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Fear is always useless to me.
“Should I be?”
A huff escapes his lips. For some reason, I want him to do it again.
“Sweetheart, I’m in your apartment. On your sofa. On you,” he adds, voice lowering to a deliciously deep tone. Like he’s telling me a secret for my ears only. “I have two men outside your front door, another six outside of the building, and a cleanup team on speed-dial good enough to make even the highest-ranking FBI agent scratch their head.”
He lets his words linger between us. Then he moves his hands to mine, which are clasped protectively on my chest. He untangles my fingers with a surprisingly soft touch, slips his own thick digits between them, then raises my arms above my head. He’s found a new way to pin me down, but what’s more surprising than his gentle touch is that I don’t even put up a fight.
“So what are you waiting for?” I whisper.
Even the most stubborn part of my brain is telling me to shut the fuck up now. But I can’t, and I know I won’t. I know I’m dancing with the Devil. Teasing him like I don’t value my life.
He creates more distance between us. Drinking in more of me. “How did you know Danny English?”
I blink. But my hardened exterior falters for a nanosecond before I recover.
“I don’t.”
There’s that chuckle again. How he makes what’s supposed to be a happy noise sound so sinister, I don’t know. He dips his head, closing the space between us, and glides his nose down the side of my throat. It’s intrusive and unexpected and so goddamn hot. But I stop the mini gasp from leaving my lips. Instead, I stay still and slow my breathing. “You let men you don’t know fuck you?”
I grind my back molars together. “Sometimes.”
When he lifts his head to look at me, his eyes are glowing, dancing with devilish intentions. “I don’t know what I want to ask you first,” he murmurs, bending again to slide the hard line of his nose over my bottom lip this time. His growl vibrates against my chin. “Why you fucked him, or why you killed him.”
My heart lurches. He’s too close to the truth. He looks up at me through thick lashes, challenging me. I decide the first question is easier to answer.
“You already know why I fucked him. I’m a whore, remember? You called me that yourself. Is that what you want to hear?”
Being abrupt usually throws people off, but not the Devil. Instead, he slides his hands out of mine, taking his time to rake his fingers along the inside of my forearms before leaning back on his heels. As he drinks in his surroundings, I allow my eyes to dip lower. To the gold chain disappearing beneath his open shirt collar. To his broad shoulders stretching against his well-cut jacket. He looks as comfortable in that suit as I usually am in sweats.
He drags his fingers through the waves of his hair, top lip curled. I follow his eye line, and a prickle of shame hits me as I imagine how it’d be to see this apartment for the first time. The damp creeping up the walls. The missing floorboard you have to jump over if you want to get something from the yellowing fridge.
“A whore?” he asks, tone dripped with skepticism.
“Yes,” I hiss back.
He pins me with a smirk, his head jerking toward the bucket in the corner catching the leaking water coming in from the window. “Not a very good one. Or if you are, you might want to up your fee.”
My cheeks burn, and I can only hope the room is dark enough for him not to notice.
Before I can think of a witty retort, his dramatic sigh slices through the air. “You’ve put us in a bit of a predicament, sweetheart. You see, we needed Danny English alive.”
We?
“Yeah, well, that’s not my problem.”
With a predatory grin, he lowers himself back onto me, pinning me between the lumpy sofa cushions and his rock-solid torso again. I don’t dare breathe. I don’t even flinch as he cups my cheeks and runs his thumb over my bottom lip, leaving a blazing trail in its wake. “Tell me, what did he do to you?” He whispers so quietly that I almost don’t hear him over the blood pounding in my ears. “What did he do that caused you to claw him to death with those tiny hands of yours?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he moves his thumb up, pressing both my lips together. “Lie to me, and I’ll make this very slow and painful,” he growls. There it is, that switch I saw in the hotel room. It’s not the menace in his tone or the threat of his thumb against my lips that makes the truth slip off my tongue like warm butter. It’s what they do to me. It’s how they send a ripple of excitement flooding through my veins, pooling at the bundle of nerves in my clit. It’s the what-if crackling in the tiny space between us.
“He touched me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “A whore that doesn’t like being touched?” His confusion melts into a devious grin. “But I’m touching you now,” he drawls, tucking his head into the crook of my neck. He feels how I freeze. I know because his throaty chuckle vibrates against my skin. “I wonder, how much would I have to touch you before you try to kill me?”
He shifts his body lower so that he can look up at me with those taunting eyes while he grazes his lips along my collarbone. With an almost cheeky smile, he pokes his tongue out, flicking it over the dip in the middle. “You haven’t tried to kill me yet,” he muses. “I wonder…” He allows his tongue to travel farther south, sliding between the crease of my breasts. Ugh, holy fuck. “Is that because you like me touching you?”
The moisture spreads in my panties as my nipples stiffen against the thin fabric of my T-shirt. My body is already betraying me before my mind can go elsewhere. For a moment, I tear my eyes away from the Devil’s to look up at the cracks on the ceiling.
