Devoured Book 1 - Page 34

Then devours me.

And I let it. The only difference is that now, it’s in person and once it’s over I’ll have to face the real Lucas Wolfe and not the poor excuse I keep in my nightstand drawer.

Lucas’s shoulders relax a little as he pushes out the last few chords. He scribbles something into a tattered blue notebook, reading over his notes a few times before he lifts sleepy, hazel eyes to mine. Locks of his messy, dark hair spill into one of them. “I didn’t call for you,” he says huskily. “What do you want?”

“I-I didn’t realize you played,” I whisper. G.o.d, where’s my voice? My nerve? Why the f**k do I come apart when I’m around him?

“Google is your friend.”

I feel my body ignite, but when I turn to leave, he says softly, “Stay. I don’t want to . . .” And though there’s a part of me that wants to take advantage of the vulnerability in his voice, there’s another part that’s reminding me of my deal with this man. I’m at his beck and call for the next five days.

And now, he wants me with him.

Tentatively, I walk forward. The tile is cold under my bare feet, and I wish I’d never gotten out of bed. I stand next to the piano and cross my arms over my chest. “How long do you need me for?” I demand, glaring down at him.

He’s writing in his notebook again—shorthand lyrics from the look of things—but his lips move into a slow grin that makes those uncomfortable flutters start in the pit of my stomach again. Does he realize how much these little gestures screw with my resolve?

Of course he does.

“Long as it takes,” he says.

“For what?”

Lifting an eyebrow, he tilts his head to one side and studies me for a good minute before starting to play again. It’s the same song from before, but now he’s changed the key, slowed it down. Now it’s haunting and unnerving. He sings along in some spots. The lyrics aren’t whole enough to fully make sense, but paired with his voice, they’re the s.e.xiest I’ve ever heard. He sings about keeping the lights on and f**king right now, and I feel like it’s an invitation meant only for me. All of the sudden, my throat is dry.

He glances up at me when he’s done. “Well?”

I flick the tip of my tongue over my lips. His body stiffens. “The end is wrong,” I murmur. “Too happy. It should be”—I move forward, lean down, and play several chords—“this.”

“You play?”

“Google is your friend, Wolfe.”

He stands, slides the bench to the wall and gestures almost sarcastically to the piano. “Play it again.”

I don’t argue. I’m too tired and too worked up and all I want is to go back upstairs and climb in bed. I stand behind the keyboard and repeat the chords.

“Again. Slower. And this time, close your eyes, Red.”

I do what he asks. The moment I smell his cologne, though, I miss a key. “This is when you tell me to have s.e.x with you then make me run out for Cheetos, right?” I ask, my voice high-pitched and strained.

He laughs. I swear I feel his mouth on my skin, even though he’s not touching me. “Cheetos suck. And you know what you have to do for me to have s.e.x with you,” he says.

Gritting my teeth, I slam my palms down on the piano. The keys make a horrible screeching noise. I glance over my shoulder into his hazel eyes. “Since you don’t need me, can I go to bed, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Abso-f.u.c.king-lutely not. Look Si . . . all you’ve got to do is say the words.”

“And what would those be?”

He dips his face down, bringing his mouth so close to mine we’re only a breath away from kissing. From tearing each other down. From the inevitable. “Take me all the way, Lucas,” he drawls in his best impersonation of my accent. “And that’s what you’re going to say the first time we f**k. My name. Just Lucas.”

But the thing is, the last—and only—time I was weak enough to avoid the inevitable with this man, he treated me like s.h.i.t. I won’t let him do that to me again. “f.u.c.k you, Lucas.”

My words don’t faze him. He’s boasting that c.o.c.ky look that always makes me want to chop him in the throat. Instead—like an idiot—I rise up on my toes and crush my mouth to his. His tongue parts my lips. He still refuses to touch me, so I whisper, “Please . . . your hands . . . I want your hands touching me from now on.”

I’m safe as long as I’m in control.

Keep telling yourself that.

He doesn’t cup my face or touch my hair or anything romantic like that. He roams his hand down my body, over the curve of my hips, until he’s between my legs, his palm pressing against my panties. He draws his mouth away from mine. “f.u.c.k me, you’re wet,” he says. “Say the words.”

“No.”

“Turn around, and play. Same as before and don’t stop,” he orders.

I expect him to take his hands away from me when I start, but he doesn’t. I’m one chord in when his fingers slide under my panties. Three measures when he pushes one finger inside me. I gasp and he growls in my ear.

“Don’t. f.u.c.king. Stop.”

He slips another finger inside of my body, and then moves his hand, hard and fast. Back and forth until I swear I’m dying. I whimper. He breathes heavily into my hair, and I curve my bottom toward him. He’s hard. He’s so f**king hard that I’m suddenly grinding against his hand. And the moment his calloused thumb presses on my c.l.i.t, I come. I slump against the keyboard on my elbows, my a.s.s in the air. I don’t have it in me to play anymore, but I don’t think he could give two s.h.i.ts. He’s staring down at me with his lips pressed into a thin line and all I can think of is how I want them and his tongue on me.