Page 86 of Devil Mine

Tess

Islam the book I’m reading closed and rest it on my stomach. I’m so restless. Golden eyes torment me, a deep, raspy voice talking over reading the words in my head.

After licking the ice cream off my finger last night, I gave an excuse about being tired and ran out of the kitchen. The tension had been so taut it felt like an explosion was about to go off if I didn’t get myself out of there.

With every passing day, I feel my resolve weakening. I spend the day alone, occupied by nothing other than thoughts of Thiago and looking forward to the brief moments we share when the staff has gone to bed and the night leaves us as just a man and a woman, alone.

At this point, it’s solely my pride and morals keeping me from giving in. I’m so desperate for release that my mood is impacted. I’m more prone to frustration, to anger, over the littlest things.

I’ve lived my entire life in the shadow of a violent man and I balk at the thought of tying myself to another, especially one exponentially more dangerous. But something about him calls to me, refusing to be ignored.

I know he’s home, I stood at the window in my room and watched him walk in earlier, but he didn’t come find me and I didn’t go to him.

My restlessness changes that, driving me out of my bedroom to go in search of my husband. Exhilaration buzzes like static electricity on my skin. He’s not in his study or his bedroom, so I head downstairs. I’m about to go towards the kitchen when something tells me to check the library instead.

The door is slightly ajar. I push it open. The room is warm and inviting, with luxurious rugs in red and brown tones covering every inch of the floor. The walls are outfitted with vintage bookshelves, each full to bursting with books. The soft, golden lighting makes me think of Thiago’s eyes.

The man in question is sitting in an expensive leather chair, settled deep into it with his legs spread. A lowball glass of clear liquid hovers near his lips as his eyes find mine over the rim. I’ve seen him drink it before but have never asked what it was.

“Is that tequila?”

He shakes his head, his enigmatic eyes following me as I close the door behind me. “Aguardiente.”

“What is that?”

A slow smirk pulls at his mouth. He drinks the remaining ounce of liquid in one go. I’m hypnotized by the way his throat works as he swallows, by the way his tongue rolls over his lips. A powerful ache pulsates in my core.

He sets the glass down before flicking his eyes back up to me. “Why don’t you come have a taste?”

Arousal lurches into my veins with the force of a tsunami. How is he so effortlessly dominant and attractive? Categoricallymalein a way I didn’t think I’d ever like.

His head slowly reclines back against his chair as I approach, his eyes tracking me with dark, focused intensity. The alcohol glistens on his lips, illuminated by the subdued lighting above him. There’s a loud voice pulling at me to lick it off. The daring look he gives me throws that same challenge down between us like a gauntlet.

Disappointment flashes in his eyes when I pick up his empty glass and pour myself a shot instead. I hate the way I immediately want to correct my behavior, hate how important it suddenly is to me to see that pleased look back in his eye.

But it is.

Bringing the glass up to my lips, I run my tongue along the entire rim, searching for his taste. Staring into his eyes the entire time I do so.

The air is so taut between us, it’s hard to breathe. And when his eyes completely haze over with lust like a thunderous fog rolling through his pupils, my stomach contracts painfully.

Finally, I take a sip and the liquid burns my throat. The brief pain is a welcome distraction from the desire pulsing in my pussy for this man. It allows me a moment of reprieve, of shaking my head to rid myself of these dizzying thoughts.

“Black liquorice,” I note, surprised. “Like my perfume.”

He nods, eyes locked on my lips. “Now you see why I’ve been hooked on you from the beginning.”

Thiago looks at me like he did through FaceTime when I was in Rome, with eyes so intense they’re almost suffocating. That singular look has me balancing on a tightrope of emotion with precipitous drops on either side. On the one hand, his clear obsession with me is riveting and intoxicating. On the other, can I trust that his intensity won’t one day translate into actual violence towards me outside the bedroom?

I take another sip, really tasting theaguardientenow. Immediately, I start coughing.

Wincing, I say. “I like how it sits on the tongue, but I see why it’s called ‘burning water’. It’s fiery going down.”

Another smile pulls at his lips and I light up on the inside like a kid who just got a gold star from her teacher. “Your Spanish is better than you intimated to Diana.”

“Forget you know that, I need to be able to listen in on your conversations without you censoring yourself.”

He chuckles softly, taking the glass from me and drinking. “It’s a Colombian liquor. My favorite.”

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