The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(41)

“You,” he says, the words timed with his thrusts, “are so fucking mouthy.”

“You love it,” I gasp as he seats himself inside me again. And it’s only after I’ve said the words that I realize how true they are. He does love it. No matter what I do to keep him at arm’s length, he keeps coming back for me.

The sounds we make echo inside the pantry—my gasps and his filthy words against my ear, my body hitting the door with each wet thrust.

“Jesus,” he gasps, “I’m so close, Gemma. Tell me what to do.”

I pull one of his hands between my legs. “That.”

He gives a low groan. “That just made it worse. I’m gonna come so fucking hard, baby.”

I can’t begin to explain why his words have the effect they do. Why I shiver, why my skin breaks out in goose bumps. Maybe it’s the quiet desperation in his voice as he says them. Maybe some stupid part of me likes being called baby. “God, yes,” I whisper. “Just like that.”

“You’re close?” he asks. “Oh. God. God.”

The idea of him losing control like this is what puts me over the edge. “Cover my mouth,” I beg, and he does, sinking his teeth into my shoulder to muffle his groan as we both fall apart.

For a single moment it’s like I’m floating in space, released at last from everything. I have no idea why we haven’t been doing exactly this, all along. I don’t even remember why I hated him or why I’ve been pushing him away.

When my eyes open, my cheek is flat to the door, my fingers and legs spread wide. I can still feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

I want to stay like this. I want him to remain inside me, pressed to my back, still overcome by something that had even a little bit to do with me.

He slides out, still hard. I tuck my shirt in while he does God-knows-what with the condom.

“If you’re leaving that for Debbie to find, make sure you label it so she knows it’s yours.”

“I’ll borrow those Sharpies you ordered,” he says with a quiet smile, one that almost seems…affectionate.

That smile leaves me feeling strangely weak and uncertain. It makes me want to believe he’s not someone like my dad, that he won’t eventually take some naïve woman’s best years and destroy her when he’s ready for fresher fields.

I swallow. “Are we good?”

He arches a brow, and then he presses me to the door. His kiss is soft, slow and very thorough. “Has anyone ever told you your post-coital charm could use some work?”

I laugh. “Why would I bother being charming now? I already got what I came here for.”

He tips my chin up to face him. “So you’re admitting you came to the break room hoping this would happen?”

Dammit.

“I’m admitting I came to the break room hoping to find something to eat and didn’t object to this happening.”

He studies my face, searching for something. “Why don’t we go to dinner?” he says at last.

I bite my lip. Why the hell would we sit down together on purpose? I can’t imagine what we will possibly have to say to each other over a meal once we’re through discussing the case. “It’s late,” I reply.

His head tilts. “Tomorrow, then.” I’m not sure if his persistence is cute or aggravating. But then his lips brush my temple, my cheek, as if I’m precious to him, and the ice in my heart melts a little.

“This isn’t some elaborate attempt to poison me, is it?”

His mouth curves to the side. “Not an elaborate one, no.”

I laugh. “Okay,” I concede. Maybe he’s not irritating. Maybe there’s a rope stretched taut between us and he’s doing his best to keep me from dropping my end and walking away. And maybe, possibly, he’s a little uncertain too.

“I’ll get us a table at Bavel,” he says.

It’s a restaurant I’ve always wanted to try, but this is weird, us agreeing with each other. “What if I hate Mediterranean food?” I challenge.

“Then it would be pretty bizarre that you go get it on the three days you eat lunch. Salad with feta and hummus and grilled chicken.”

How the hell does he know what I eat three days a week? It’s unsettling.

“I see your poisoning scheme has been in the works for some time,” I finally say, because it’s safer than wondering too hard about why he knows my lunch order.

He laughs to himself, as if he’s participating in a different version of our story than I am, and kisses me before reaching for the doorknob. “Stay put. I’ll knock if it’s clear.”

A moment later the knock comes, and I step into the light, my teeth sinking into my lip. There are terrifying things inside me right now—gratitude, hope, fear. I don’t want to let any of them grow.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“Six fifteen tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll drive.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not letting you chicken out of this, Gemma.”

I’m about to argue that I wouldn’t chicken out of anything, but that’s entirely untrue.

I’ve been hiding under the covers for the two years since Ben arrived.