Devoured

And my mouth on him.

“Lucas, I want yo—”

“Go to bed, Sienna.”

Carefully, he pulls his fingers out of my body, and I shudder again. Though my flesh feels like it’s scorching, I manage to stand upright. “No,” I say.

“Let’s try this the way you’re familiar with then: Get the f**k out. I need to work and like I’ve told you before, you’re f**king horrible for music.”

Something sharp and prickly twists my chest. He knows exactly what to say to piss me off. I want to tell him he’s the dumbass who came up with this arrangement in the first place, but I choke back the words. All he’ll do is turn it back on me and remind me why I agreed, throw the deed in my face. I keep my face emotionless and my hands clenched by my sides as I say, “Good night, Mr. Wolfe.”

As I leave the room, I become aware that my panties are still pushed aside. And that as long as I’m around Lucas, he’ll keep consuming me until there’s nothing left.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I spend the rest of the night alternating between tossing and turning and hating myself, and wishing Lucas was between the sheets with me. When the alarm on my phone goes off at 7am, I drag myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom. Stripping down, I climb into the shower, turn the water as hot as it will go, and stand under the stream with my head leaned against the tile wall. The heat is uncomfortable—in fact, it burns— but it’s helping the vomit-inducing headache beating the hell out of my skull. Today, I’ll need my brain totally clear to deal with Lucas-fucking-Wolfe.

What the hell was I thinking when I asked him to put his hands on me last night? Frustrated, I bang my fist against the shower wall. Pain shoots through my hand. I ignore it. I’m more concerned at the way I’d melted in Lucas’s hand—literally. And I hate my body for reacting to thoughts of Lucas right now. I’m wet and horny and I feel stupid for letting him f**k with my body and mind.

The water is running cold and the bathroom is a cloud of steam by time I finally step out of the shower. I’m wrapping a thick towel around my body when I notice my phone is blinking. There’s a text message from Lucas. From 3 o’clock this morning.

Meetings all day. Wake me. 8 sharp.

It’s 8:12 right now. Fuck my life. Groaning, I rush into my room and shrug on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt then speed walk upstairs to the room Lucas has been sleeping in. The door to his room is closed, and I can hear an old Seether and Amy Lee song playing softly on his iPod dock. It’s fitting for how torn he makes me feel. Clenching the door knob, I linger for a moment and try to gather my bearings. I’ve only got five days left, and three those will be spent out of town on the go. If I can’t hold it together for a week then I’m screwed all around.

Every blanket is at the foot of the bed, in a black pool of fabric. He’s sprawled across the mattress on his stomach. Completely naked. Holding my breath, I tiptoe to the bed. I’m standing over him like a creeper and his text explicitly said to wake him up over half an hour ago, but God, I can’t get over how amazing he looks while he’s sleeping.

I have a full view of the tattoos covering his back, and my hands drift over them as I study each one carefully. I decide my favorite is the stopwatch tattoo at the bottom of the piece—inside of the watch is a queen of hearts. I’ve never seen a tattoo like it, and I decide there must be a story behind it. A dare from a band mate, maybe, or something to remember a girl who broke up with him.

That’d explain why he’s such a dick half the time.

Lucas groans into his pile of pillows and mumbles, “Keep your mouth right there—I’ll roll over for you.”

Startled, I bolt straight up, but he catches my wrists, pulls me onto the bed and on top of him. If I was hot before, I’m on the dangerous verge of spontaneously combusting right now. I’m sitting with his c**k pressed against my bottom and it’s as hard as it was last night in the piano room. The only difference is that now, he’s not pushing me away. I feel my pulse in my throat, my body temperature rise. Lucas cradles my face between his hands and guides my face down until it’s a mere inches away from his.

For what seems like an eternity we stay this way—staring into each other’s eyes while I straddle his erection. Does he realize that I’m a hip grind away from breaking my oath? That now that he’s touching me and his fingertips are entwined in my hair and his body is so warm against mine I can barely function?

I’d be a liar and a coward if I didn’t admit to myself how good he feels.

“I was a shithead last night,” he whispers. He traces his fingertips down the right side of my cheek, his stroke feather soft. The shape of an “L”—like he’s branding me.

“Is this your way of begging for my forgiveness?”

“No.” He groans, racing his large hands from my face, to my shoulders, and finally to the small of my back. This closes the little bit of space left between us, and when he shifts to get comfortable, I gasp. “Ugh, yes. I’m apologizing for being a douchebag. It’s just—you f**k with my head, Si.”

You f**k with my head, says the confusing man. I roll my eyes and start to call bullshit. He pulls my lower lip gently between his teeth.

“The next five days don’t have to blow,” he points out, cupping my ass cheeks.

I fight back the guttural moan building in my throat. I can think of several ways to keep our week civil and most of them involve us in this position—or similar—except there’d be no clothing between us. Only sweat.