Page 4 of The Devil Gets His Due

No.Heis kissing me, and there’s nothing tentative about it. He kisses like a man who’s thought of nothing else for the past decade. As if he’s angry he ever had to wait. As if he resents me for pushing him this far.

While my disdain for Graham is still a living, breathing animal inside me…Oh my Godhe can kiss.

His scruff abrades my skin, his hand tight on my hip, pulling me against him. The kiss is skilled. Andfilthy. It is, in conclusion, nothing I’d have expected from Graham. And yet…maybe I did. As shocking as it is, I’m not actually shocked at all. It sort of feels like I was waiting for this very thing.

He pulls me farther into the darkness and I’m definitely going to stop this in a minute. Maybe two minutes at most.

“Six is a guitarist,” I say as my back hits the wall. “He’s known for his manual dexterity.”

His mouth moves, just a hint of a smile as he pulls me against him again, his sizable erection pressing into my stomach. “Just wait until you see what I can do with my tongue.”

3

KEELEY

The sun is blinding, streaming in through the balcony doors like long steel knives.

Except my room didn’t have a balcony.I definitely would have noticed a balcony, right?

I roll over to see a pair of broad shoulders, the back of a head shaved to near military perfection. Not a single tattoo, therefore…

Not Six Bailey.

What the fuck happened last night?

More pressingly, what’s up with this guy? Because he isextremelystill.

“God,” I groan, reaching over to feel his carotid artery, “not again.”

“Did you just check my pulse?” asks a gravelly voice. And that’s when I feel my first spike of terror.

No. No, no, no, no.

He rolls over, sleepy eyed, swollen-lipped, and in need of a shave. Someone else might think he looks pretty fucking good in the morning, but that would need to be someone who’s never held a conversation with Graham Tate.

He runs a hand over his face while I try to piece the night together. Margaritas, more margaritas. Arguing with Graham, the arrival of guests. And Six. I remember talking to him. I remember him smiling at me in the way of someone who very much wanted to fuck me. And then I remember Graham.

His lips on mine in a dark corner.

Him looming over me, pushing my dress above my hips. Mostly I remember how badly I wanted him to do it. Telling him to hurry, the pleased half smile that tugged at his lips in response.

God, how embarrassing.

“This didn’t happen,” I proclaim, jumping to my feet, ignoring that my whole body feels bruised, especially the area between my legs. My vagina took a beating last night. Itdeservesa beating for choosing to avail itself to the enemy when I was in a vulnerable state.

I step over a condom wrapper to reach my dress, which is on the floor along with my bra, and yet another condom wrapper. No sign of my panties, so I guess I’m writing them off. “We speak of it to no one and put it out of our heads.”

He watches me from the bed, arms folded across his broad chest, sheets bunched low at his waist. “Because you’re still on your mission to fuck the rock star.”

I drag my eyes away from him because the sheet is riding low enough for me to see his happy trail, and I’m tempted to keep looking. “If mankind let every simple mistake get in the way of its goals, we’d still be communicating via cave drawings,” I reply, stepping over another condom wrapper.Jesus Christ, how many times, exactly, did we do it?

He reaches for his phone while one hand goes behind his head, his bicep flexing impressively with the movement. “Fair enough, slugger. Knock ’em dead tonight. Though not literally, which is apparently something that happens to you.”

“I’m sure it happens to everyone at some point,” I mutter, and he laughs.

It’s a nice laugh, and there’s a part of me that wishes I could hear it again. I take one last look at him, with that unshaved jaw, those biceps, and that mouth before I head for the door.

As terrible as Graham Tate is, he comes in deceptively nice packaging.

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