Chapter 18
M y heart pounds relentlessly as the elevator ascends to the top floor. This is reckless—borderline stupid—but I'm drawn to him in a way I can't resist.
The doors slide open, and my breath catches. There, seated regally on his throne, is the Devil himself. Black pants, no shirt, his powerful chest and sculpted abs proudly on display.
His face is hidden behind the familiar black mask, making him even more dangerously magnetic.
Our eyes lock instantly, and what truly takes my breath away is the intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes burn into mine, almost possessively.
Still clutching my wine glass, I step out of the elevator. But instead of walking directly toward him, I pause, realizing for the first time that he's seated in a large, recessed pit.
His throne is perfectly centered at the farthest edge, allowing him to see everything and everyone to see him. It’s an exhibition, a display of power and control.
Slowly, confidently, I begin to circle the perimeter of the pit, moving at a deliberately torturous pace. He tracks every step I take, watching me closely, predator to prey.
I secretly hope he's hunting me.
It's exhilarating, arousing beyond anything I've ever experienced.
It takes every ounce of my self-control to tear my gaze away from his. Facing forward, I take a sip of my wine and allow my attention to drift to the spectacle unfolding around me.
The woman from the first night—the one whose pleasure he’d claimed for everyone to see—is back, wearing a black fox mask.
Another woman, also masked in a fox disguise, is seated in a chair clearly designed for maximum exposure and pleasure, her legs parted wide, fully on display.
The first woman kneels between the other’s thighs, skillfully pleasuring her with her mouth. The seated woman's head is thrown back in sheer ecstasy, hands gripping the chair's arms desperately.
But there's more—far more.
A man lies flat on the cushioned floor, driving into the fox I recognize from below. Behind, another man presses into her ass, matching the first man's rhythm perfectly.
A sharp clench seizes my stomach, sending a rush of butterflies cascading through me. The erotic choreography is mesmerizing. Sensual, rhythmic, all four of them moving in perfect harmony, driving each other toward a shared climax.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I sense the weight of someone else’s awareness pressing upon me.
And I know who it is.
Unable to resist any longer, I glance back toward the Devil. His eyes are still locked on me, fierce and possessive. The heat of his stare warms me from within, igniting the fire I'd been craving all night.
For weeks.
Since the first night I was here.
Or perhaps, the night I met Lucian on the rooftop lounge.
I keep walking, my pacing slow and steady. He tracks me, then, unhurriedly, deliberately, he raises a finger, beckoning me with two sharp, commanding gestures.
My heart skips a beat, and I stop my path. My body turns toward him and I tip my head to the side, before taking the last sip of my wine.
A server must have been waiting nearby, because a gloved hand was there instantly, offering to take it from me.
With both hands at my side, my pulse galloping, I move toward him. Each slow step down the two stairs into the pit amplifies my anticipation.
My senses are overwhelmed—the low hum of music vibrating through my bones, the mingling scent of expensive cologne and sweat, and the sight of bodies moving passionately around me.
He rises from his throne, descending one step, then another, his strides patient yet commanding. As I approach, I realize he's taller than I'd thought, more imposing, more powerful. My breath quickens.
We meet midway, standing beside a dark wooden table. Up close, I see that his mask isn't simply black—it's deep red, layered beneath black, glimpses of crimson peeking through.
It covers his entire face, leaving only his strong jaw and sensual mouth visible. The top encases his hair, two horns curling back magnificently.
I imagine gripping those horns, pulling him down between my thighs, feeling their cool, smooth edges grazing my sensitive skin as he tastes me for the first time.
My cheeks flush hot at the thought.
Intricate tattoos trace up from his forearms, weaving across his defined chest, edging slightly up his neck, then disappearing behind him. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him, trace every inked line, but I hold back, my breathing shallow and heated.
Suddenly, he places a firm hand on the small of my back, pulling me against him.
The unexpected contact rips a surprised gasp from my lips, and I see the corner of his mouth lift into a smirk.
His warmth surrounds me, his cologne intoxicating. I fight to keep my hands by my sides, desperate to touch him yet restraining myself.
He guides me backward until I’m pressed against the table, gripping it behind me to steady myself. He leans close, his breath ghosting over my ear.
“Tell me, little rabbit,” he murmurs, his deep voice sending a ripple of relief through me, unraveling some of the tension that had coiled tightly within, “what are you looking for?”
I try to mask my nerves, responding quietly, “I’m not looking for anything.” I congratulate myself for even remembering how to speak.
The Devil chuckles—low, deep, knowing—and then moves swiftly. He grips my thigh, effortlessly lifting me onto the table. Instinctively, one of my hands wraps around his neck, the other bracing myself behind me.
He pulls my leg to his side, his other hand gliding slowly down my hip and thigh, pulling my other leg open until I’m pressed flush against him. I feel how hard he is and, without thinking, grind against him, my mouth falling open at the sensation.
My head tips back, exposing my neck. He seizes the moment, running his nose along the sensitive skin, inhaling deeply. I bite my lip, stifling another moan.
His mouth brush against my ear as he calls my bluff. “Liar.” He pulls back slightly, meeting my eyes. “You’re out of your league.”
“I am not,” I protest weakly, not even convincing myself.
In another swift motion, he spins me around, pressing me forward onto the table. His hand travels up my back, holding me firmly down. I watch our reflection in the aged mirror ahead, my stomach tightening with desire.
His exploring hand ignites trails of fire along my hip and ass, slipping inward along my thigh. He growls softly, pressing his erection firmly against me, teasing me.
“You did come here looking for something, didn't you, little rabbit?”
I shudder, every muscle in my body coiled with anticipation. His touch is slow, deliberate torment, grazing the sensitive junction where my thigh meets my pelvis, hovering there, just out of reach.
I hold my breath, desperate for more, aching for him to claim me.
He grips my thigh firmly, pulling my hair back sharply with his other hand, forcing me to watch our reflection in the mirror. My eyes widen, mesmerized by the raw, erotic image.
His lips brush lightly against my ear, voice dripping with sensual menace. “You’re a scared little rabbit," he murmurs, pausing to drag out my torment.
I squirm beneath him, craving contact, silently begging him to end the exquisite torture.
"And if you’re not careful, you'll get eaten alive.”
He pulls me upright, releasing my hair, and turns me to face him without allowing any distance between us. One hand circles my throat possessively, while the other deliberately pulls down the hem of my dress.
Anger flashes through me, knowing he’s only played with me, teasing me without intent to fulfill.
“Go,” he commands, stepping back.
Cold.
Dismissive.
My body stiffens, pride burning hotly beneath my skin.
I watch as he backs away, muscles flexing beautifully with each deliberate step up to his throne. He turns back, towering over me, watching silently as I remain standing there—aroused, angry, and utterly at his mercy.
It infuriates me. The Devil’s playground is his domain—his rules absolute, just like Lucian at the Ledger. And tonight, I’m just another piece on the board.
With my jaw clenched tight, I turn and leave. But not without making a promise to myself.
I’ll come back. And next time, he won’t turn me away.