Page 22 of Deal with the Devil

“Water, please.”

I grab her a bottle of water and myself a beer. I set my beer in front of my plate, moving behind her with her water. As I reach around her body to set her water on the table, I let my hand settle on the side of her neck before I drop my face to the other side of her neck. I’m close enough to see the way her flesh erupts in a million tiny goosebumps, theflutter of her pulse, the way her lips part on a stuttered inhale. Under my hand, I feel her entire body stiffen.

I let my voice rumble against the shell of her ear, wanting to bottle the sweet scent of her. “Your whole body tensed at this simple touch. That’s not comfortable, Sunshine.”

Taking pity on her, I release my hold on her and lower into my own chair. She’s flushed. Her face, her chest, her ears.

Beautiful.

“You’re saying we have to practice—so that it’s not obvious we’re not real.”

“As your husband, I’m going to touch you, Nevaeh.” She wets her lips in a way that makes me think she likes the thought. “I’m going to kiss you, taste you. The man that made you his would be fucking addicted, no question. So, make no mistake, where the world’s concerned, I’m going to be addicted to you.”

A shuddering breath falls from between pink lips. “Whoa.” I raise a brow in a question she answers, “You’re intense.”

“What do you say, Sunshine? We got a deal?”

She studies me for a long moment, then she holds out a tiny hand. I take it, wrapping mine around hers and engulfing it. Her chest rises on a sharp inhale, but she says, “Deal.”

ten

Nevaeh

It’s a relief to be moving out of my apartment. One, I’d shared it with Kate, whom, after I’d kicked her out on her ass, I’d not only struggled to find another roommate I trusted enough to live with, but I also didn’t feel the same sense of comfort I’d once known in my home. After the attack, the little comfort that remained after my best friend’s betrayal had been stripped away. Two, I couldn’t afford to keep this place on my own. So, good riddance.

“Whatever you don’t want to bring to my place, we’ll store for you. I’ll have movers do that, so just take what you want.”

I nod as I pack my kitchen, sure to pack my candystash. The last two weeks at Kane’s house has been torture without my sweets. Seriously, I’ve been in withdrawal.

When I open the cabinet and start pulling jar after jar of candy from inside, I feel Kane’s eyes on me, watching me, studying me. I pay him no mind, because jellybeans are therapy, and no one is going to tell me different. It’s as I’m trying to hook the jar of thinly covered chocolate marshmallows in the shape of Santa Claus with the tips of my rubber tongs that I feel a big male presence at my back. Prickles of awareness inch slowly down my spine as the scent of cigar smoke and sin and a deep, untouched winter forest surround me.

I shiver. He murmurs, “Quite the stash, Sunshine.”

“I like sugar,” I admit breathlessly as I make the mistake of dropping from my tiptoes. He’s so close, the motion has the bubble of my butt dragging against his front in a way that is most definitelynotfriendly.

My heart skitters in my chest, because he doesn’t move back from me even when the chocolate covered Santa marshmallows are within easy-for-me-reach.

“This isn’t sugar. This is a diabetic coma.”

I snort. “It’s therapy.”

“I think they call it substance abuse.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

“Says every addict in need of an intervention.”

Looking over my shoulder at him, I demand, “Have you ever had a chocolate covered marshmallow?”

“Nope.”

I turn away again, so totally aware on every level that he hasn’t stepped back to put space between us. In fact, both his tattoo covered arms are caging me in on either side of the countertop. Really, the man could crush me if the mood struck him. Our size difference should be alarming, but instead it makes me feel wholly safe.

Twisting the lid from the jar, I dunk my hand inside to retrieve one of the Santa’s. I tear into the wrapper and twist in his arms, my core tightening at the intimate way he leans into me in this position.

“Here.” I hold the unwrapped Santa close to his lips. “Try. It’ll change your life.”

He tears his eyes from mine to glance down at the Santa. Then he rumbles, “No.”

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