Satan (16 page)

She tore open the bag not bothering to untie the ribbons, dug into the tissue, and retrieved the sexy underwear he’d purchased earlier.

“You didn’t actually go into one of
those
lingerie stores? Shit. You must have.” She dangled the matching black sexy bra and pantie set from a finger. “It’s gorgeous and precisely my size. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. I know you’re not a B cup, and the D didn’t look right, so I opted for the C. If you don’t like it, you can return it, and get something else.” Not before she modeled the outfit for him. He hoped she’s brought a pair of CFM black shoes.

“Very dicey—buying lingerie for a woman you’ve just met, but I love it and I’m sure it’ll fit. Thank you.” She pecked him on the mouth.

“My pleasure and I mean those two words. It’s an entirely selfish present. All I could think of when I saw it was taking it off you with my teeth.” He waggled his brows.

She chuckled, cocked her head, and studied him for a moment. “You’re such a contrast to your looks. My first impression of you was this dark, brooding, intense warrior. But you have a wicked sense of humor. And an irresistible bad-boy grin.”

“Such flattery, missy. What’re you angling for?”

“Remember you promised I could get a turn with the being in charge? After breakfast, I’m claiming my turn.” She nuzzled his cheek. “I want to give you a blow job.”

Jesus H. Christ.
He went from zero to tornado lust in half a second. “After our heated discussion on this topic yesterday, I’m not going there. My lips are sealed.”

She fussed with his sweater’s collar. “In answer to your question from yesterday about ‘giving head’—I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

It took him a few moments to snatch his jaw from the floor. She’d never given head? He was going to be her first? Damn, if that didn’t ratchet his desire exponentially. Breakfast promised to be pure, sensual torture. The urge to fast-forward their screwing proved impossible to contain.

He did a fast Uzbek backward count, managed to gather what remained of his self-control, and handed her the last gift bag.

She tore apart the ribbons, fished in the tissue, and retrieved the blindfold and soft cuffs he’d purchased at a sex super store. A hot blush flashed across her throat and face. “Oh my. Another first.”

What?
He raked her features.

“I don’t get it. How can you be so inexperienced? You’re passionate. You come like a house on fire. And at the drop of a hat. You’ve no inhibitions as far as I can tell… Sorry. You don’t have to answer that question.”

Her blush deepened. She glanced to the ceiling. “Catholic convent girls are notorious for their sexual curiosity and their expansive cursing vocabularies. I never picked up
that
habit, mostly because my nonna totally disapproved of swearing. I did, however, suffer from the rabid sex prurience thing. I abhor not knowing anything about a subject and sex was such a secret while I was a teenager that I decided to learn everything I could about the subject. I couldn’t wait to get rid of my virginity, but there was no ‘safe’ opportunities until I went to college. And I wasn’t ‘pretty’ until after my roommate transformed me. So, I picked a guy I liked and respected. Then I found out about that ‘chemistry’ thing—it was almost boring.”

He snorted. “Boring?
You
found sex boring.”

“With him, it was. I’d organize my to-do lists, plan my day. That sort of thing. I broke it off with him, had a couple other relationships, but never got around to an actual blow job. Then I discovered the Rabbit.” She twisted her lips. “TMI?”

“Fuck no. You and I and the Rabbit are going to become best friends.” His dick throbbed and his stones quivered in anticipation. “You didn’t bring it along by chance?”

“When I have a real live humungous cock to explore? You must be daft. I’ve read this book,
He Comes Second
, about a kazillion times. I can’t wait to try out his ‘perfect’ blow job steps.”

She wore the sexiest pout, and the half-hooded sultry peek she shot him decimated his good intentions. “Want to delay breakfast?”

“Uh-uh.” She wagged a finger at him. “It’s my turn, after breakfast. You’re not confusing me into having it your way. After breakfast. My turn. What’s that noise?”

“The oven timer. Shall we?” His food appetite had long evaporated, replaced by visions of Angel licking and sucking his cock. He had a hunch she would leave no stone unturned. The unintended pun sliced the edge off his rampant desire.

He stood, pulled her to her feet, curled his arm around her waist, and led her to the kitchen. His thoughts turned to the issue of the Chapman lunch and delivery of his gifts. Her adamant refusal to become involved in his life rankled. It was almost as if she wanted the two of them to spend their time together in complete isolation what with her tech-free holiday suggestion.

“Dollar for them?” She elbowed him.

“My thoughts? Down and dirty. I couldn’t persuade you to a sixty-nine session and then you have your turn?” He winked at her.

“No way Jose. Not budging. I have experiments to conduct. Body parts to taste,” She licked her lips.

His nuts drew up. “You’re going to torture me, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” She beamed at him as they walked into the kitchen. “Omigod. That smells like heaven. What’s in the oven? What can I do?”

“It’s a frittata. According to Destiny, it’s the Italian version of an omelet, only it’s baked. This one, according to the freezer label, is made with spinach, fontina cheese, and prosciutto. You can do the toast. Croissants and toaster’s over there.” He pointed to the pantry and then to the open shelves under the island.

While they worked to assemble breakfast, Satan contemplated different strategies. No matter what her protests were, she
would
attend the lunch, and he
would
weave her into the fabric of his life. He knew everyone, the entire Chapman family, including Sinner’s mom, who was a matchmaker on steroids, would welcome her with trumpets blaring. He had never taken anyone to the Chapman family lunch, and his statement would be obvious.

No one could resist the magic of the family atmosphere created by the love, joy, and happiness exuded by every single person who attended the event. Out of sheer loyalty, every single member of the Hades team, in particular the wives, would band together to win Angel over. Jess had said as much when they spoke.

A celebratory spirit claimed him. He popped open a bottle of Prosecco, juiced a few oranges, and mixed a carafe of mimosas.

Six minutes later, they were seated at the table, plates loaded with buttered and jammed crisp halved croissants, wedges of frittata, and mimosas.

“Your turn to toast.” He picked up his flute.

For brief seconds her lips trembled and her eyes brimmed, then she blinked, tossed her hair back over one shoulder, cupped her crystal glass, and grinned. “To the perfect blow job.”

“Minx. To the perfect blow job.” He returned her smile, and they clinked glasses.

What had caused her fleeting forlornness? That look, one of abject loneliness and dejection, would haunt him forever. The acute pain in her eyes seared him to his core.

He forked a portion of frittata into his mouth. Unlike him, she had happy Christmas memories, and it was probably a flash of a precious moment that had triggered her transient despondence. Maybe talking about it would be cathartic for her.

“This is absolutely delicious. I wonder if this is the typical Christmas breakfast in Italy.” She crunched on a bite of her croissant.

“What’s the traditional Trini Christmas breakfast?” He kept a surreptitious eye on her.

“Garlic Pork, or Buljol and Bakes, or Pastelles, or plain eggs and bacon or ham. It all depends upon your ethnic background.”

A tad surprised, he asked, “
Garlic
pork
for breakfast? Doesn’t sound too appetizing.”

“O.M.G. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it. Agreed. It doesn’t sound yummy, but it’s scrumptious. Cubes of boneless pork are steeped in a mixture of garlic, vinegar, and thyme for five days. Then they’re steamed, dried, and deep-fried. Garlic pork’s served with toast and vodka and orange juice. The vodka cuts the garlic, so you don’t repeat it for the rest of the day.”

She spoke with her hands, stabbing the fork, or waving the knife to emphasize a word.

“Sounds like a lot of work and preparation. And this is served only on Christmas day?”

The most unusual food he’d had in Trinidad on his last trip was a rice and chicken dish made with pigeon peas, coconut milk, and scotch bonnet pepper that the waitress explained was called “Pilau.”

“Nah. It’s eaten first on Christmas day, and then every morning after that until that year’s batch runs out. Garlic pork’s peculiar to those of Portuguese descent in the West Indies. When my nonna was alive, my parents always went away for Christmas and it was just the three of us on Christmas morning. We had bacon and eggs, but Martin’s best friend always invited us over for their breakfast. That’s how I first tasted garlic pork.”

Her parents went away? They left their kids alone? Save for her paternal grandmother? To hide his shock, Satan reached for the chilled carafe nestled in the silver ice bucket on the table. He topped off her mimosa and his. Even his parents hadn’t been capable of such an act of rejection.

“What about the others you mentioned? Buljol and bake? Can’t remember the rest.” He half-listened to her explanation about the foods. Buljol was made with salted cod, a bake was a type of fried bread, and a pastelle was the Caribbean equivalent of a tamale.

She put down her cutlery and turned to him. “What about you? What did you and your parents do on Christmas morning?”

“My mother didn’t believe in ostentatious gestures. We were each allowed one gift, which we opened at the breakfast table before the meal was served. I was free for the day after that. Once Sinner and I became friends, I spent the rest of Christmas day with his family. Colleen and Gavin Chapman treat me like one of their brood.” He pushed aside his plate. “Shall we retire to the library? I’m anxious to open my gift. And I do believe that my gift opening supersedes your turn.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you? You know that I can’t win that argument. You just wait, Satan—my turn’s going to last hours.”

“You are the quintessence of cuteness when you’re annoyed.” He grabbed the ice bucket and lurched to standing. “Get moving, darlin’. Wouldn’t want macowell syndrome to set in. Grab the flutes.”

She grinned and obeyed his orders. “Macowell syndrome. Now that’s cute. You did that
so
well. We’ll make a Trini of you yet.”

“I need to phone Sinner and let him know I won’t be coming. Go ahead. I’ll join you in the library in a few. We’ll clean up later.”

Satan waited until she left the room before he rushed to his study. He conference-called the entire Squad and outlined his plans. Satisfied with his arrangements, he headed to the library with the bucket and the carafe of mimosas.

Angel was standing by the tree, but looked…different. She wore the same dress, but now her whole demeanor shouted sex siren. It took a few seconds before he ascertained the changes. She wore full make up. Satan had dated enough models to recognize a professional camera-ready maquillage. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, the hue of her irises more of a jeweled sapphire, her lashes thicker and fuller making her eyes dominate her face, if it weren’t for her luscious lips.

“I’ve been thinking. You should go. To the lunch.”

His blued balls begged to differ. “If you believe for one moment that I’m leaving your side either today or tomorrow—you’re not as whip-smart as I thought.”

Her mouth pursed. “I’m sure the children will be disappointed. Are you their Uncle Lorcan?”

“Yep. I’ll see them on Saturday, when you have to go into town.” The truth, nothing but the absolute truth and yet, a lie. “You’re wearing shoes. Show me.”

She canted her hips forward, and the slit in the dress parted to reveal her upper thighs. His gaze alighted on her red-sparkle painted toes resting on a delicate glass-slipper style sandal of the same hue as her toenails.

He yearned to capture her right at that instant. She radiated a luminous sexuality, and he swore she quivered all over in anticipation of his unwrapping. He sported the boner of the century. She had him wound tight and ready to explode.

“You have another present that must be opened before me.” She pointed to a box resting on the sofa.

She surprised him again.

He shook his head, placed the bucket next to the flutes on the coffee table, picked up the box, and shot her a sidelong glance. “Minx.”

“I’m going to have to look that word up. I’m not certain it’s a compliment.” He untied the bow, lifted the lid, and pushed back the transparent tissue. For a two-second delay he didn’t recognize what he saw. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

The man’s laughter proved way too catching and Angel had to smile back at him. At least the gift hadn’t insulted him.

When his guffaws subsided, he plucked the plastic-encased red ring from the box, and twirled it on one finger. “A cock ring? You think I need help staying hard around you?”

“Not to get you hard. To keep you hard. For your prolonged torture. When it’s my turn.” She sent him a smug smile.

“Vixen and Angel all rolled into one. I’m beginning to look forward to ‘your turn.’”

“There’s more in there.” She chin-pointed to the box.

He dropped the lid on the leather sofa and pulled the silk bathrobe from the box bottom.

“The one in your bathroom’s a tad on the ratty side. I think you should wear my present to unwrap yours.”

The bathrobe purchase had been pure impulse. She passed a shop window, noticed the classic Bond silk robe on the male mannequin, complete with required cigar, and rocks glass filled with a rich golden liquid. The second Angel glimpsed the colors of the material, a rich onyx inlaid with scarlet thread, she pictured Satan wearing the robe, the silk swirling over his thighs when he strode toward her.