Page 32 of The Devil's Torment

It’s like he’s transformed into a different man, a clone, a better version of himself. His eyes were so soft, so warm when he propositioned me. So unlike the Nicholas I thought I knew. And his words…

I want you. Tell me I can have you.

Everything south of my belly button clenches at the same time. Maybe sex will be different with Nicholas. God, I hope so. I don’t want to fake my enjoyment, but I will if I have to. Men are pretty dumb when it comes to whether a woman is having an orgasm or not. All you have to do is make the right noises, scratch their back, shove your heels into their arse, and beg them not to stop, then, a few shakes and quivers, and you’re done. They usually come seconds later, and it’s over. That’s the way it was with Matthew.

Once I realized I couldn’t climax, I researched it extensively. It’s a thing, and not at all uncommon. There are women out there who simply can’t do it, not without hours of effort, and who has patience for that? I drew the short straw, that’s all, but I’ve learned to deal with it. A life without orgasms is hardly the end of the world.

Then why does it feel like it is?

“You still with me, Half-pint?”

I startle. We’re on the top floor already, and I don’t even remember walking up the several flights of stairs to get here. Also, Half-pint? A pet name? He’s always stuck to the formal use ofVictoria. No one else uses that name, other than him and his family.

“Half-pint?” I screw up my nose. “Why’d you call me that?”

“I mean….” He rakes his gaze over me. The top of my head barely reaches his neck. “It suits you, I think.”

Who is this man? And what have you done with Nicholas De Vil?I’ve always believed, deep in my soul, that he couldn’t abide me. Everything he’s ever done has shown me the depth of his antipathy. Yet since our parents forced us into this arrangement, he’s… well, he’s changing. From the way he took care of me at the hospital when that jerk punched me, to his lust-filled eyes as we took to the dance floor, and the jab of his erection when he stood behind me to cut the cake. I don’t understand it, but there’s a piece of me that’s glad I won’t have to live constantly on edge, trading insults with the man I’m married to. Constant conflict is exhausting.

“Everyone calls me Vicky, and you’ve always used Victoria.”

He opens a door and motions for me to go inside. When I do, he follows, shutting it behind me. We’re in a living room. The overhead lights are off, but several lamps give out a buttery glow to make the room feel cozy, even though it’s enormous.

“That was before. I don’t want to call you what everyone else calls you, and now I think of it, Victoria is something your father probably called you when you were a child right before he spanked your bottom for sassing him.”

“I have never been spanked in my life.” Groundings were always my parents’ punishment of choice. Still are.

One of his eyebrows curves into a perfect arc. “We’ll have to change that.”

The muscles in my midsection flex until it’s almost painful, and a flush of heat blooms in my cheeks. I hadn’t expected any of this. I’m struggling to catch up.

Was he like this with Beth?

An avalanche of guilt threatens to suffocate me. I shouldn’t be here. If Beth was alive, Iwouldn’tbe here, and the fact she’s gone doesn’t make me feel any better. For the rest of my life I’ll be known as the woman who married her dead sister’s fiancé. No one will give me grace for the arranged nature of the union. They’ll just see me as less than, second choice.

The spot I’ve occupied my entire life.

When I don’t respond to his teasing comment—at least I think he was teasing—he clips me under the chin.

“You still in there?”

My tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, and I swallow. “I’m still here.”

“Good.”

He shrugs out of his morning suit jacket and tosses it over a nearby chair. His tie is next, followed by the unfastening of the top two buttons on his shirt. Rooted to the spot, I watch him move around, so comfortable in his surroundings. Then again why wouldn’t he be? This is his apartment, whereas it’s all new to me.

Thank God I’m not a virgin. My nerves are running haywire as it is.

Come on, Vicky. You’re a strong, sassy woman. Don’t let Nicholas confound you.

“Did you know that when you’re thinking too hard about something, you get this little furrow between your eyebrows?” He smooths the puckered skin with his thumb, following up with a kiss to the same place. “Want to tell me what you were thinking about?”

“Why are you being like this?” I blurt.

He frowns. “Like what?”

“Nice to me.”

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