Page 32 of Ride with the Devil

I listen, a smile tugging on my lips as I hear her voice lift up and say, “Still decent, ace. And I mean it this time.”

My cock twitches.

Fuck. As if I needed a reminder of how she was wearing nothing but a tiny ass towel when I went down earlier. I nearly swallowed my whole damn tongue when I saw her stretched out on the cot like that, and a pang of remorse hits me when I realize that she’s probably fully dressed in one of the few outfits I ordered her.

I take a moment to adjust my semi, trying to wrest back a sliver of control. When that proves to be useless, I untuck my t-shirt, hoping that’ll hide the bulge that will inevitably be pushing against my jeans again anytime I’m around her.

I go down. Like I thought, she’s changed into the peachy-colored t-shirt and one of the tight black leggings I picked out because, fuck, I’m a glutton for punishment. Even from this angle on the stairs, I can see how the clingy fabric molds itself around the side of her ass.

If she bends over in front of me, I’llexplode.

Swallowing the lust rising up my throat, I force myself to look at the wall behind her. “Just wanted to let you know that the groceries came. I made dinner. It’s ready.”

“Where is it?”

Oh. Right. She’s supposed to be my captive. Why wouldn’t she expect that I’d plate it up and bring it down so she can eat in the basement?

Why? Because I wanted to sit next to her at the table and eat with her.

“It’s upstairs. There’s a table in the kitchen… and since you said you won’t escape… I thought we could eat together. But if you’d rather I get your plate and bring it down?—”

“And give up on the chance to go upstairs again? Please. I’m coming.” With more enthusiasm than I expect, she bounces off of the cot. “So, what are we having? I’m starving.”

A pang of guilt twists my stomach in knots. Of course she is. It’s already evening the day after I tossed her in the trunk. I didn’t have anything to offer her earlier so unless she found something down here, she’s gone all day without a meal.

“Sorry about that. But I made spaghetti. There’s butter and sauce if you want it, and a box of cookies for dessert if you’re still hungry.”

Her face brightens. “I fucking love spaghetti! Red sauce? Tell me it’s red sauce.”

“It’s the traditional kind. At least, that’s what the jar says.”

“That’s my favorite!” Look at that. Mine, too. “What about the cookies? I’m a sugar fiend, so I won’t turn down any of them, but if they’re chocolate chip, I’ll love you forever.”

“It’s a mixed box,” I admit, “but I think it said it had a couple.”

“Dibs on the chocolate chip.”

She can have all of them if it’ll make her smile like that. “I’ve got something else for you, too,” I tell her, following her up the stairs.

She tosses me a look over her shoulder. “Be careful, ace. Keep spoiling me like that and you might have a harder time getting rid of me than you’d ever guess.”

Is that a promise?

With an impish shrug of her shoulder, she dances up the stairs. For a heartbeat, I watch her ass jiggle, and before I know it, she’s gone—and I’m still standing stunned on the stairs.

Shit.

I jog after her. Hoping like hell she didn’t take my momentarily distraction to flee after all, I look around the empty living room, then head for the kitchen when I hear the tinkling sound of her amused laughter.

She’s holding the box I ordered earlier in her hands. It came with just an address sticker on it—that I peeled off, just in case—but she can see what it is from the name and picture splashed across the lid.

Her smile could make a man do a lot of fucking terrible things, but I’m quickly becoming one of them because it nearly brings me to my knees. “You got me checkers?”

I did, and I’ve never been happier to spend 12.99.

I shrug. “You asked for it.”

Her gaze drops to the box, her smile widening. Then, setting the box of checkers back down on the kitchen table, she reaches for the pot of spaghetti.

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