Chapter 5
JADE
Sebastian’s admission that he’s sending me somewhere that doesn’t have mobile phone reception means only one thing: tropical island resort, here I come! To be honest, I’m pretty pleased with myself that I rang and asked for a workaround.
I was expecting him to tell me to get stuffed, so I’m bouncing around my apartment right now like I’ve scoffed a block of Cadbury’s family size. No shitty job for me tomorrow! More like lying on a pool lounger, sipping a pina colada. I clap my hands and give an excited squee!
Making a half deal with a devil wasn’t as scary as I thought either. However, I had to pluck up my courage several times to ring his number. But the conversation went OK, I thought, and it was nice of him to give me a lower-level experience—and cancel the one-way ticket to hell.
It probably means the resort isn’t going to be five-star, more like a two-star.
But it will still be an all-expenses-paid holiday for a week.
I can’t wait! And giving him a back massage for an hour is nothing.
Pfft! I can do that with my eyes closed.
Not that I will actually close my eyes because Sebastian is hot, with a capital H.
It would have been easy to have ‘coitus’ with him actually, but I was worried about how it would feel. Like would his dick scorch me or something?
I also may have told a tiny, wee fib about being a virgin. But I was perfectly truthful about saving myself. I’m saving myself for the good sex after having too much mediocre sex with guys I’ve met online.
Sitting in the plush back seat of the SUV as it purrs through the dark streets, I play nervously with my charm bracelet. The driver hasn’t spoken a word to me since he buzzed my flat and said gruffly, ‘Picking up Jade Jameson for Sebastian Burns.’
In fact, this whole experience is fast becoming surreal. Especially when we pull up outside an imposing black-tinted glass tower block somewhere in Central London. I sit there, unmoving.
‘We’re here,’ says the driver unnecessarily, glancing at me through the rear-view mirror. His leather peaked cap is worn low, so I catch only the merest glimpse of dark-brown eyes.
Still, I remain where I am. My earlier confidence has vanished, and now I’m not so sure that this is a good idea.
Giving a devil a back massage? What was I thinking!
And my assumption that I’d be sent to a resort is just that: an assumption.
There are many places in the world with bad mobile reception: rural Greenland, for one.
‘It’s easier once you’re in the lift to the penthouse,’ the driver remarks, as if he knows I’ve started having regrets. ‘By that time, it’s too late to back out.’
‘Oh, right.’ Does he regularly give pep talks to Sebastian’s clients as they struggle with the ethics of their hasty decisions?
And I’m not sure what he said is actually making me more nervous.
But I can’t sit here all night. I’m also a stickler for seeing things through to the bitter end, no matter what it costs me.
Retrieving my small backpack from the car floor, I sling it over my shoulder and exit with a ‘Thanks for the lift’.
My bag contains my bikini, underwear, a couple of sundresses, skincare products, and a selection of make-up.
I’ve also brought my passport and an emergency ￡50 note and tucked them into a hidden pocket.
Sebastian didn’t say I should bring luggage, but leaving my flat with only the clothes on my back felt very wrong.
Also, am I supposed to call in sick for the next week?
How does it work? I don’t particularly want to be fired, even if I hate my job, as I’ve got rent due at the end of the month.
Not knowing the answers to these practical questions is making my brain fizz.
Sebastian needs to give me more information before I lay a finger on him.
The driver is right. My nerves don’t disappear completely once I’m travelling up in the lift, but they ease off a bit.
When it dings at penthouse level, I step out into a dimly lit foyer, and directly opposite is a plain black door.
That must be Sebastian’s apartment. I ring the doorbell and wait, adjusting my backpack on my tense shoulder.
Really, he should be giving me a massage after putting me through this mental torture.
The door swings open; and I enter cautiously, knowing that once I’m inside, it’s too late to back out of whatever I’ve got myself into. But at least I have an open door behind me if I do change my mind. Then the door clangs shut, and a bolt shoots firmly into place. Shit.
Before me is a massive lounge with a California king bed with black silk sheets and pillows smack bang in the middle. Soft lighting illuminates the room, but I can’t see the source of it. There doesn’t appear to be a kitchen or bathroom.
My eyes slide to the nightstand next to the bed holding a slim black glass bottle and a box of tissues, then to the 100-inch flat-screen on the wall.
Hmm, a devil that watches TV. But what exactly?
Does he have favourite shows? Somehow, I can’t picture him lying there watching The Great British Bake Off . ..
A shadowy figure detaches itself from one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, where it seems they’ve been contemplating the city views. My heart rate bounces up a notch, but it’s Sebastian. Of course it’s him. Who else would it be?
‘Welcome to my sanctuary,’ he says solemnly, as if I’m entering consecrated ground when, in fact, it’s the complete opposite.
A nervous giggle threatens to pop out. It does feel a bit like I’m in Saruman’s tower.
Sebastian steps closer, coming fully into the light, and my stomach boings like a pogo stick.
He’s wearing a red silk robe, loosely tied so his bare muscular chest is on display along with a chiselled six-pack.
A white towel is slung around his hips. He looks even better out of his Gucci suit than in it.
I gulp. ‘Nice to see you dressed up for the occasion.’
‘Likewise.’ His heated glance rakes over my black crop top and skinny jeans, then slides back up to my face. He smiles and holds out his hand.
‘Let me take that for you. I should have mentioned there’s no need to bring luggage, but since you have, I can look after it for you while you’re gone.’
I ease my backpack off my shoulder but hold on to it firmly since my passport and emergency money are stashed in there.
‘Where am I going that doesn’t need luggage?’ I ask suspiciously.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say at this stage.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Can’t. It’s the rules.’
‘If I’d chosen coitus, could you tell me?’
He waves a hand. ‘Oh yes, then I could have emailed you an itinerary,’ he says airily. ‘But sadly, that option is no longer available since you’ve made your decision to give me a back massage instead.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Do these rules even exist? Or are you plucking them out of thin air? And how come you can give me a workaround at all? It seems really suspect.’
‘It’s true, I have limited sway with my .
.. boss about certain aspects.’ He inclines his head respectfully towards the floor.
‘But the type of experience is something within my power. However, I’ve never had anyone give me a back massage before.
This is a first. But, I’m actually glad as my muscles are quite sore.
’ He rolls his shoulders, as if he’s been doing a lot of horizontal workouts, and grins at me.
Before I can stop it, the green-eyed monster clouds my vision.
Imagining Sebastian having sex with hordes of women makes me a tad jealous.
OK, a lot jealous. Which is completely ridiculous.
He’s a devil; it’s his job. He’s also totally gorgeous, so of course loads of women would sell their souls to him.
They probably don’t even hesitate. Just whip off their clothes and jump on his cock.
‘I guess most people agree to the coitus,’ I say stiffly. ‘Good for you.’
But to my surprise, he shrugs and looks away.
‘Funnily enough, I get turned down more often than you might think. I’m starting to think I smell or something.
’ He gives a self-deprecating laugh, and I actually feel a bit sorry for him.
And a bit better for myself. A devil that can’t get laid, that’s kind of funny.
‘Could be your eau de brimstone perhaps?’ I quip.
His lips quirk. ‘Yeah, but who doesn’t like a little sulphur and sweat? It’s a sexy combo—’
I snort. ‘Is it the sulphur? Or me? Be honest.’
Sebastian laughs, and a warm glow spreads over me that he finds my jokes funny.
Maybe he’s not such a fuckwit after all.
OK, he’s still a fuckwit, but a hot fuckwit with a good sense of humour.
The kind of guy I like. I groan inwardly at that.
I have terrible taste in men generally, but this is taking bad boy to a whole new level.
He gestures to the bed. ‘Shall we?’
Oh right, the massage. I almost forgot about that. ‘Sure. I’ll just ... er ... limber up.’
I flex my fingers as Sebastian turns around and shrugs off his red silk robe.
It slithers to the floor, and I’m presented with a full set of fallen angel wings inked on his shoulder blades.
The wings are coal-black with fiery orange tips.
It’s an exquisite tattoo and extremely sexy.
My stomach does a slow backflip as I watch Sebastian stretch his right arm, then his left arm across his chest. The wings ripple with the movement of his muscles, and it looks like he’s about to take flight.
He climbs onto the bed, still wearing the white towel, and positions himself face down.
But as he shifts around, the towel slips slightly to reveal a smooth moon of tanned butt cheek.
‘Sorry,’ he says with a smirk and quickly adjusts his towel.
‘Can’t have you seeing that now, can we?’