Chapter Sixteen
VIOLET
This is a bad idea. Possibly worse than the summoning itself. And the failed banishments. And allowing Devlin to wear a suit to the café, looking so fine it’s almost as distracting as his patio-day-drinking birthday suit.
It’s worse than pretty much any idea I’ve ever had since the dawn of Violet Pepperdine. Well, except for dating Brandt last year. Nothing will ever top that in terrible life choices.
But… sigh. Devlin’s right. We need more than a marketing plan to save the shop, and if he thinks I’m the problem—that I’m getting in my own way and hiding out from my “why”—then it’s time for a new tactic.
So this is me, cracking myself wide open for the Devil.
Which sounds way more sexy than it is.
Unfortunately.
Because the way I melted when he grabbed my hands, when he touched my hair, when he saw right down to the core of me…
Head in the game, Pepperdine. Head in the game.
Anyway. We started our new mission immediately, no time to waste. Closed up shop at five, headed upstairs, fed the kitties, and now it’s official—no more company behavior. No more politely shuffling past each other on the stairs. No more Devlin sitting in his expensive-suited fabulousness while silently observing me at work. No more me watching Charmed or reading alone in my room while he retreats to the purple couch downstairs (and steals my feline reading companions, not that I’m bitter).
From this moment forward, Devlin gets the real me, live and uncut.
And I get the roommate from Hell. Literally.
Goddess, this is crazy. But I’m in too deep now to turn back.
“Consider yourself lucky,” I say now. “No one outside the inner circle gets my homemade grilled cheese and tomato soup.” I slide the sandwiches off the griddle and onto our plates, cheese bubbling out the sides, the bread crisped to golden, buttery perfection. “This is my favorite comfort meal, especially as the weather turns colder.” I glance out the window, the rain blurring the trees into a stained-glass tapestry of reds and golds. “There’s just something so cozy about it. All that buttery goodness, the gooey melty cheesiness, the tang of the tomatoes.”
Eagerly waiting at the small table in my kitchen nook, Devlin laughs. “Well. Now you’ve gone and hyped it up to the point where it can’t possibly meet my over-inflated expectations.”
“Just try it.” I ladle the soup into bowls and set everything on the table, taking the seat across from him. Then, dipping a corner of the sandwich into the steaming soup, I say, “Like this. Only way to do it.”
He casts a wary eye, but dunks his sandwich and takes a bite. The moment his teeth sink into the crispy bread, the pretense of culinary discernment drops away. His eyes flutter closed, a glob of melted cheese dripping down the corner of his mouth.
And he moans out loud. Multiple times.
“Mmmm. Oh my… oooooh, yes. That’s it, right there. Right fucking there. So, so good. Mmmm…”
My thighs clench in response to the obscenely sexy soundtrack, to the way his tongue darts out to lick the runaway cheese from the corner of his mouth, and something buried inside me—deep, deep inside me—thrums back to life.
Is it my primal magic? An unbreakable bond to my ancestors, calling out across the veil? The ancient witchcraft singing through my blood and bones?
Nope. It’s…
Hey girl! This is your vagina speaking, what is UP? Sorry I’ve been out of touch for the past twelve to thirteen months… I was off looking into early retirement options—I mean, after the whole Brandt debacle, I really thought we were closing down for good this time. But then along comes Mr. Hot, Broody, and British, going at that sandwich like tonguing is an Olympic event, and hell-oooo! I’m baaaack! Pretty sure I speak for both of us when I say it’s high time we climb aboard that D-train and ride it all the way to Pound Town, round-trip on the daily and twice on Sundays, let’s gooo!
“Violet?”
“Hmm?”
“I asked what your secret is?”
The one about your orgasmic reaction to my comfort food bringing my vagina out of hibernation and turning her into my own personal Downtown Pep Squad?
I cross my legs. Ignore the throb. Send that bitch back into hyper-sleep and smile through the pain. “Smoked gouda. A smear of roasted red pepper hummus. Two grinds of black pepper and a dash of Himalayan sea salt to tie it all together. Oh, and butter. Copious amounts, all sides of the bread. You can never have too much butter.”
“Indeed.” He blots his mouth with the napkin in a way that has me wishing I was born a napkin. “Would it be too much trouble to ask for another? I’ve still got quite a bit of soup left, and it seems a shame to let the opportunity go to waste.”
Are you going to make those sounds again? Because if you are, I might need to excuse myself for about ten to fourteen minutes to… um…
“No trouble at all!” I say brightly, picking up his plate and carrying it back toward the griddle. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Enjoying myself? Mushroom, this meal is downright orgasmic.”
I drop the plate into the sink with a clatter. Then I crack up, because what the hell else can I do at this point? The Devil is at my kitchen table, eating grilled cheese in a way that ought to be X-rated, maybe even illegal—definitely a health code violation of some sort, considering what’s going on between my thighs right now—and all I can say is, “Second orgasms, coming right up!”
“I knew you were a fan of multiples. It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
Fuck the grilled cheese sandwiches! Cries the Downtown Pep Squad. Girl, it’s high time this man butters our bread and stuffs us full of his hot, melty—
“Water?” I choke out. “I mean, would you like some more? For the grilled cheese. You know, because it’s… really cheesy.”
Devlin smiles, eyes twinkling, the raised brow locked and loaded like a weapon about to go off and obliterate me. “If by water you mean wine, absolutely. But you just focus on the griddle. I’ll get the bottle.”
Somehow, despite his close proximity in my tiny kitchen, not to mention the sultriness of the rain pattering against the windows, I don’t burn the sandwiches. Which is more than I can say for my panties.
Goddess, why does he have to smell so good? Smoky, sweet, and spicy all at the same time—a deadly combination that’s making me even hungrier than the sizzle of butter on the griddle.
Dinner, round two, is another smash hit, and by the time we’re finished, the rain has turned into a deluge and my mind has devolved into a hardcore porno starring the naked bad-boy Devil and his naked grilled-cheese-flipping witch (in fact that’s the title of the film, could anything be more perfect), cheese melted over various lickable places, spatula getting up to all sorts of shenanigans, and all I can say is thank the underworld gods Devlin offers to do the dishes, because I’m pretty sure I need to have that lie-down.
Oblivious to the plight of my perfectly innocent, perfectly ruined panties, Devlin sends me off to the living room to quote-unquote “relax” and “do whatever it is you do on a random evening.”
So, while he’s washing and drying with his sleeves rolled up—yes, still with the white dress shirt—and I’m trying desperately not to think about those forearms flexing as they pin me down on the mattress, I settle into an approximation of my usual routine, curling up on the couch with my latest book obsession. Sunshine bounds over immediately, Grumpy making me wait for it, and eventually my two familiars are both snuggled up on my lap, eager to hear what’s next for our favorite storybook couple.
I snap my fingers to dim the lights and ignite the candles, the scent of my cinnamon simmer pot floating on the air, the rain sluicing down the windows in a thousand tiny rivulets.
Perfect romance-reading vibes? Engaged.
“Now. Where were we?” I scan the page and clear my throat, then begin, right where we left off. “Lennox couldn’t bear to know he hurt Savannah so grievously. She was his soul mate, his better half, the woman who’d picked up his broken pieces and glued them back together. Her love made him a better man, and now that she was back in his arms—”
“I beg your pardon,” Devlin says, and I yelp, startling both cats. I didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly he’s right behind the couch, looking down from high above like the dark, brooding god of hotness he is. “But are you reading a romance novel aloud?”
My cheeks flame, and I close the book at once. “Don’t judge me.”
“To your cats?”
“Why is that a problem?”
“It’s not a problem. Just a bit…” He grins that maddening grin. “…quirky.”
“Grumpy and Sunshine love romance novels. Why do you think I named them Grumpy and Sunshine?”
“Because one’s an arsehole and the other one’s the furry equivalent of a clown on speed?” He comes around to the front and lifts my legs, taking a seat next to me and placing my feet in his lap.
So now I’m paralyzed with fear, lest my fuzzy-socked foot accidentally twitch and rub his—
“Aww,” he purrs, and it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to the cats, who’ve abandoned me for their new bestie. Rubbing Sunshine’s ears, he says, “Did you hear me talking about you, baby? I meant a nice clown on speed. Not a scary one.”
Even Grumpy is nudging Devlin’s hand, sniffing around for some love. The two cats can’t get enough, and now we’re all just piled on the too-small couch together like a too-big dysfunctional family, and when Devlin leans down and kisses Grumpy’s head, my heart lurches.
That… can’t be good. Hopefully it’s just a heart attack or something. Because I can’t be crushing on this man. Devil. That’s just not… possible.
“Carry on, mushroom.” Devlin taps the book still clutched in my hands. “Don’t leave poor Lennox hanging.”
I glare. A thing I’ve really perfected since the Devil entered my life. And he gives me the sexy eyebrow arch. A thing he probably perfected when humans first crawled out of the primordial muck.
“If you’re going to mock my hobbies,” I snap, “then you can forget the whole thing and go back downstairs. Alone. Without me or the cats or my grilled cheese.”
“No cats or grilled cheese? Please don’t banish me so, mistress.” He presses a hand to his heart, his eyes glittering like amber in the candlelight. “I’ll behave. I want to hear the rest of the story. Truly.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not.” He stops petting the cats and squeezes my foot, thumb pressing against the arch, a touch that shouldn’t feel so damned erotic but does. “Please, continue.”
Sparing him one last glare, and also trying not to let the tingling warmth of the impromptu foot massage travel any farther north, I open the book and start again.
“Now that she was back in his arms, Lennox would not let Savannah slip away—not even for a moment. Laying her down in the hayloft, he climbed atop her quivering form and unfastened the buttons of her nightdress, recalling their first time so many years ago. He was a gentler man then, the war stripping him of almost all tenderness. Now, he loved her the only way he knew how, furiously and without restraint—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Devlin shakes his head. “Loved her furiously? How does that even work?”
“Um. Figure it out?”
“Is he angry about the loving of this woman?”
“It’s a euphemism, Devlin.”
“In a hayloft besides? This is where he chooses to bed his so-called soulmate? In a place where farm animals fornicate and def—”
“…furiously and without restraint,” I continue, giving him a swift kick in the thigh. “A wild storm breaking upon the shores of her body, the desperate tide of him rising higher and higher, until—”
“Stop. Right. There.” Devlin shoves a hand through his hair and sighs, as if the whole thing is giving him a headache. “I think what the author is trying to say is Lennox and Savannah fucked each other’s brains out in the barn. Yes?”
“Yes, only the writer chose to be slightly more eloquent about it, unlike you.”
“The writer—and I use the term loosely—is mired in purple prose and badly in need of an editor. Or a match and some gasoline. Also, a career counselor—never too late to turn over a new leaf, I always say.”
“Ambrosia Divine is a New York Times bestselling author!” I slam the book closed. “I suppose you think you could do better?”
“Oh, I could absolutely do better than Ambrosia Divine. That’s not even her real name, obviously.”
“Is that so, Devlin Pierce? I don’t see your fake name on any book covers. Obnoxious hashtags, sure, you’ve got that market cornered. But literature? Please.”
“You don’t even know what a hashtag is. That aside, I’m not talking about literature, mushroom. I’m talking about the fine art of seducing a woman.”
“No, you’re not. We’re not. We’re not having this conversation.”
He folds his arms across his chest and scoffs, forearm muscles flexing, gods be damned. “Don’t tell me you read romance for the plot.”
“That’s part of it, yes. I like a good story.”
“A good story. Really.”
“Absolutely! I want the whole emotional roller coaster, the character struggles, their day-to-day, all of it. Right up to the hard-won happy ending. That’s what I read romance for.”
“Oh, of course. The emotional roller coaster. The happy ending. The white dress and white picket fence and beautiful babies bouncing on the hip. But mostly…” He plucks the book from my hand and tosses it aside. “You read it for the smut. Stand up.”
“Excuse me?” I sputter.
“Stand up and let me show you something.” He’s already on his feet, hand outstretched, leaving me little choice in the matter, what with that stern British daddy vibe that’s making me feel some type of way, new kinks unlocked, holy freaking Hell.
I take his hand and rise from the couch, knees wobbly but resolve steely.
Until he steps closer. And closer. So close I can see every fleck of gold in his spilled-tea eyes.
Then, in a sultry whisper that has me quivering like poor ol’ Savannah in the hayloft, he says, “The key to seducing a woman lies not in overt sexual prowess, although that certainly helps things along.” He slides his hands into my hair and cradles the back of my head, his lips so close to mine I can’t even breathe. “It lies in seducing her mind.”
“You… have a point, but…” I lower my gaze, unable to match his intensity. Goddess, why does his touch feel so good?
“It is said that some women can climax with words alone,” he whispers. “No physical contact of the genitals whatsoever.”
Okay, way to ruin the mood.
“Excuse me, but no woman is getting anywhere near the big O when her lover uses words like ‘climax’ and ‘genitals.’ You sound like a doctor. And not the hot one, but the bumbling sidekick who barely passed the boards.”
I’m good with the words climax and genitals! the Downtown Pep Squad pipes up. Especially when he says it in British! In fact, I’m pretty sure if he says it again, I’m going to climax right now!
“Yet the point remains.” Devlin lowers his mouth to the side of my neck, breath stirring the fine hairs on my skin. Every cell in my body is working in tandem to hold back the ensuing shiver, to keep me from melting into a puddle on the floor.
“A proper lover knows better than to go in for the kill too quickly.” His dark whisper is a danger, a drug, another weapon in the Devil’s bottomless arsenal that strips me bare as he drags his mouth to my ear. “A proper lover makes certain his partner knows just how exquisite she is, first and foremost. How utterly enchanted he is by the softness of her skin, the warmth of her touch, the light in her eyes. That the barest scent of her desire drives him mad with wanting, and if he doesn’t claim her right this very instant…”
Without warning, he spins me around and pins me face-forward against the wall, wrists bound above my head in his powerful grip, his body pressed against my backside, my heart thundering wildly, breath jagged and desperate.
“—and then he loves her the only way he knows how,” he teases, lips feathering the shell of my ear. “Furiously and without restraint, a wild storm breaking upon the shores of her body, the desperate tide of him rising higher and higher, until… Well. Until it does whatever it does, I suppose.”
Devlin releases me and returns to the couch, plopping back onto his seat with the cats like this is all just a friendly game of charades, not some freaking multi-dimensional out-of-body experience that leaves me riled up and ready to rock.
“That’s how I would do it, anyway.” He picks up the cast-aside book, opens to our page. “Though, as we’ve already demonstrated, there’s no accounting for taste. Shall we return to the hayloft, then?”
My mouth goes completely dry, hands and feet tingling with the same sensation I get when I’m having a panic attack. Which is not exactly the kind of attack I’m having right now, but something is definitely attacking me from the inside out, the deep depths, as we’ve mentioned, because there, sitting on my couch in his white shirt and suit pants, Devlin is…
Hard as stone.
Oh, gray sweatpants. You ain’t got nothin’ on a black suit…
I gape. Devlin notices. And he glances down at his lap, then at me, and says, “So your feline familiars are allowed to appreciate a romance novel, but I can’t? Who’s being judgy now, miss judgy pants?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t appreciate it. Just that… maybe… you could do your appreciating in private? Where I can’t see it? You, I mean. Where I can’t see you.” I swallow hard. Force myself to look out the window. To watch the rain running down the glass, very soothing, yes, exactly what I need. Soothing little raindrops, all in a row…
“Distracting you, am I?” he asks.
When I don’t respond—which is a thing I literally can’t do because my face is on fire and my throat has closed up and I’m seeing stars from lack of oxygen to the brain—Devlin laughs and says, “I always forget how uncomfortable humans get over basic biological functions. Ah, well. I’d offer to cover up with a blanket, but what’s the point? No putting that genie back in the bottle. Anyway, back to Lennox and Savannah. Where were we?”