Devoured (14 page)

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 sexiest I’ve ever heard. He sings about keeping the lights on and fucking 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 sex 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 sex 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-fucking-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 fuck. 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 shit. I won’t let him do that to me again. “Fuck you, Lucas.”

My words don’t faze him. He’s boasting that cocky 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. “Fuck 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. Fucking. 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 fucking hard that I’m suddenly grinding against his hand. And the moment his calloused thumb presses on my clit, I come. I slump against the keyboard on my elbows, my ass in the air. I don’t have it in me to play anymore, but I don’t think he could give two shits. 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.

And my mouth on him.

“Lucas, I want yo—”

“Go to bed, Sienna.”

Carefully, he pulls his fingers out of my body, and I shudder again. Though my flesh feels like it’s scorching, I manage to stand upright. “No,” I say.

“Let’s try this the way you’re familiar with then: Get the fuck out. I need to work and like I’ve told you before, you’re fucking horrible for music.”

Something sharp and prickly twists my chest. He knows exactly what to say to piss me off. I want to tell him he’s the dumbass who came up with this arrangement in the first place, but I choke back the words. All he’ll do is turn it back on me and remind me why I agreed, throw the deed in my face. I keep my face emotionless and my hands clenched by my sides as I say, “Good night, Mr. Wolfe.”

As I leave the room, I become aware that my panties are still pushed aside. And that as long as I’m around Lucas, he’ll keep consuming me until there’s nothing left. 

I spend the rest of the night alternating between tossing and turning and hating myself, and wishing Lucas was between the sheets with me. When the alarm on my phone goes off at 7am, I drag myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom. Stripping down, I climb into the shower, turn the water as hot as it will go, and stand under the stream with my head leaned against the tile wall. The heat is uncomfortable—in fact, it burns— but it’s helping the vomit-inducing headache beating the hell out of my skull. Today, I’ll need my brain totally clear to deal with Lucas-fucking-Wolfe. 

What the hell was I thinking when I asked him to put his hands on me last night? Frustrated, I bang my fist against the shower wall. Pain shoots through my hand. I ignore it. I’m more concerned at the way I’d melted in Lucas’s hand—literally. And I hate my body for reacting to thoughts of Lucas right now. I’m wet and horny and I feel stupid for letting him fuck with my body and mind.

The water is running cold and the bathroom is a cloud of steam by time I finally step out of the shower. I’m wrapping a thick towel around my body when I notice my phone is blinking. There’s a text message from Lucas. From 3 o’clock this morning. 

Meetings all day. Wake me. 8 sharp.

It’s 8:12 right now. Fuck my life. Groaning, I rush into my room and shrug on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt then speed walk upstairs to the room Lucas has been sleeping in. The door to his room is closed, and I can hear an old Seether and Amy Lee song playing softly on his iPod dock. It’s fitting for how torn he makes me feel. Clenching the door knob, I linger for a moment and try to gather my bearings. I’ve only got five days left, and three those will be spent out of town on the go. If I can’t hold it together for a week then I’m screwed all around.  

Every blanket is at the foot of the bed, in a black pool of fabric. He’s sprawled across the mattress on his stomach. Completely naked. Holding my breath, I tiptoe to the bed. I’m standing over him like a creeper and his text explicitly said to wake him up over half an hour ago, but God, I can’t get over how amazing he looks while he’s sleeping. 

I have a full view of the tattoos covering his back, and my hands drift over them as I study each one carefully. I decide my favorite is the stopwatch tattoo at the bottom of the piece—inside of the watch is a queen of hearts. I’ve never seen a tattoo like it, and I decide there must be a story behind it. A dare from a band mate, maybe, or something to remember a girl who broke up with him. 

That’d explain why he’s such a dick half the time.

Lucas groans into his pile of pillows and mumbles, “Keep your mouth right there—I’ll roll over for you.”

Startled, I bolt straight up, but he catches my wrists, pulls me onto the bed and on top of him. If I was hot before, I’m on the dangerous verge of spontaneously combusting right now. I’m sitting with his cock pressed against my bottom and it’s as hard as it was last night in the piano room. The only difference is that now, he’s not pushing me away. I feel my pulse in my throat, my body temperature rise. Lucas cradles my face between his hands and guides my face down until it’s a mere inches away from his. 

For what seems like an eternity we stay this way—staring into each other’s eyes while I straddle his erection. Does he realize that I’m a hip grind away from breaking my oath? That now that he’s touching me and his fingertips are entwined in my hair and his body is so warm against mine I can barely function?

I’d be a liar and a coward if I didn’t admit to myself how good he feels.

“I was a shithead last night,” he whispers. He traces his fingertips down the right side of my cheek, his stroke feather soft. The shape of an “L”—like he’s branding me.

“Is this your way of begging for my forgiveness?”

“No.” He groans, racing his large hands from my face, to my shoulders, and finally to the small of my back. This closes the little bit of space left between us, and when he shifts to get comfortable, I gasp. “Ugh, yes. I’m apologizing for being a douchebag. It’s just—you fuck with my head, Si.” 

You fuck with my head, says the confusing man. I roll my eyes and start to call bullshit. He pulls my lower lip gently between his teeth.

“The next five days don’t have to blow,” he points out, cupping my ass cheeks. 

I fight back the guttural moan building in my throat. I can think of several ways to keep our week civil and most of them involve us in this position—or similar—except there’d be no clothing between us. Only sweat. 

“They will if you’re doing that to me day in and day out,” I murmur, referring to the events from last night. He chuckles. The expression sends a warm vibration through my whole body.

“You could just give in right now.”

“Why not just sex? Why does it have to be complicated?”

He pushes me back gently, his hazel eyes burning into me. He lifts his head a little and his hair falls into his eyes. Automatically, I reach out and brush it back. He grabs my fingers and kisses them, one by one. “Because I want you to submit completely to me.”

“Maybe I’m not a very good submissive,” I murmur.

Cocking his head to one side, he gives me a funny look. His hair falls into his eyes again but this time I don’t bother pushing it back. He gives my bottom a little squeeze and raises me off of him. “I’ve gotta be at the studio by 10, so get dressed.”

Another order, but at least I won’t be stuck in this house all day answering Lucas’s fan mail. Yesterday had been a beast considering a good majority of his emails were frantic demands from fans about the chick he was filmed in the bar with. 

Despite the tenderness of the last fifteen minutes, he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. I grit my teeth into a sugary smile. “Right on it, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Your teeth,” he warns in a low grow, and I stop grinding them. Just as I reach the door, he says, in a voice that has dropped an octave, “That thing you said about not being a very good submissive?”

 “Yes?”

“You will be.”

Lucas’s words play like a song on repeat as I get dressed. Since he didn’t specify what we’re doing after the studio, I opt for a vintage-looking polka dot dress. It’s cute and when I plucked it off the shelf a couple days ago, I instantly thought of Kylie. It’s definitely more her style than mine, so I snap a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror and send her a text. Then I dab on minimum make up and leave my long red hair loose. 

Not because Lucas always tells me to wear my hair down.

Of course not.

While I wait for Lucas to call for me, I check my Facebook.

There’s a message from Tori. Okay, three messages from Tori. They all pretty much say the same thing—
don’t have sex with Lucas
—but the last one makes me laugh. She’s gone the extra mile and put her message into one of those eCards she sends me whenever Tomas is behaving badly at work. It’s a picture of some Edwardian woman being groped and the caption reads:

May your attempts at having sex with me result in a guitar being smashed over your head. Which head is open for debate . . . . 

Shaking my head, I shoot her back a quick message:
Be nice. Hope you’re being good. Miss you like crazy, you beautiful girl, and thanks again for listening to me yesterday.
I move the mouse up to close out the page, but someone sends me an instant message. It’s Kylie.

Kylie Martin:
Loved the dress! I see Lucas made you go shopping. He treating you well?

Me:
Besides bossing me around and being hell-bent on making me his submissive? 

Kylie Martin:
. . . I could’ve lived without knowing half of that.

I snort. She had asked how her brother was treating me. Did she really think I’d hold anything back considering she’s already fully aware of all his vices?

Kylie Martin:
Look on the bright side—5 more days and I’ll be back, your job will be done, AND you’ll be able to give your grandmamma the deed to her place back. Easiest mega-chunk of change ever made, right?

No, wrong. Very, very wrong. How can anything be easy when being around Lucas makes my emotions feel like they’re in a game of extreme tug of war? Was Lucas always so dominating or did it happen once he became famous? Was there ever a point in his life where he wasn’t so dynamic? Regardless, I know one thing: Gram is the only person I would put myself out there like this for—I wouldn’t have even agreed to this arrangement to save my own place because of all the physical and emotional turmoil involved.

And we’ve got five days left.

Me:
Yeah, real simple. 

Kylie Martin:
Got to run. Tell Lucas I said be nice to you—well, as nice as he’s capable of. Text me or call if you need anything! <3 

She logs off before I can ask her about Lucas’s obsession with being dominant over me, but even if I had asked her, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t answer. Kylie seems to stay as far away from her brother’s kink as I do with my little brother’s . . . everything.