Chapter 29
The Devil is Polite When He’s Winning
Asher
Violet has been stomping around the penthouse all day, anger buzzing off her like static.
I expected tears. Fear. Maybe quiet compliance.
This—this simmering, barely leashed fury—is infinitely better.
You’d think a kitchen stocked wall to wall with her favorite things would soften her mood. You’d be wrong.
This morning she stormed in, yanked open the freezer, spotted the organic waffles she hoards like contraband, and slammed the door so hard the shelves rattled. I genuinely considered checking the hinges.
I lean against the dining table now, coffee cooling in my hand, while watching her pace. Bare feet. Tight shoulders. Sharp turns like she’s mapping exits that don’t exist.
Every frustrated breath just feeds the problem.
I let her stew longer than necessary before I speak, “Are you planning to pout all day, or is this just your personality?”
She spins on me. “I am not pouting.”
I lift the cup, take a slow sip. Let the silence stretch. “Sure. Poor little Vi. Saved from prison. Parked in one of the nicest penthouses in Manhattan. Tragic.”
Her jaw tightens. “I want to leave.”
“And go where, Kitten?”
The nickname lands exactly where I want it to. Her whole body goes rigid, heat flashing across her face.
“Stop calling me that. I’m not helpless.”
She’s moving toward me now. Fast. Furious. Fists clenched like she might actually try something.
Good.
I straighten, meeting her halfway. The air tightens between us, electric and sharp.
She’s close enough now that I can feel it—her breath, and her heat. She has to tilt her head back to glare properly, and the injustice of that seems to make her angrier.
I watch her closely. The anger is real. But it isn’t alone.
There.That flicker.
She doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but I know that look. I’ve seen it in dark rooms, where bodies pressed together, when she thought she was anonymous.
This time it’s aimed straight at me.
I lower my voice. “Something wrong, Vi?”
“You’re a stalker.”
I laugh quietly. “That’s dramatic.”
She fires back without missing a beat. “You stocked my closet down to my exact sizes. The bathroom is full of my shit. And the waffles—how the hell do you even know what waffles I buy?”
I shrug. Lazy. Infuriating. “I pay attention.”
Her nostrils flare. “Those waffles aren’t even mine. They’re Ella’s.”
That one lands. I feel it a second too late.
She folds her arms, smug now. “Not so clever, are you?”
I recover quickly, tilting my head. “I know everything else.”
“Oh, good. So only ninety-eight percent obsessed.”
I step closer. Her breath hitches before she can stop it.
“You’re angry,” I say.
“Groundbreaking.”
“But you’re also turned on.”
“Fuck you.”
I smile. “Soon. Not yet.”
Her body betrays her immediately. A sharp inhale. A shiver she tries—and fails—to hide.
I let my fingers brush her hip. Barely there. Testing. Her pulse jumps under my touch, fast and wild. I trail my hand up her side, slowly, watching the fight drain from her eyes inch by inch.
The space between us disappears.
I lean in, lips grazing her jaw without kissing. Let her feel the heat. “I could ruin you.”
She clenches her teeth. “You already have.”
“Not yet.”
My hand dips lower, and teases over her clothes, never quite giving her what she wants. She lets out the smallest, most involuntary whimper, and fuck, it makes me hard.
I chuckle, slow and dark. “Say it, Kitten.”
Her breath hitches.
“Say you want me.”
She swallows hard. “No.”
I press my fingers just a little harder, just enough to make her squirm. “Liar.”
She trembles, caught between fury and need.
My hand moves lower, pressing between her thighs, rubbing slow, and deliberate circles against her clit through the thin fabric of her leggings.
The friction is just enough to make her hips jerk involuntarily, her breath turning ragged.
I feel her struggle—her body pushing toward the sensation even as her mind fights against it.
I drag it out, teasing, and pressing just enough to make her squirm, but never enough to let her fall over the edge.
Her nails dig into my arms. She’s close. Desperate.
“Say it,” I murmur against her skin, nipping at her jaw. “Say you want me.”
She lets out a strangled sound—half a growl, and half a moan—and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
I smirk, my breath ghosting over her lips. “Admit it, and I’ll let you come.”
She’s shaking now, the fight in her dwindling under the weight of her own desire.
I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Say it.”
Her lips part, her breath ragged.
And then, finally—broken, furious, and barely above a whisper—
“I want you.”
Satisfaction surges through me. I yank at the waistband of her leggings, the fabric tearing easily under my grip, exposing her to the cool air.
She gasps, her body tensing, but she doesn’t stop me.
My fingers slide between her thighs, teasing over her already slick heat, and dip inside just enough to have her trembling.
I work her relentlessly, my other hand gripping her hip, and keeping her locked in place as I drag her closer to the edge.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her hands gripping at my arms as if she’s torn between pushing me away and pulling me closer.
I can feel the anger in her slowly unraveling, replaced with something raw, and something desperate.
She shatters, gasping against me, her body betraying her in every way.
When she finally comes down from her orgasm, she sags against me, her breaths uneven, and her body still trembling from the aftershocks. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, holding on for stability, while her eyes cloud with something she refuses to name.
I grin against her temple, voice dark with amusement. “Good girl.”
I step back, adjusting my cuffs as I leave her standing there, wrecked and shaking in the middle of the dining room. Her breath is still uneven, her body betraying her despite the anger simmering in her eyes.
"I still hate you!" she yells after me, her voice hoarse, filled with frustration and something dangerously close to desperation.
I pause in the doorway and smile.
Hate is just obsession with better posture.