Page 11 of Dance with the Devil

Knowing that I’ll only destroy her if I do? That has me lying through my teeth as I tell her that I just want to be friends.

Friends? I’ve never wanted to tuck a friend of mine under me, fucking them until they scream my name, feasting on their virgin pussy with the masculine sense of satisfaction that I got there first. I don’t jerk off to the thoughts of my friends in the shower, or stay up all night drawing their faces over and over again until I make fire work for me this time, burning my paper obsession as if I could cut her out of my heart.

Six weeks. It’s been six weeks and Genevieve Libellula has manages to worm her way under my hard exterior, burrowing so deep, I don’t think I can ever get her out again.

I need to put an end to this. Eventually, we’ll get caught. I don’t know Damien personally, just by reputation. Rolls, on the other hand, has to deal with the Dragonflies a lot, especially after shit went down between that enforcer dickhead and Rolls’s wife, Nicolette. He’d be the first to tell me that Damien is just as dangerous as Devil. Don’t let the expensive suits and debonairact fool you. Devil looks like what he is: a brawler who got his name when he hacked a guy’s head right off the stump for threatening Ava.

Damien looks like a CEO, but prefers the intimacy of a close kill courtesy of a blade he wears at all times. And that’s if he doesn’t send one of his league of trained killers, his enforcers, after any of his enemies.

How much do you want to bet that he’d consider the worthless Sinner panting like a dog after his younger sister an enemy worthy of disappearing?

Genevieve doesn’t see that. She thinks sneaking around is another aspect that makes our ‘friendship’ thrilling. Smart enough to know that it would be a bad idea to tell Damien we’re hanging out—especially after he nearly got assassinated by a new rival moving in on Springfield territory a couple of weeks back—she just thinks her brother would try to forbid her for leaving her bedroom again.

Me? I’m expecting a bullet between my eyes, or a stiletto through my ribs.

Does that stop me, though? Does that stop me from riding my bike across town so that I can watch my dainty dancer shimmy down a tree, dancing out of the sight of her brother’s cameras, all before she throws her arms around me before hopping on the back of my motorcycle?

Does that stop me from looking at Genevieve now, sitting in my studio like she owns the place—like shebelongshere—and fantasize about taking her hand, leading her upstairs to my private apartment, and admitting that I’d give anything to kiss her.

To fuck her? I’d welcome Damien’s fury, knowing I got to have her at least once...

I can’t. I know I can’t. Genevieve is twenty-five, but she’s a young twenty-five. I’m an old thirty, even if everyone thinks Ilook younger. Those five years seem like an eternity between us, just like the miles between the West Side of Springfield and the East End are too big a chasm for my bike to cross.

I’m damaged goods. I always have been. Quiet and sensitive when I was much younger, I was easy pickings for my stepfather. I was nine the first time he snuck into my bedroom, telling me that my mother had a late night shift, and as the next oldest in the house, it was my responsibility to give him what he wanted.

We lived in a three bedroom apartment in the poorer part of Springfield. Chad was right. I was the oldest. When I was nine, Rafe was seven. Ana Lucia was only six. They shared a room the same way Chad and my mother did. I had the smallest one, but before Chad came around, I was the man of the house. When he moved in, I still got to keep a room for myself. I thought I was so grown, but at nine… I didn’t know what sex was. When my tiny prick got hard, I was curious about it, but I didn’t understand.

Thanks to that fucking bastard shooting his much bigger cock into my hand that first night, I learned pretty damn quickly what he meant.

If I told my mother what her husband was doing while she was at work, he’d kill me. If I refused to let him use me however he wanted, he’d sneak into my siblings’ room and wake one of them up instead. He wasn’t particular. He fucked my mom when she was home. He forced me to suck his cock when she wasn’t. He was a predator who’d targetanyone—and even then, I knew I had to protect Ana Lucia and Rafe.

For three years, I did. But I got older. I got bigger. He started eyeing Ana Lucia a little closer… and I punched him the next time he tried to get me to touch him.

Not because I was jealous. Fuck no. It was because I’d finally had enough.

Chad beat me so bad, I had to kick him in the nuts to escape him otherwise he would’ve killed me.

Instead? While I slept in an alley, blocks away from my home, the sick fuck tried to burn the whole place down.

That was almost twenty years ago. Eighteen to be exact, and I’ve dealt with the remorse and the survives guilt every single day of my life. I didn’t want a heart, didn’t want to love, didn’t want to have strong feelings for another person because it only ends up in flames.

And when I look at Genevieve, that’s all I see.

I should tell her to go. I should block her number, let my butterfly free before I inevitably break her.

I don’t.

As Genevieve conversationally mentions that she forgot to eat lunch before she came over, I don’t shut her down. I don’t offer her one of the granola bars I keep in the studio for a quick sugar boost during a long ink sessions, and despite my initial reaction to take the opportunity to invite her upstairs after all, I warn my wayward cock to get itself under control.

She wants to eat, and I know what that means: she wants to go out.

I doubt Genevieve has any clue I’m aware what she’s doing. When I was just as straightforward as she was, telling her I don’t do relationships after she boldly offered herself up to me for one, she decided to be a little sneakier.

Dates. She tries to get me to go on dates. Riding around town on my bike, Genevieve wearing the helmet I bought even before I picked her up the first time. Because, yup, part of me already knew I had it bad, and the helmet proved it, but she kissed me on the cheek when she saw it so, fuck it, I don’t regret the impulsive purchase at all.

Dinners. Late night snacks. Breakfasts when she could sneak away… she has this idea that, if we sit down for a meal together,weare together. It’s funny, too, because Genevieve rarely eatsmore than a few bites of her food. She thinks I don’t noticedthat, either, but I noticeeverythingabout this woman.

If Genevieve wants food, I’m getting her some food.

---