Page 81 of The Devil's Obsession (East Coast Devils 3)

Romy

The elevator dings, and I look up from the sofa to see Donnacha already halfway across the room, making a beeline for me. His eyes are dark and focused, and before I can recoil, he takes my face in his hands and presses his lips on mine. They taste like a sweet treat I didn’t know I was craving, and my body instantly betrays my plan, melting like chocolate at a summer picnic.

“I’ve been dying to do that all day,” he groans into my mouth.

My eyes nearly roll back in my skull from pleasure. Gathering as much self-control as I can muster, I slip out from under his grasp and stagger to the kitchen. He follows me, slipping off his jacket and yanking off his tie.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, eyeing the oven door suspiciously like a gremlin might jump out at any moment.

“Pie, vegetables, and mashed potatoes,” I announce, slipping on an oven glove and pulling the masterpiece from the oven. The tray clatters against the island between us, and we both lower our gaze to it.

“Doesn’t look poisoned,” he mutters with a small nod of approval. Then he turns his attention to the knife set farther down the island. “And it doesn’t look like any knives are missing. Unless”—his eyes glint as he snakes around the table—“you have a secret blade hiding in your panties. It’d be foolish of me not to check.”

Laughing, I stumble backward. My ass meeting the countertop reminds me that there’s nowhere else to go. When his broad frame closes in around me like a cage, I realize there’s nowhere I’d rather be, anyway.

His hands roam up the sides of my skinny jeans, curving around my ass and pulling me against the bulge in his slacks. We lock eyes, and a ripple of pleasure washes over me when I notice how his amber gaze flickers around my features with fascination. His attention is like a heat lamp, warming up the parts of me I want to conceal from him.

His gaze eventually drops from my lips to my neck. He swallows hard and traces his fingers around the purplish mark his mouth left on me last night. “I love seeing my marks on you,” he whispers, eyes half-lidded. “Must be the psychopath in me.”

Something that resembles a wheeze leaves my lips. And before I can stop myself, I say, “The psychopath in me loves seeing your marks on me too.”

His moan is primal, and he crushes his lips against mine again, colonizing my tongue. “Why do you tease me so much, sweetheart? When all I want to do is hear your voice?”

Despite my trance-like state, his words from last night drift into my mind. I tear myself away, lick my tender lips, and say, “Last night.” Gulp. “Did I…?”

A smirk lingers on his lips along with my lip gloss. “No, you didn’t.”

I chuckle, feeling triumphant. Slapping my hand on the hard space between his unbuttoned shirt, I say, “Your punishment didn’t work.”

His eyes darken, and I can practically see the dirty thoughts swirling in his irises. “There’s time. You’ll sleep in my bed every night until you sing.”

The oven timer saves me. “The vegetables,” I mutter, slipping out from under him and sliding the mitt back onto my trembling hand. “Why don’t you head to the dining room? I’ll bring it in.”

When I walk into the dining room a few minutes later, Donnacha is pouring out two glasses of wine. I drop the oven dish in the middle of the table and return shortly after with two plates full of lumpy mashed potatoes and blackened vegetables.

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters, half-jokingly, heaping a slice of pie onto his plate. Before he lifts his forks to his lips, I reach out and grip his bulging forearm.

“No white lies.”

He holds eye contact as he tentatively slides the fork between his lips. Before his taste buds even realize they are being assaulted, the lines in his face crease and not with laughter.

“Jesus Christ and all of his disciples,” he hisses, ripping the napkin from his lap and spitting the pie into it. “Did you even open a cookbook to make this?”

My fork clatters to the tablecloth. “Great.”

“I’ll take that as a big fat no.” Catching the disappointment tugging on my bottom lip, he says, “It’s not that bad, actually. Maybe if I take another bite—”

“What happened to no white lies?”

“You want honesty?”

I nod.

He pushes the plate away from him, then reclines in the chair in a way that reveals the tanned, sculpted flesh just above his waistband. “It tastes like a rat’s asshole. Tell me, sweetheart. Why don’t you ever follow a written recipe? And why do you never try your own cooking before forcing it on others?”

I choose to ignore his first question. “Because if I try it myself, I’ll stop cooking.” I fiddle with the hem of the tablecloth. “And I guess I’ve started to enjoy it.”

He leans over and puts his big paw on my hand. “You don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it,” he says, voice soft around the edges. “So if you enjoy it, cook anything you want, sweetheart, and I’ll eat it.” His eyes drop to his plate, and his lips curl in disgust. “Except this.” Suddenly, he scrapes back his chair and lifts me to my feet. “Come on, get dressed in something fancy. I’m taking you to dinner.”

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