Page 61 of Brutal Devil
“Hey, Basil,” I call out.
A disembodied male voice with a British accent answers, “Yes, madam?”
“Tell Priest that he’s an asshole for me.”
“I am unable to complete your request at this time,” says the voice from a speaker overhead. “Please try again later.”
Priest doesn’t look back or break his stride, but his laughter trails after him as he goes.
Damn that man.
Even his laugh is sexy.
I reach for the remote and turn on the TV.
Chapter 15
PRIEST
By the time I get back to Luna, she’s curled up on the couch, fast asleep while a crime documentary rolls across the screen. Something about some piece of shit who murdered his wife and tried to stage it as a suicide.
Jesus, this is what she watches?
Hardly a chick flick.
I think about her telling me that phrase is sexist earlier and can’t suppress a grin as I gently take the remote from her still fingers and hit the power button. I wonder what she would prefer I call the movies that women always seem to drool over, the kinds with happily-ever-afters and a Hollywood heartthrob effortlessly charming the female lead out of her panties.
And then I wonder at this newfound urge to change myself. To want to please her.
I’ve been with women before, but never like this. And I’ve never known anyone quite like her. She’s special. Different. Not just because she’s my wife. But because she’sher.
I don’t know what to do with the terrifying feelings boiling up inside me. Men like me aren’t made for emotions or tenderness. We’re made for brutality and death and power, fordoing whatever the fuck we need to do to get what we want. For retaliating when someone dares to challenge or betray us. For going toe-to-toe with the most dangerous, ruthless men there are.
That’s what I have to do tonight.
I don’t want to think about that now, in this quiet moment where the only sound is Luna’s deep and even sleep breathing. For a second, I have the illusion of happiness, of serenity. I can pretend that all the fucked-up shit I’ve done, all the fucked-up shit I’ve seen, doesn’t exist. There’s nothing but the two of us.
Until there isn’t.
The air in the living room shifts. Rocco’s at the door, looking hesitant.
“Sorry to interrupt, boss. The car is waiting.”
I nod. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, Roc.”
He disappears, but the spell has been broken and Luna is shifting on the couch, stretching as alertness returns to her honey-brown eyes.
“I must have fallen asleep.”
She looks tired and adorable and infinitely fuckable, and all I want to do is carry her off to the bedroom and make her come all night long. But I can’t have that.
“Understandable. It’s been one hell of a week for you. You must be exhausted.”
And I know she hasn’t been sleeping well, her dreams filled with nightmares. Nightmares I helped put there by being partly responsible for bringing her back to the world she’d fought so hard to flee. A sharp pang of something foreign, something that feels a whole lot like guilt stabs through me.
“I am tired,” she agrees, still half asleep, her voice low and sultry.
I remember what it sounded like earlier, throaty and sexy as fuck, when she was moaning my name while I licked her pussy.My dick twitches, but I tamp down the arousal. I don’t have time for anything more than a quick goodbye.
