The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(61)

“Not here,” he says through gritted teeth.

“No?” I ask.

“I have a pretty specific fantasy involving you doing that, and you’ll probably want to be undressed when it happens.”

Joshua Bailey has specific, filthy fantasies about me. The muscle in my core clenches so hard it hurts.





In the hotel room, he pulls me against him the minute the door shuts behind us. We shrug off our coats, and his hands slide to my thighs as I kick off my heels.

I tug at his belt and then stop myself. “Wait,” I command, then go to the bed and lie back against the pillows. “Now undress.”

He grins and slowly, seductively pulls off the jacket, his eyes on me. His button-down is smooth as glass, molding to the curves of his chest. He raises a brow. “Are we good?”

I laugh. “Hell no. Now the shirt.”

His mouth tips up at the corners. “I’m feeling objectified,” he says, making quick work of the buttons.

The shirt falls open. He tugs at the belt, undoing the buckle without instruction, and pulls the zipper down on his neatly pressed pants, watching me the whole time with that slow smile on his face.

The shirt flutters to the floor. The pants follow. There’s a bulge in his boxers that makes me dizzy.

“Now—” I begin, and he shakes his head.

“It’s my turn, Drew,” he says, walking toward the bed. “Pull the dress up.”

It’s a short dress. There is little pulling required. I remove the panties without being asked and let my legs fall open. His lids flutter closed for a moment and then he kneels on the edge of the bed. His lips go to my left thigh, and begin to work their way up.

“I—” I begin.

“Shhh,” he says. His tongue sweeps over my center. “Your time in charge is over, for the moment.” His mouth closes over me. My hands fist the bed sheets at my sides, and all I can do is hold on for dear life.





It’s the middle of the night and I’m lying with my head on his chest and his hand on my hip—just like we did when we were camping except, you know, naked. He really ought to get some sleep and so should I, but this is it. The last time I’m going to see him. “What’s the rest of your week look like?” he asks.

I list it out for him—more interviews here, a two-day press junket in London for a charity thing beginning the moment I arrive, a performance, interviews in Paris, another charity thing, more interviews, a single night off, and then the tour continues as planned.

He runs a hand over my back. “That’s a lot.” His brows are pulled together in that way they are when he’s worried. My heart melts a little.

I smile. “I just spent two weeks in Hawaii, so it’s hard to argue I don’t get enough me time.”

“Do you need to argue it though? How are you even going to function in London all day if you haven’t slept on the plane?”

I look at him. I already know he won’t like the truth. That he will look down on me for the truth, which is that when I can’t keep my eyes open, Davis will locate some cocaine or anything else that might work and prop me up. That I get through a lot of these things like the corpse in Weekend at Bernie’s, dressed up and carted around while someone else moves my limbs. I want him to be the one person I don’t lie to, even if the truth is ugly, but I find in this moment I’m not quite ready.

“I’ll manage,” I reply.

“I still don’t see why you have to,” he argues. “You’ve never said a single word about this guy Davis that makes him sound like someone you’d want around.”

I shrug. “Davis made me what I am. If it weren’t for him, I’d still be playing guitar in a dive bar somewhere, sleeping on friends’ floors.”

“From the sound of it, you’d be happier if you were.”

Maybe I would be if I hadn’t come this far, but going backward now would be a huge failure. “It’s kind of like when you’re driving and you make a wrong turn, but there’s no way to get off the road,” I explain. “I keep waiting for my chance to exit and it never comes. Just like you at the camp. You could do just as much good here, you know. You were so persuasive yesterday. If I had one iota of useful knowledge, I’d have been signing up to help.”

He flashes me a dimple in the dim light. “I think you might be biased,” he says, and there’s something so sweet in his gravelly voice I don’t doubt he’s right. I’d go anywhere he asked me to based on his voice alone. For that dimple, I’d go twice.

“Well, you’ll never know unless you try,” I say. “How about this? You leave your vital work saving lives, and I’ll record a song on acoustic guitar that my fans might not like.”

He laughs. “Yes, that sounds fair.”

I knew I wasn’t going to change his mind, and it’s not as if we would ever be a couple even if I did.

Nothing is going to change. And I’m so sickeningly disappointed by that.





35





JOSH





I’m the one who drives my mother to the oncologist. My father—who has spent years blathering to Joel and me about honor and being a man—is too busy with work and screwing the woman who manages his practice.