The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(75)

Me: Why didn’t you tell me Presley quit?

Graham: Prescott? How do you even know who Prescott is?

Me: Mark. You can tell me that stuff, you know.

Graham: I thought you said everything about my work was boring.

Me: It is. It’s super boring. But I still want to know.

Graham: I feel like this isn’t really about Prescott.

Me: Ignore me. I’ve had a hard week. You have, too, apparently.

I wait for him to ask how my week was hard, because he’d usually ask, or to tell me something more.

I wait and wait, but he doesn’t even reply.





Friday feels like the world’s longest day, though I leave at a reasonable hour for once.

When I get to my building, I stop by the front desk to thank Jacobson for letting the delivery guys into my apartment, and he waves me off. “I didn’t need to. Graham took care of it.”

“He’s here?” I ask, my heart racing.

Jacobson raises a brow. “I figured you’d be the first to know.”

I’m never the first to know, but he’s here and I’m too excited to be sad about that. I walk-run to the elevator and then down my hall, bursting into my apartment with no couth whatsoever.

He’s in the kitchen, in shorts and a t-shirt, making a pie. I don’t know why the sight of him makes my trachea feel half its normal size.

“You’re home,” I say, then swallow hard. Oh God, do not let me cry over this. Do not.

He gives me an uncertain smile. “You’re home. Hours early.”

“I lied about a doctor’s appointment so I could leave,” I admit, and he laughs. “What happened? You said you’d be gone until Wednesday.”

“I’ve got to head back in the morning. I just thought—” He looks at me, his tongue prodding his cheek. “You said you’d had a hard week. I thought maybe I ought to be here.”

I open my mouth to tell him he didn’t need to do that, and instead burst into tears.

In seconds, his arms are around me. “Keeley, what’s going on? Is this just a pregnancy thing or is it something else?”

I sob against his chest. “You haven’t been weird at all,” I cry. “Ever since we slept together, you haven’t been weird at all.”

He laughs quietly. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No. Why hasn’t it been weird for you? Because it’s been different for me, but you’re just business as usual. It’s like it was meaningless.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then his arms tighten around me. “Keeley, if I don’t seem any different…it’s because I’m not. I’ve been trying to get over you for months, and…I’m still trying. I’m going to be trying for a long while. This is just what it looks like.”

A tiny flame ignites inside me, flickering at first and then growing stronger. He wants this. He wants us. And it’s incredibly risky and doomed to failure, but I want it too.

I place my palms on his chest as I look up at him. “I don’t want you to get over it, Graham.”

He swallows, hope and uncertainty dancing in his eyes. “You once said you were a butterfly who couldn’t stay in one place for long.”

I take a deep breath before I answer. “Maybe I just needed a safe place to land.”

He searches my face just long enough to make sure I mean it, and then he leans down with a quiet groan and kisses me.

He smells like cinnamon and soap; he tastes like apples and mint.

His arms—not too tight and not too loose—surround me in a wall of muscle he’ll use to shield me from the world if necessary. His mouth on mine is urgent and perfect. For five days, I’ve missed this and dreamed about it, and it’s even better than I remember.

It’s messy, desperate, and when his hand finally slides inside my panties I gasp in relief. “Fucking finally,” I say, and his laughter is strained.

He pulls the shirt over my head and pushes my skirt around my hips. When I reach into his boxers and palm him, exactly the way he likes, air hisses between his teeth, and then he lifts me onto the counter.

“I’ve got to fuck you now because I can’t stand not to,” he says. “And I apologize in advance for its brevity.”

His mouth tugs at one nipple as he shoves his shorts and boxers down and steps close.

When he pushes inside me, my teeth sink into his shoulder. “This is another really good position,” I gasp.

“I told you,” he says against my ear, his voice tight, “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

He’s careful with me, more careful than he is in those slivers of memory from January. He moves in and out slowly, his jaw flexed as he tries not to come. I know he’s scared about the pregnancy, being gentler than he otherwise would be. I wish I’d paid more attention during my obstetrics rotation…maybe I’d know enough to assure him it isn’t a concern.

His brow is damp, his eyes are dark and drugged. “Are you close?”

“I am. Just do it harder,” I beg. “Stop holding back.”

“Fuck. I shouldn’t,” he says, but everything about his clenched jaw, his tight grip on my hips, tells me he wants to. “Just for a minute.” He gives in with a muffled cry, as if some part of him has finally been set free.