The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(56)

“Okay. But if it’s inedible, you’re taking me to Pinkberry.”

“Deal,” he agrees with a quiet, confident laugh.

When we get home, I change into one of the new maternity tshirts I bought after Ethan’s Tulane sweatshirt disappeared, which Graham claims to know nothing about.

He sets me at the counter to peel and slice the apples while he works on the crust. I watch, mystified, as he scoops flour and sugar into a bowl and mixes it with the butter he set out to soften. He never has to check a recipe once.

“How do you know how to do this?” I ask. “I can’t even boil eggs without looking up the instructions.”

With his hands he kneads the dough then shapes it into a ball. “My great-aunt taught me when I was little,” he says, only glancing up briefly.

“And you remembered it? All this time?”

He hesitates. “My mom was…sick. After my dad died. She had really serious postpartum depression that got missed with everything else going on. Anyway…things went bad for a while, and then my great-aunt came to get us all back on track, and she told me the pies were my job.”

He doesn’t seem bothered by this story at all, but I am. He was eight, which was too young to be given a job of any kind. “I’m not sure an eight-year-old should be using a stove.”

He shakes his head. “It helped, knowing there was something I could do, some way I could make up for things. Anyway, until I left for college, I found myself making a lot of pies.”

“I still wish you hadn’t had to,” I tell him quietly. Our eyes meet and I have to look away. “The apples are ready.”

He says nothing, just starts dumping sugar and cinnamon and—weirdly—jelly into the bowl. “Now we mix it up.” He smiles when I reach for the spoon. “Just get your hands in there. It’s the only way.”

“My bare hands?”

“They’re clean. Come on, doc.” He tugs my fingers into his, placing our joined hands atop all the fruit. “You’ve put your hands into worse things than this.”

Together we mix, our hands sticky, brushing against each other. His hands are large, and rough, and all this wet fruit sliding through our fingers makes me think of other things entirely— of his fingers sliding beneath my thong, pushing inside me in some semi-public place.

“Come on my fingers, Keeley,” he crooned. “Just once. Then I’ll kiss you again.”

I remember the heat between my legs, the ache that felt almost like pain as my thighs braced. The sounds as I got wetter and wetter were exactly like the sounds we’re making right now.

I look up and find his eyes on my face, on my mouth, the same way they were that night. My nipples tighten beneath the smooth fabric of my t-shirt, and the memory has left me soaked. If he would just close the distance between us and kiss me, if he’d just reach beneath my panties with those filthy wet fingers, I’d go off like the grand finale of a fireworks show.

God. No fucking wonder I married him.

I’d probably do it all over again.





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32





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GRAHAM





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JULY





“Can we eat out?” she asks when she walks in the door Thursday night. Her eyes are dreamy. “Dinner out. In a restaurant. Steak, maybe. Or, no, wait…chicken tikka. God, I want chicken tikka so bad.”

Porn stars wish they could moan as convincingly as Keeley does at the idea of chicken tikka. I have my most important meeting of the week early tomorrow morning, but I can’t seem to say no to her.

“Then come on,” I say, rising. “Let’s go.”

Her eyes are wide, as if I’ve told her a Birkin bag is being delivered, made especially for her, which is definitely something I will never tell her, having learned what they cost.

“I’ve got to get dressed!” she shouts. “Ten minutes. No! Twenty!”

She runs toward her room faster than I realized she could move. A man would wind up paying for a whole lot of shit if he was with Keeley, because pleasing her has the strangest rebound effect. I feel something open inside me every time I manage to make her smile.

Thirty minutes later, I’m about to start growling when she emerges from her room in a bright red dress and lips to match.

It’s not a maternity dress, but stretchy enough to contain her…barely. The creamy swell of her breasts threatens to overwhelm the low-cut neck. I’m going to have a really hard time not staring all night. Every other man we pass is going to stare as well, which is the part I have a bigger problem with.

Her hand rests on her stomach. “Is it okay? I…don’t have much I can get into anymore.”

“Maybe it’s time you bought some more maternity clothes.”

Her face falls. “So that’s a no, then.”

“You look fine.” Which is the vastest of understatements. Keeley doesn’t look fine. She looks like the kind of woman you’d see on a billboard and find yourself stopping in place to gawk at. The kind of woman you’d never fucking move on from if you had her once. “People might stare at your breasts.”