally. And I hate my body for reacting to thoughts of Lucas right now. I’m wet and horny and I feel stupid for letting him f*ck with my body and mind.

The water is running cold and the bathroom is a cloud of steam by time I finally step out of the shower. I’m wrapping a thick towel around my body when I notice my phone is blinking. There’s a text message from Lucas. From 3 o’clock this morning.