There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(50)

“Are you serious!?” she cries. Mara’s not an early riser.

“That’s why they call it a morning show—‘cause it’s at the goddamned crack of dawn.”

“I’m so nervous. I’m not gonna sleep a wink.”

“Do you want an Ambien? I brought two with me.”

She considers, tapping one nicely polished nail against her lower teeth. “What if I can’t wake up in time?”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll set an alarm.”

“Alright,” she agrees, sighing in relief. “Otherwise I’ll be exhausted.”

We settle in at the Chateau Marmont, where I’ve booked us a suite overlooking Sunset Boulevard. I thought Mara would like its architecture and the Old Hollywood history.

“Howard Hughes lived here,” I tell her. “Desi Arnaz would come stay whenever he was fighting with Lucille Ball. Bette Davis almost burned it down—twice. And Sharon Tate moved out of the hotel six months before she was killed. John Belushi and Helmut Newton both died here.”

I looked all this up beforehand, knowing it would interest her. Mara likes anything historical, tragic, or glamorous.

“The hotel’s in lots of movies, too,” I continue. “La La Land … A Star Is Born …”

“Really?” Mara gasps. “La La Land’s one of my favorites.”

“I know,” I laugh. “You play that one song from it all the time.”

“That’s right,” Mara says, pleased that I remembered.

Our room isn’t as luxurious as some of the places I’ve stayed, but Mara is never picky. She runs around the room, admiring the old-fashioned furniture and striped wallpaper.

She’s keyed up about the interview, equal parts giddy and terrified.

“I always think I want attention until I actually get it … I hope I don’t say something weird that gets turned into a meme. Like when Brett Kavanaugh told everybody he was a virgin in school, and for ‘many years after.’ ”

Mara shudders, imagining her face splashed all over templates.

“All publicity is good publicity.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“It is when you’re this hot,” I say, seizing her and throwing her down on the bed, which creaks and groans beneath her.

“Wait,” she says. “Give me the Ambien first.”

“You sure? Those things are strong.”

“Yeah. I like that floating feeling in sex. Like I’m half in my body and half out. Like you could do anything to me …”

My heart rate spikes as a gallon of adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream. I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep control of myself.

“You kinky little fuck.”

I hand her the small pink pills and a bottle of water stamped with the hotel’s logo. Mara tosses down the pills, chugging half the water as well.

“Perfect.” She grins.

She’s full of rowdy energy, amped up with nerves and excitement. She pushes me back on the bed, saying, “Sit there.”

I lean back against the pillows, waiting to see what this wild little thing has in mind.

Mara is the only person on this planet from whom I occasionally take orders, purely out of curiosity. No matter how much time I spend with her, I still can’t predict exactly what she’ll do next. That’s why she’s endlessly fascinating to me. She doesn’t fall into routine. She doesn’t pick the obvious choice. And she sure as fuck doesn’t behave herself.

Mara takes my Bluetooth speaker out of her suitcase, the one that usually resides in the bathroom. She sets it up on the dresser, streaming music from her phone.

The Devil is a Gentleman – Merci Raines

Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple





The beat flows into the room, mysterious and sultry, with a hint of playfulness. As soon as she hears it, she closes her eyes and starts swaying, shoulders first, then hips. She knows how to move. In fact, she has to move. She can’t hear music without it taking over her body.

I liked music well enough, but I never understood its full power until I met Mara. She unerringly selects songs with an irresistible beat and an overpowering mood. She finds the songs that tickle your brain, that fire up the neurons until you can almost see the notes sparking in the air around you.

Mara throws open the heavy drapes covering the windows, letting in the last of the late afternoon sunshine, revealing the view of the Hollywood Hills.

She stands directly in front of the window, framed by the glass, her body a shadowed silhouette, gold around the edges. She’s still dancing, running her hands through her hair and down her curves.

Slowly, she unzips the front of her hoodie. She shimmies out of it, languorously sliding the sleeves down her arms, then flinging it away from her so it sails across the room and lands on top of the lampshade. Underneath, she wears only a thin undershirt, through which I can clearly see the outline of her nipples, the shape of the silver rings, and the indent of her navel.

Next, her jeans: she unzips the front, her fingers light and teasing, taking her time. Turning away from me, she slides the jeans down over the round globes of her ass, bisected by her thong.

I want to unzip my own pants because my cock is raging against the fly, but I wait, eyes fixed on Mara, cheeks throbbing from how hard I’m biting them. She’s stoking my fire. The impulse to jump up from this bed and seize her is torturous. It takes everything I have to stay still.