Page 44 of Devil Mine

Looking down, I find that my hand is still buried deep inside my panties.

Embarrassed and self-conscious, I pull it out.

In the cold, harsh, post-orgasmic, light of day, I’m deeply ashamed of what I just did. I couldn’t help it…when he started moaning in my ear, groaning like he was almost in pain, begging me to talk to him, then describing all the dirty things he was going to do to me in that gravelly voice, I was powerless to resist it.

My hand found itself slithering down my belly and into my panties in search of my aching clit. Flicking it and rubbing it as I listened to his feverish pants. My pleasure was completely mindless, completely dependent on him.

Like a violinist following her conductor, I took my cues from him, pleasuring myself quietly until I heard him fall apart.

He’s not shy about his pleasure, the moans and groans falling liberally from his lips without a hint of self-preservation, making it impossible for me to hold back my own climax. I quickly followed suit, coming faster than I ever had before.

I turn my face into my pillow, trying to ignore the humiliating reality that there’s something very wrong with me.

I just got myself off while listening to the man who shot my best friend make himself come.

I’m sick.

This is asickness, one that’s clearly already metastasized to my brain.

Probably beyond salvation, terminal diagnosis.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he growls, satisfied. “Nowhere near as good as when I’ll get to actually fuck you, but I assume that’s why you’re calling. When are you coming back to me?”

“I wasn’t joking, Thiago, I’m not coming back. Especially not now that you’ve hurt one of the people I’m closest to.”

“Tell me where you are,” he demands, ignoring me.

“No.”

“Did Dagny pass on my message?”

Dagny had gotten herself to the hospital where she’d been stitched up. She recorded a video explaining what happened and sent it to Wiz who’d passed it on to me. She was fine, she assured me, a little banged up and obviously sore, but true to form she seemed angrier about the state of her floors than anything else.

I told her to go to her family’s place or to a hotel and that I’d pay for it, but she promptly declined. She was back in her apartment and sleeping in her own bed last night, refusing to be scared away from her home.

“Did she?” he presses, and I hiss in a breath at his bleak tone.

“Don’t hurt her again, Thiago,” I say, steeling my voice.

“Turn on your camera.”

The command comes out of nowhere and I balk.

Suddenly restless, I jump out of my bed. If he can see me then that means I’ll be able to see him, and there’s no way I can face him.

“No,” I reply, ambling into the kitchen. I grab my coat off the hook and wrap it around me before going out onto my patio.

The air has felt almost suffocating inside my place since his voice started bouncing off the walls. It’s like his entire physical presence is there, growing and looming and taking up all the oxygen.

“Turn on your camera,amor, and we can negotiate,” he purrs, his voice sending an irresistible shiver down my spine.

Before I can answer, the request comes through. My phone starts vibrating with the incoming video call. I find myself nervously fixing my hair and then, incomprehensibly, answering the call.

There’s a couple of seconds of lag while the software works to transfer us over to video where I regret every decision I’ve ever made that’s brought me to this moment, and then there he is.

Sitting like a king on his throne in the middle of a dark, opulent office, wrapped in all black himself.

The very picture of a demonic presence.

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