Chapter 16 #3
Last night, when Lucifer carried me in here, it was messy but manageable.
Now, it looks like a bomb went off. Empty beer bottles litter every surface.
A pizza box lies upside down in the corner, a single slice still clinging to the inside of the lid.
The couch where we sat together is littered with discarded clothes.
“What happened when I left?” I ask, turning to face him.
He steps inside and pulls the door shut behind him, his eyes scanning the room.
“What do you mean?”
“Lucifer, this place looks like a warzone.”
He shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “After Della and Shadow took off, Nightmare called a few of the saddle bunnies over. Things got a little rowdy.”
“Rowdy?” I echo, gesturing toward the chaos. “This looks like a frat house after homecoming.”
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. “Yeah, well, Nightmare doesn’t know how to do anything in moderation.”
It’s going to take me all day to clean this place, and it’s that realization that makes me wonder just what the hell I got myself into.
“Ten minutes are up,” I say, pushing away the glass of soda Lucifer poured for me. “Tour time.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze searching my face. Then he shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossibly stubborn, you know that?”
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
He leads me through the main room, pointing things out as we go. The bar stretches along one wall, stocked with bottles of liquor that catch the dim light filtering through the blinds. Behind it, there’s a small kitchen area with a commercial-grade stove and a refrigerator that hums loudly.
“Am I going to be cooking for the guys?”
He shakes his head. “No. If you’re here and you’re hungry, you can cook something for yourself, but I don’t want you cooking for everyone. That’s not part of the job.”
“So, who cooks then?”
“Baby, look around. Does that stove look used to you?”
I glance back at the pristine stove. “I guess not.”
He guides me toward a hallway off the main room, and I follow. The hallway is narrow, lined with doors on both sides. He stops at the first one and pulls a key from his pocket.
“This is a universal key,” he says, holding it up.
“It unlocks all the doors in the clubhouse.” He presses it into my palm, his fingers lingering against my skin.
“You should always knock before entering any of them to clean. A lot of the guys sleep in their rooms, and they’re not exactly modest.” He scratches at the scruff lining his chin.
“I, uh . . . haven’t gotten a chance to talk to them about you working here yet. Dread is the only one who knows.”
My fingers curl around the key. “That seems to be the trend. So, what you’re really saying is I shouldn’t come to work in a T-shirt that reads Lucifer’s Wife anytime soon?”
Something flickers in his gaze, and he steps closer to me. The already too small hallway shrinks even more. I can feel the heat radiating off him, and my gaze drops to his mouth—those lips that wrecked me last night.
“Let me be perfectly clear, if you ever wear a T-shirt like that, it better say Property Of Lucifer, and you better not be wearing anything else but that fucking T-shirt.” He cocks his head to the side. “And you better be in my bed when you’re wearing it.” He licks his lips. “Got me?”
“Got you.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes darkening to something that makes my knees weak. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I swear I see him lean in, just close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.
Kiss me, I almost beg. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, desperate and raw. Please, just kiss me again.
But then he steps back.
I watch as his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, his hand moving to the front of his jeans.
He adjusts himself through the denim, his palm pressing firmly against the unmistakable bulge straining against the zipper.
My mouth goes dry, and I have to force myself to look away before I beg him for more than a kiss.
He clears his throat, and when I dare to glance back, his expression still holds a hint of hunger, but he seems more composed.
He nods toward the door to my left.
“That’s my room.” His eyes hold mine, and I see the promise in them—the one he made about that T-shirt and nothing else. “Should you find a shirt like that.” He pauses, and something softer bleeds into his gaze. “But also, if you need to rest at any time, that’s where I want you to go. Okay?”
I stare at the door, then back at him.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer, then turns and continues down the hallway, continuing with the tour.
I nod and make mental notes as he points out various rooms and a storage closet where they keep cleaning supplies, but my mind keeps drifting back to the first door he pointed to.
To the room behind it, and the bed that waits inside, probably with rumpled sheets that smell like him.
Maybe working here isn’t the best idea, but there’s no going back now.