The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(26)

And then he turns and walks out of the room.

I stand frozen, astonished by the whole thing. And then it hits me: He has one half of my lucky heels, my irreplaceable seven-hundred-dollar Manolos. What the hell? Why couldn’t I have thrown a book or a stapler, or a microwave like a normal person?

He might break it. He will break it, intentionally. “Ha-ha,” he’ll say, laughing maniacally like the villain he is, “she’ll have to go home barefoot.”

I need that shoe.

Panicked, I grab the other Manolo and run around the table to chase after him. “Wait!”

He goes into his office and shuts the door. “Ben! Please! I’m sorry! Don’t destroy it!”

There is no response, so I grab my phone and text.

Me: Please. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt my shoe.

I hear the low hum of his laughter from the other side of the door and the distinct sound of scissors. Then there are three dots beneath my text, which means he is replying.

Ben: Beg.

Rage spikes in my chest, but for once in my life common sense overrides it. Those shoes are irreplaceable.

Me: I’m begging. Please give me back my shoe.

Ben: In person.

I try his door, which is now unlocked. He’s sitting behind his desk with a broad grin on his face. He holds my shoe aloft in his left hand, the scissors in his right. “Hello, Miss Shoe,” he says. “Have you met my friend, Mr. Scissors?”

“Don’t,” I plead. “I’m sorry I threw it, okay? I’m sorry.”

He spins the slingback around on his index finger. I want to demand he stop because he might stretch out the delicate suede, but I somehow refrain. “You know what you have to do,” he says.

I squeeze my eyes tight, breathe deeply, and pray for patience. “Please give me my shoe back. I am very sorry I threw it at you.”

“Did you think about our kiss?” he asks.

My jaw grinds. “Is a confession you extorted really the best you can do?”

“I’ll take your refusal to answer as an answer.” He rises and comes to my side of the desk, where he then kneels beside my foot and picks it up in his hand, his thumb sliding slowly over the arch.

Goose bumps break out across the surface of my skin. A small fever starts to spread through my blood.

He slips the shoe on before he takes the other from me and slips that on as well, his hand lingering on my ankle. “You aren’t very good at begging, by the way,” he says, his voice low and rough.

“Maybe you’re not good at making women beg,” I reply, my words husky and full of longing.

“What’s that?” he asks. And then slowly, insistently, his hand slides up my leg. The soft trail of his palm over my skin and the rough purr to his voice make it hard to think. All concern about my shoe is abandoned and now there is only want, a wave of it so strong that I need to grip the desk to keep my bearings under it.

“I said—” I inhale as his palm slides above my knee “—maybe you’re not good at making women beg.”

His hand brushes against my inner thigh and I make no move to stop him.

“You know what I think?” he asks, climbing to his feet just as his hand reaches my thong. He’s never watched my face more carefully than he is at this moment. “I think you get off on fighting with me.”

This is crazy, Gemma. You need to make it stop.

“I think you talk too much,” I whisper.

He holds my eye as his fingers slip under the seam of my thong. “Jesus,” he groans, “you’re so wet.” It’s embarrassing, but before I can pull away, he steps closer, his free hand landing on my hip to hold me in place. “Don’t even think about backing out now,” he says against my ear, and there’s both command and desperation in his voice.

His fingers begin to move—small, delicate circles that have me bracing against his desk, sucking in tiny sips of air. His eyes are on my face, his free hand still spread wide and unrelenting over my hip. It’s almost too intense—the things he is doing to me, the way he watches. My gaze lowers to his clenched jaw, to his chest, rising and falling faster than normal.

I can’t believe I’m letting him do this. I can’t believe I basically encouraged him to do this and, oh my God—I’m already close. My eyelids lower, and he steps near enough for me to feel his breath on my face, to smell his soap and aftershave and the starch of his shirt.

Two fingers slide inside me, harder, more insistently than before. My muscles tense as he moves his index finger in exactly the right way, and I grip the desk.

“I’ve wanted to watch your face when you come for so fucking long,” he says, gripping my hair, pulling my head back so all I can see is him. His jaw is locked tight, as if he’s barely restraining himself. “Go ahead. I know you want to.”

I’ve never seen what Ben looks like when he wants something desperately, until now. It’s that, as much as anything, forcing me to give in at last. I let go with a small cry, my eyes closing, the world going black and blissful as his fingers maintain their pace.

“God, I love that,” he rasps.

I reach for his belt, then flick the button of his pants before tugging down the zipper. I slide my hand inside his boxers and he gives a single, sharp inhale.

He is hot, hard as steel, long and wide. Air hisses between his teeth as I run my palm over him, once, twice. I can already imagine the feel of it along my tongue, the greedy way he’ll watch.