Devilishly Sexy (16 page)

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Authors: Kathy Love

BOOK: Devilishly Sexy
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He followed her down on the bed, stroking his hands over her arms, across her chest and belly to her long legs. Even that touch made her feel delicate, treasured.
“I think you are the angel,” he said and Liza immediately laughed, a harsher sound than he would have expected.
Michael frowned, surprised that her laughter sounded almost bitter.
“I’m hardly that,” she said, her troubled gaze reminding him of her precarious situation.
But she was wrong. Making a mistake, signing that soul contract didn’t make her a less good and pure woman.
“You are perfect,” he assured her, pressing a kiss to her lips.
She kissed him back, but he could still feel her reserve, her doubts.
She was ashamed of what she’d done. He understood that, but her soul would remain safe. He would protect her.
That thought spurred him on, his touch becoming more insistent, more dominant. She was his woman and he’d defend her, love her, keep her out of harm’s way.
She moaned, responding instantly to his possessive touch, writhing at each stroke. She liked his possession, her breath speeding up to short little pants. Her body moved against his, demanding more of his forceful touches.
He obliged, parting her legs to stroke the hot flesh between them. His finger penetrated her, filled her, and she arched to take more. She was so giving, so ready for him. It was hard not to just take her right then.
But he wanted his possession to be one of ultimate pleasure. He wanted her to orgasm over and over for him, until she was weak from his lovemaking.
So he continued to stroke her, his fingers soon replaced by his tongue. Her legs were anchored to his shoulders, her hips lifting up to grind against his mouth, her desire as wild as his.
“Michael,” she moaned, her head twisting back and forth. “Michael.”
“Yes, baby,” he whispered against her wet flesh.
She moaned again, before answering. “Please. I need you inside me. Please.”
He didn’t leave her right away, continuing to lick her, feeling another orgasm pulse under his lips and tongue. Only when she collapsed back against the mattress did he slide up her body.
She watched him from underneath sleepy eyelids. Her arms above her head, her posture open to him, willing, ready.
He kissed her as he slowly slid into her tight heat. She was slick and hot and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lose control.
“You feel amazing,” he muttered, gritting his teeth in determination not to come too quickly. But damn, she felt so perfect around him. Like her body was made solely for him.
“You do too,” she breathed, wiggling her hips.
He answered her movement, thrusting in and out of her. Quickly they were both gasping, both grinding together, both demanding that the other submit. Give in to the fever that burned in them both.
Liza cried out as her orgasm tore through her, her release violent and overwhelming. He barely got to feel that wild pulsing before he joined her, his own orgasm powerful, mind-blowing.
He collapsed on her, making sure his full weight didn’t crush her.
“Mine,” he murmured.
She stroked his back, and whispered, “Mine,” back to him.
Then they both fell into an exhausted, blissful oblivion.
Chapter Eighteen
L
iza gasped. She pressed her hand to her chest, where she could feel her heart pounding against her palm, rapid, erratic. She stared up at the dingy drop ceiling, trying to focus on the yellowed panels, the chips, the water stains. Anything but her racing heart, which threatened to thump right out of her chest.
She couldn’t ignore this, or say this reaction was nerves. She’d been sound asleep after making love to the gorgeous man beside her. She’d been content, sated, sleepy.
This reaction was the medication. That was the only answer, and it was scaring her. She pushed harder on her chest, willing the thumping organ to calm down.
She also breathed in slowly and deeply, then released her breath just as gradually. She could get control of her heart rate.
She lay there for several minutes, determined to get this episode under control. Finally, when she thought she’d gotten her racing pulse and heartbeat quieted down, she pushed upright, moving carefully, concerned as much with waking Michael as she was about how her change in position might affect her.
Once sitting, she remained still. Her heart had seemed to calm down. She still felt an irregular flutter, and her breath felt like it hitched in her lungs occasionally, but overall, she felt much better.
Nothing to worry about, she told herself. So the meds had a slight side effect, and it was a little scary when it was happening, but the racing heart didn’t last long, and it was certainly a manageable side effect, when compared to dealing with Boris.
Bartoris.
Liza froze. Oh my God, he was awake.
But then she heard that soft snore of his. Had that just been one of those random moments in sleep when he became aware for just a second? Or was he groggily waking up?
She couldn’t risk staying here any longer, and she hadn’t had the forethought to bring extra allergy meds with her. She also didn’t want to risk waking Michael. He would ask too many questions, and she needed to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Moving inch by inch, she shimmied her way toward the end of the bed until her feet touched the floor. Then she cautiously stood. She glanced back toward Michael. Only his silhouette was visible in the bed, but he didn’t appear to have moved. In the faint light, she could see his arms were still flung up over his head.
She allowed herself half a second to admire his bare chest, the muscles emphasized by the shadows. Then she quietly gathered her clothes. Once dressed, aside from her panties, which she couldn’t find, she crept to her purse.
Finding a pen and paper wasn’t as easy as she hoped, and twice she almost dropped her purse, which would have made a heavy thud on the floor. But finally she did find a pen and what she thought was a receipt from Starbucks. She wasn’t quite sure in the darkness.
She tiptoed to the window.
A grumbling yawn echoed through her head, and she quickly jotted down a note to Michael. Then she debated, also as quickly as possible, where she should place the note. She wanted to be sure he’d find it.
She decided her pillow was the best bet. Carefully leaning over him, she placed the note in the indentation in the pillow where her head had been. Hopefully he’d find it.
Again, a groggy grumble ricocheted through her skull, making her wince and rush her actions.
She hurried to the door, twisting the lock and handle as quietly as she could. When she opened the door, it creaked and the fixture from the hallway cast a shaft of light across the room and right onto the bed over Michael’s face.
She paused for a minute, her breath held. But Michael remained still.
She released her pent-up breath and quickly stepped out of the door, pulling it shut behind her, wincing, this time at the loud click the door made as it closed.
But then her head filled with that voice she so dreaded.
You bitch. I’m telling.
Even though she hated hearing Boris, his words made her chuckle. “Go ahead and tell.”
Bitch.
She chuckled again, but then cast a wary look first at the creepy neighbor’s door, then back at Michael’s. She didn’t want either man to hear her.
She debated taking the elevator, but opted for the stairs. She suspected they would be quicker as well as safer. Well, as long as no other creepy apartment dwellers were around this time of night.
She slipped through the door and dashed down the stairs.
 
Michael opened his eyes as soon as Liza slipped out of his apartment. He crept over to the door, listening. He heard the faint sound of Liza’s voice, then what he thought was a laugh.
What was she doing? He reached for the doorknob, turning it very, very slowly. Then he cracked the door slightly, just in time to see Liza disappear into the stairwell.
Why was she leaving? Again, making a break for it after they’d made love.
Talk about commitment issues.
He debated whether he should follow her. This building had proven to not be the safest place, and the outside neighborhood wasn’t much better. Besides, he’d really like to catch her and ask her what the hell was going on.
But instead he went back into his apartment, crossing to the window where he could see the street. In just a few seconds, Liza appeared on the sidewalk below. She waited only a second before a cab came by and she flagged it down. Once she was safely on her way to wherever, Michael turned back to his bed, knowing she’d reached over him while she thought he slept to place something there.
He switched on a light and found a small rectangle of paper. Written in uneven, hurried handwriting was a note apologizing for leaving so abruptly, and explaining that she remembered she had to meet an important deadline back at work. She finished by asking him to please text her when he woke up, and inquiring whether he’d like to meet her for dinner tomorrow night.
A real date, she wrote, followed by a winking smiley face.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was after midnight on a Friday night and Liza was rushing back to work.
He wondered if the deadline could be true, but then he remembered who her boss was. She probably was headed back to work. Although that didn’t explain what he’d heard in the hallway. He doubted Liza would be laughing about returning to the magazine. But since he had no idea, he was going to have to believe that was what she was doing. At least she did want to see him again. A real date. That was a better ending than their first time together.
He lay back down on the bed, rereading the note. And he had her phone number. That was good too.
Now if he could just figure out what the hell texting was.
 
“Do you think Liza McLane is becoming a problem?”
Tristan stopped pouring vodka into a martini glass to glance at his boss—“mistress” was really her title, but he couldn’t bring himself to call her that at the moment. He was getting far too hungry to finally be the one in charge.
And at last she appeared to be giving him his chance to make a move. A few properly planted seeds of doubt and paranoia, and he could have Finola doing something rash to their real editor-in-chief, probably within the next couple days. Then Dippy could go report the incident to Satan, Satan would finally see that Finola was a loose cannon, and
ta-da,
Tristan would be in charge.
It could be that simple.
He set down the vodka bottle, staring at it for a moment, gathering his thoughts, debating how to play this conversation.
Part of him still thought Liza McLane might be a risky choice, because she could still be needed. Not to mention she was possessed by that weasel of a demon, Bartoris. If he caught wind of a takeover, he’d spill the whole plan to Satan in a heartbeat. And then Tristan and Dippy would be on the chopping block. Satan didn’t tolerate disloyalty, and for whatever reason, their boss still backed and believed in Finola. Tristan knew even a rumor of rebellion would end any chance of Tristan becoming the leader of this demon invasion. It would, in fact, end his stay here in the human world. Something he really didn’t want either. He liked the human realm very, very much.
Just then, there was a tap on Finola’s office door. Georgia stood on the other side, with Dippy held awkwardly in her arms as if she was holding a scaly lizard rather than a fuzzy, white pooch.
Of course, Dippy was a hellhound. For all Tristan knew, his demon form might be scaly.
Finola waved to her, clearly irritated to be interrupted before Tristan had answered her.
“Ms. White, your dog is all groomed.”
Tristan could tell by Dippy’s disgruntled expression, he hadn’t enjoyed his evening of pampering.
“Did you buff and paint his nails?” Finola demanded, holding out her arms for her beloved pet.
“Yes, and I used the white polish and then did silver tips like you requested,” Georgia replied, quickly relinquishing the dog to its owner.
Tristan noticed that Peaches rubbed her forearm as soon as the dog was gone, as if it was hurting, although he couldn’t see any injury because the sleeves of her black, vintage-looking dress covered the area.
“I believe I said I wanted the silver polish on the nails with white tips,” Finola said, inspecting Dippy’s claws with a dubious frown. Then she blinked up at her assistant. “You have seen a French manicure, haven’t you?”
Peaches nodded, but Tristan could almost hear the woman’s thoughts—
not on a dog.
Finola sighed, clearly not satisfied, even as she said, “Well, I suppose this will have to do.” Then Finola’s expression softened to one of complete adoration, “You look beautiful, my little sweetie.”
Finola nuzzled Dippy to her cheek.
Tristan could almost hear the dog’s thoughts too. He’d love to bite his doting mistress.
Tristan didn’t blame him.
Peaches waited as Finola fawned over her pet for several moments. When Finola stopped long enough to wave the overworked woman away, Georgia didn’t hesitate, turning toward the door, but not before she shot Tristan a look.
Tristan saw lust in her wide eyes, behind her funky glasses—that usual desire he always saw and felt when he was near her. And his body reacted, his usual response too.
But he was a demon of lust, so that was to be expected. But even her desire for him didn’t slow her steps as the personal assistant left the room without looking back again. He couldn’t blame her. Grooming her boss’s dog long after her workday should be done probably wasn’t high on Peaches’s list of fun things to do on a Friday night.
“I swear my assistants get worse and worse with each consecutive one.”
Tristan didn’t respond, but rather returned to mixing his drink.
But before he could even pour the vodka into the martini glass, Finola asked again, “So you didn’t answer me. What do you think about Liza’s recent behavior?”
He looked at the vodka bottle he held.
Diva Vodka.
Of course, Finola would have Diva Vodka. Only because it was $1,060,000 a bottle, and not because it was the best damned vodka in the world. No, it cost that much because it had actual diamonds and rubies in the bottle.
He finished making his dirty martini, then took a sip. Shit, he was more of a Stoli man himself.
Another reason he was a better demon for this job. He could be just as decadent and over the top as Finola, but he could be practical too.
“Tristan?”
He knew he had to say something, but he wasn’t sure what was the right answer. On one hand, if Finola got rid of Liza McLane, it would definitely get Satan’s attention. Tristan had little doubt that the big man downstairs would take action immediately if Finola cast Liza’s soul to Hell without a legal and binding soul contract, which Finola did not have. Liza hadn’t agreed to sign one. Hence the need for possession to keep her under control.
But there was still the fact that he—and Dippy, of course—might need Liza; and that Bartoris could potentially discover something and tattle. Someone like Liza’s personal assistant would be a safer choice, and would probably get the reaction they wanted without as much of the risk. After all, Satan already knew about Finola’s rash behavior toward past assistants, and the illegally broken soul contracts that she’d left in her tyrannical wake.
But he did also think Peaches, with her barely contained desire for him, could be useful too. He’d need a devoted assistant when he took Finola’s place at the head of
HOT!
magazine and the demon takeover.
This wasn’t an easy decision.
He took one more sip, then turned to the person who’d gone from boss and lover to nemesis, his decision made.
She arched an eyebrow at him, her impatience clear in her pale, pale eyes.
“I think she might be a problem,” he said. “Even with Bartoris possessing her, she’s getting more rebellious, and I do think she could get worse.”

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