The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(27)

His eyes fall shut for a moment before they open and he takes charge, pushing me back on his desk then wrenching my skirt up around my waist. He glances down at me, splayed out before him. “I knew it,” he says, sounding almost angry as he tugs at my wisp of a thong, letting it snap back against my skin. The sting it leaves behind is pleasure and pain at once. “I fucking knew it was something like this under that skirt.”

He reaches past me. I hear the telltale crinkle of foil, a reminder that this is common for him and that I’m undoubtedly not the first female who’s been fucked on this desk. It will bother me later, but right now, it’s washed away by a heavy fog of anticipation.

He grabs one knee and holds it aloft as he lines himself up. “You’re sure, Gemma?” he asks, his voice low, desperate.

“You’re still talking too much,” I reply, and he thrusts. The fit is tight, exquisite and painful at once, and he’s only halfway in.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You okay?” His voice is all gravel now.

“Yes,” I groan, and then I grab his hips—a silent plea for more—and he pushes in the rest of the way.

He holds still for a moment, eyes squeezed tight, waiting for me to adjust to his size. It’s only when I arch my hips that he begins to move, sliding slowly in and out. I never come twice in a row, but…I think I’m going to. The way he’s focused on me, the fullness of it, even the hint of pain—somehow, they conspire to create something bigger and brighter and better than anything I’ve felt before. One handed, he unbuttons my blouse, still pushing inside me. His fingers slip into the cup of my bra, pinching my nipple. It hurts and threatens to topple me right off the edge at the same time. I cry out involuntarily, and he flinches, trying not to come. His brow is damp, his face strained.

“Beg,” he commands. His thrusts come fast and then stop.

I’m seconds away.

“Oh, god.” I arch against the desk. “Please.”

“Please what?” His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck me harder. I’m so close.”

He does. He gives me everything, and then he leans over and finds my mouth, kissing me with the same degree of force, and I meet him—kissing, biting his skin in my desperation.

“I’m going to—” is all I get out before it’s on me again, rolling over me while he thrusts jerkily once, twice, groaning, against my ear.

His weight falls atop mine, and we are as close as we could possibly be, both of us gasping for breath. I turn my nose toward his neck and breathe him in, the smell of his soap mingling with his sweat.

I wish we could stay like this forever.

It’s a bizarre thing to think, clearly the product of oxytocin, a hormone known to cause stupidity, but I feel lost when he finally pulls away.

He ties off the condom and puts it in the trash while I push my skirt down and rebutton my blouse.

I have no idea how to gracefully extricate myself from this situation. I want to leave and I want to stay, and I wish I could press pause on this moment just long enough to figure out which of those things is the right response.

He meets my eye, a small grin on his face. “Told you you’d beg.”

I stiffen. It’s not like I expected him to write me a love poem now, but I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for him to act like it was all a fucking game, and why I ever expected anything more of Ben is beyond me. It’s a lesson I’ve had hammered home more than anyone alive.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

I walk straight out of his office, grabbing my purse from the conference room and heading for the elevator. I can’t imagine why I’m so bitterly disappointed. I can’t imagine why I feel so beaten and bereft. I haven’t actually lost anything.

The elevator doors slide open and I step inside.

“Gemma,” he calls after me, zipping up his pants. “Fuck. Gemma, wait. It was a joke.”

The elevator doors shut and I let my weight sag against them. My God, I will never fucking learn.





On my last day at Stadler, I was escorted out by a security guard, as if I was a criminal. A group of male partners sat inside a glass-walled conference room watching—men with all the power, who thought nothing of destroying a young female if it made their lives a little easier.

Meg and Kirsten watched too. Impassively, without an ounce of guilt.

I was ashamed and I was horrified, but most of all, I was angry. Fuck all of you, I thought, every last one of you.

And, really, I never stopped thinking it. About them. About everyone.

It was a good strategy.





18





I wake in the morning to find my pajamas missing and the sheets stuck to me. The entire night was basically one long, pornographic dream about Ben. A dream he kept ruining by saying, “I told you you’d beg” at the end.

In my head, he’s now said it a thousand times, and that smirk of his gets a little more smug and evil in each iteration.

He’s texted several times. It was a joke. A stupid, poorly timed one, he said. And then: Fuck. Will you please say something?

Forget about it, I replied. I already have.

Even if it isn’t true, it should be, and that’s the best I can do for now.

I take extra care getting ready for work. I wear my Louboutins with a skirt that shows slightly more leg than normal. “This is not for him,” I tell my reflection as I apply mascara.