Devoured (Devoured, #1)(37)

Meetings all day. Wake me. 8 sharp.

It’s 8:12 right now. Fuck my life. Groaning, I rush into my room and shrug on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt then speed walk upstairs to the room Lucas has been sleeping in. The door to his room is closed, and I can hear an old Seether and Amy Lee song playing softly on his iPod dock. It’s fitting for how torn he makes me feel. Clenching the door knob, I linger for a moment and try to gather my bearings. I’ve only got five days left, and three those will be spent out of town on the go. If I can’t hold it together for a week then I’m screwed all around.

Every blanket is at the foot of the bed, in a black pool of fabric. He’s sprawled across the mattress on his stomach. Completely naked. Holding my breath, I tiptoe to the bed. I’m standing over him like a creeper and his text explicitly said to wake him up over half an hour ago, but God, I can’t get over how amazing he looks while he’s sleeping.

I have a full view of the tattoos covering his back, and my hands drift over them as I study each one carefully. I decide my favorite is the stopwatch tattoo at the bottom of the piece—inside of the watch is a queen of hearts. I’ve never seen a tattoo like it, and I decide there must be a story behind it. A dare from a band mate, maybe, or something to remember a girl who broke up with him.

That’d explain why he’s such a dick half the time.

Lucas groans into his pile of pillows and mumbles, “Keep your mouth right there—I’ll roll over for you.”

Startled, I bolt straight up, but he catches my wrists, pulls me onto the bed and on top of him. If I was hot before, I’m on the dangerous verge of spontaneously combusting right now. I’m sitting with his cock pressed against my bottom and it’s as hard as it was last night in the piano room. The only difference is that now, he’s not pushing me away. I feel my pulse in my throat, my body temperature rise. Lucas cradles my face between his hands and guides my face down until it’s a mere inches away from his.

For what seems like an eternity we stay this way—staring into each other’s eyes while I straddle his erection. Does he realize that I’m a hip grind away from breaking my oath? That now that he’s touching me and his fingertips are entwined in my hair and his body is so warm against mine I can barely function?

I’d be a liar and a coward if I didn’t admit to myself how good he feels.

“I was a shithead last night,” he whispers. He traces his fingertips down the right side of my cheek, his stroke feather soft. The shape of an “L”—like he’s branding me.

“Is this your way of begging for my forgiveness?”

“No.” He groans, racing his large hands from my face, to my shoulders, and finally to the small of my back. This closes the little bit of space left between us, and when he shifts to get comfortable, I gasp. “Ugh, yes. I’m apologizing for being a douchebag. It’s just—you f*ck with my head, Si.”

You f*ck with my head, says the confusing man. I roll my eyes and start to call bullshit. He pulls my lower lip gently between his teeth.

“The next five days don’t have to blow,” he points out, cupping my ass cheeks.

I fight back the guttural moan building in my throat. I can think of several ways to keep our week civil and most of them involve us in this position—or similar—except there’d be no clothing between us. Only sweat.

“They will if you’re doing that to me day in and day out,” I murmur, referring to the events from last night. He chuckles. The expression sends a warm vibration through my whole body.

“You could just give in right now.”

“Why not just sex? Why does it have to be complicated?”

He pushes me back gently, his hazel eyes burning into me. He lifts his head a little and his hair falls into his eyes. Automatically, I reach out and brush it back. He grabs my fingers and kisses them, one by one. “Because I want you to submit completely to me.”

“Maybe I’m not a very good submissive,” I murmur.

Cocking his head to one side, he gives me a funny look. His hair falls into his eyes again but this time I don’t bother pushing it back. He gives my bottom a little squeeze and raises me off of him. “I’ve gotta be at the studio by 10, so get dressed.”

Another order, but at least I won’t be stuck in this house all day answering Lucas’s fan mail. Yesterday had been a beast considering a good majority of his emails were frantic demands from fans about the chick he was filmed in the bar with.

Despite the tenderness of the last fifteen minutes, he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. I grit my teeth into a sugary smile. “Right on it, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Your teeth,” he warns in a low grow, and I stop grinding them. Just as I reach the door, he says, in a voice that has dropped an octave, “That thing you said about not being a very good submissive?”

“Yes?”

“You will be.”

Lucas’s words play like a song on repeat as I get dressed. Since he didn’t specify what we’re doing after the studio, I opt for a vintage-looking polka dot dress. It’s cute and when I plucked it off the shelf a couple days ago, I instantly thought of Kylie. It’s definitely more her style than mine, so I snap a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror and send her a text. Then I dab on minimum make up and leave my long red hair loose.

Not because Lucas always tells me to wear my hair down.