Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1)

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Lydia Rowan

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Also By Lydia Rowan

S
he hadn’t expected him tonight.

He’d been antsy, restless, last time, and she’d wondered if maybe, finally, one of them had come to their senses. Apparently not, for here he was, tapping at her door at this ungodly hour as he had so many times before. She opened it without looking and, upon realizing what she’d done, braced herself for his reprimand.

He did not disappoint.

“You check first before you open,
da
?” he asked, his cold blue gaze sweeping the small expanse of her home as he entered and began his check.

“Sorry,” she said, though she resented feeling chastised in her own home. But placation, even in circumstances like this, was second nature to her, so better to apologize than risk upsetting him. He murmured indecipherably, clearly distracted by his search.

She watched him prowl the space, much like a lion in a cage, his large, bulky frame making the small studio apartment seem cartoonishly smaller. His gaze quickly moved over the tiny kitchenette, but there was nothing to see there besides the cheap round table with two chairs, two-burner efficiency stove, minifridge, and bar-sized sink. She didn’t even have proper cabinets, just a converted shelf where she stored dry goods. Before, she’d kept the shelf covered with a cheery-patterned curtain but had removed it at his request, his response to inquiry as to why a vague, “It is good to see.” She hadn’t pressed.

Before moving to the final area of the apartment, he quickly took in the living room, where the furnishings consisted of a loveseat she’d reclaimed from the side of the road, a twenty-one-inch television she couldn’t remember where she’d gotten, and a plastic storage bin, which also doubled a coffee table, that contained most of her wardrobe. The few items that she owned that required hanging were discreetly, or so she hoped, hung on a rack in the corner.

She’d curtained off a section of the space to create a bedroom and was silently thankful that he hadn’t asked her to remove that curtain as well. It wasn’t much, just a couple of sheer, iridescent panels of fabric that she’d picked up for practically free, but she loved the illusion they created, how every time she parted them and entered her “bedroom” they made her feel like she was entering an entirely different space, a private oasis of sorts, not that she was lying down on the iron Murphy bed that came preinstalled in the terrace-level studio apartments of a marginal building in a marginal neighborhood. As silly as it was, those curtains were like a turnstile, a barrier at which she could shed all the troubles of the outside world and enter that special place free and buoyed.

She’d never allowed anyone,
anyone
, into that special place, but with him it hadn’t been a question. His presence made her feel much the same way the curtains did, and him behind them was almost otherworldly, an escape from her real life that she’d come to rely on like a drug. Disturbingly so, in fact, as evidenced by her willingness, no, her eagerness, to allow a stranger into her home, to put up with his repeated, and frankly scary, searches, and even to alter her decor, all for just a few illicit hours with him.

It was madness.

She never wanted it to end.

As was their unspoken custom, she moved to the kitchen area and put on a kettle for tea while he did a quick pass of the bathroom. It took less than a minute since the room was microscopic. Still, the transition was an integral part of the routine, and somehow, in those brief seconds that he spent in the bathroom, he went from a lethal-seeming, scary figure to a gentler, softer version. He remained dangerous, of that she had no doubt, but the hardness, the edge, that he entered with evaporated and left the intriguing man she’d grown to crave.

“What kind of tea shall we have today?” he asked in his deep, very lightly accented voice.

She started, though by now she should have been used to his stealthy movements.

“Got me again,” she said with a laugh.

“You get lost in your thoughts. You should pay more attention to your surroundings.”

She suppressed the stab of irritation but couldn’t stop her sarcastic words as she turned to face him. “What, you mean I should be safe? Not talk to strangers and all that?”

Her verbal jab didn’t escape him, and in an instant, his gaze hardened, revealed the predator lurking. She held her breath for a moment, uncertain, worried she’d pushed him too far. But a smile broke through, first in his eyes, followed by the slight upturn of his lips, and like that, the tension faded.

“I am only looking out for you, Julie. Your heart is too kind, and that makes you vulnerable.”

“Or maybe just a fool,” she responded.

He tsked and shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t put yourself down, Julie.”

This was a familiar discussion. He was convinced she was weak and soft, and while she couldn’t fault the assumption, particularly given their unorthodox relationship, she still struggled to convince him she could take care of herself. She’d had tons of practice, after all. He took the offered cup, and they settled at the rickety kitchen table.

“This still wobbles,” he said.

“Always,” she responded.

She wasn’t sure what else to say. During his visits, he’d usually notice that something was broken or cheap, and while she didn’t think he intended the observations as criticisms, they still stung. She had no illusions; her place wasn’t glamorous, or even nice really, but it was hers, and she took pride in it. Others—him actually, since she’d so rarely had guests—might see the small confines, cheap furniture, cramped space, and feel pity, but Julie saw freedom and independence, proof that, as meager as it was, she had carved out a life for herself.

As the silence stretched, she felt the air in the room change, energize. His hands were loosely wrapped around the mug, strong and still, much like the rest of him. That stillness was one of the things Julie had first noticed, and admired, about him. She tended to fidget, reveal the swirling thoughts in her head, her discomfort with herself and with other people, through errant movements, smoothing her shirt, playing with the ends of her hair or, as she did now, rolling a spoon or some other utensil from hand to hand.

Not him though. His every movement was deliberate, precise, each action fluid and smooth, and when at rest, he was as serene as the unbroken surface of a lake. Graceful was the most fitting word, but it seemed too small to fully encompass the tightly controlled yet fluidly sure presence of his large, powerful body. Whatever she called it, it was a stark contrast to her awkwardness, but it made her want him. Every time, it made her want him.

She felt that familiar tingle in her belly, the heavy tug at her breast as her nipples tightened, the moisture gathering at her core. Blue eyes burned into her browns, and he moved his hands to cover hers in the quick, economical way she’d become accustomed to.

“I’ve had enough tea,” he said.

Neither had taken a sip, but she didn’t care. Her palms itched with the need to touch him, and from the darkening of his eyes and the slight curve of his lip, he felt the same.

“Me too,” she responded as she stood, hands still enclosed in his. He stayed seated but pulled her closer, opening his legs so that she could stand between. She imagined straddling him as he sat, sure that the warmth of his body would seep into her, even through their clothing, but resisted the impulse. Not for the first time, she cursed the flimsy chairs, but she couldn’t be too upset, not with him here touching her and silently urging her to do the same to him.

Even sitting, he was tall and his head came to her chest. He ducked down and rested his head on her stomach, laying his cheek on the soft flesh while he ran his hands up and down the sides of her legs. The motion drew her attention to his well-defined shoulders, which flexed in time with his hands, and almost subconsciously she reached up to trace them, her fingers skimming along his flesh, the hardness of the muscle and bone setting off explosions of sensation in the tips of her fingers. She stepped closer and traced lower, moving down his back, knowing that the smooth expanse of skin and muscle beneath the shirt was pristine.

He sighed. “I missed you,
nebesa
.”

She smiled at the endearment. He’d used it before, but she’d never asked what it meant, only cared that when he said it she felt like the most precious, treasured woman on earth. Even if he was, by all reasonable measures, a stranger.

That fact didn’t matter to her body. His touch ignited an inferno inside her, and more of his touch was all that could extinguish it. She shivered when he ran his fingers up the outside of her thighs, catching the hem of her nightgown and pulling it with him as he continued his journey up over her hips with a light caress, up the curve of her waist and sides with another light caress. She took over when he reached her breasts, pursing her lips to contain the moan his touch elicited and taking the bunched fabric up and over her head. Her nipples beaded, from exposure to the cool air or exposure to the heat of his gaze, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, her nipples were instantly at attention, and the moisture pooling in her slit was moments away from spilling into her sensible white panties.

Her standing before him in this state was yet another testament to his dangerous beauty, to the indefinable magnetism that drew her to him against all reason. Julie hated feeling exposed, vulnerable, something he managed to make her feel almost without trying. There was the literal exposure; Lord knew she could barely keep her clothes on when he was around. But more, there was the emotional exposure, the fear and uneasiness at being seen by him this way. Never stereotypically pretty, Julie thought of herself as heavy and squat, but more charitable friends and lovers had called her petite and curvy. She’d always had a realistic view of herself and hadn’t really minded or desired anything more. She’d had fulfilling relationships, and her somewhat reticent nature had mostly protected her from the sharp sting of rejection. Still, even after all the times they’d done this, she always feared, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always to some degree, that he’d realize, finally see, that she was just a pudgy nobody. Even now, as he gripped the backs of her thighs and traced teasing patterns on them with his thumbs, she was afraid to look into his eyes. Stupid, she knew, but there was always a chance he’d find her wanting.

She placed her hands on his forearms, and he continued to stroke but didn’t do anything else. And he wouldn’t, not until she looked into his eyes. Early on, she’d tried to avoid eye contact, avoid confirming what she eventually knew he would see, looking at his chest, his hair, a spot just over his shoulder, but he never let her off that easy. It was equal parts frustrating and arousing, but that quiet unyielding, his unwillingness to let her hide, was why she was almost powerless to resist him.

She moved her hands up his arms as she stepped closer and lifted her gaze to that stubble-covered chin, firm lips, usually set in a hard line but softer now as he touched her, proud nose, and finally, his eyes, deep blue now and gleaming with satisfaction. Her womb clenched with arousal, and he smiled slowly, no doubt aware of his impact. He tilted his head slightly, and she eagerly accepted the invitation, leaning down to kiss his lips. After a moment, he let out a low growl, broke the kiss, and stood, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her close. The fabric of his shirt felt rough against her sensitive nipples, the contrast setting off more shivers.