Dance with the Devil: Chapter 12

Sitting idly on the couch, I fidget with the birth control ring in the pocket of my pants. Of course I walked around with it all day. How could I not? Even in my sleep, I knew what I was doing. My proclivities in real life bleed into my slumber, that’s for sure. Suppressing a smile, I imagine her discovering that I removed it. According to an internet search, the efficacy starts degrading almost immediately, and another backup method should be used after three hours.

She wanted to use a sperm bank to have a baby? The second she said that, I knew it would never happen.

Especially since I’d already had a taste of her, and knew that from that point forward, the only person she would ever consider having a baby with is me.

I’d asked my therapist once about my… obsession.

About how I had this fantasy of breeding Francesca—of filling her cunt with my seed. I’d never actually considered impregnating her until this trip, but now it’s all I can think about.

Toeing the edge of acceptable—flirting with danger—it’s all a turn-on for me.

Knowing she can’t use some random guy.

Knowing she has me.

I’m still not sure if she’ll forgive me for what I’ve done to her, but she must know by now, right? If I were crossing a boundary, she’d tell me.

She’s not the type of woman who’d just take it lying down.

Ergo… she must want this, too.

And fuck, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up, because I don’t remember anything from what happens between us.

Only the aftermath.

It’s killing me not knowing what it feels like to pump into her. What she looks like when she comes. How soft her skin is, or what her cunt tastes like. Every time I get whiffs of it or I think about it, my cock gets hard. But, of course, if I release the tension, so to speak, there’s less of a chance I can have her again.

It’s sick—I’m sick. I know that.

But if I’m sick, what does that make her?

If I’m Hades, she’s Persephone—a dual deity with both light and dark elements.

I’ve seen the light side. But today? With that little smirk she gave me in the dining room? She’s embracing her dark side. Succumbing to me.

I both adore and fear her for it.

She expects me to think she stays asleep while I do deplorable things to her body? That aggressively fucking someone wouldn’t rouse them from sleep?

She doesn’t have parasomnia like I do. She wouldn’t be able to sleep through it.

Baby girl, I know exactly what game you’re playing.

And I wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel to see the bruises around her next.

Pride.

Not for hurting her, but for branding her with my hand.

In a way, it feels like she belongs to me, even if we’re still pretending it’s a secret.

The bedroom door opens and Francesca walks out wearing a fitted black dress with thin straps and buttons all the way down the front. The curly tendrils of her hair still frame her face, but she’s covered her neck bruises with makeup. She doesn’t look at me as she walks back into the bathroom. A minute later, I hear the blow-dryer turn on and pretend to work. At a quarter to six, she exits the bathroom—again without looking in my direction—and closes the bedroom door.

My palms sweat as I type.

She seemed fine this morning, but she’s been acting strange ever since I sent that email to her. Perhaps I went too far, or perhaps she’s decided she’s had enough of whatever the fuck this game we’re playing is. Maybe I flew too close to the sun. For all I know, the cops are going to knock on my door at any moment and she’s going to accuse me of raping her in her sleep. I mean… isn’t that what I’m doing?

It’s hard to say—especially since I’m not actually conscious.

But I could’ve said something that first night. I could’ve apologized, could’ve taken more measures not to do it again. After all, I put myself in this predicament knowing it could happen.

Hoping it would happen.

After two years of working with Francesca, I’d constructed a psychological profile on her.

And there’s one thing that’s always been evident: her need to win any competition, and her absolute desire for a family. Being born to a single mom, she craves a family of her own. I know about the stillborn—I’d requested her medical files when she was hired. I know about her ex-fiancé. I know this job—and me—are temporary in her book.

And I’d decided pretty early on that I wasn’t going to accept that.

I wanted to be a permanent part of her life.

What Francesca doesn’t realize is that I’m perfect for her.

She’s independent, reliable, and strong-willed. She’s brave, feisty, yet soft and warm when it matters. We are polar opposites—she drinks her coffee with more sugar than a donut, and I drink mine black. Her body is full of soft curves, and mine is lean and hard. She presents herself as unflappable, but she sews blankets for babies in her free time.

I don’t want someone who will cave when I say something with a stern tone. I want someone who will call me on my shit—something Francesca has been doing, whether she realizes it or not, for two years.

I don’t believe in soulmates. I went to medical school, and the shit I’ve seen both with my mother and my patients over the years has proven that no such thing exists.

But if they did—if they do—Francesca would be mine.

Of course, the conference was well-thought-out. I’d pretended not to need her help, but at the last minute asked her to accompany me. I knew she’d drop everything to please me. She’d proven herself a thousand times over these past two years. It’s why I pay her a small fortune every month.

In her mind, I wouldn’t ask unless I absolutely needed the help.

And she hated me—hates me. Perhaps less so now, but it’s still there.

I’ve been using that to my benefit, because hate is so very close to love. She hates me, which makes her think of me all the time—at work, outside of work, every time she picks up her phone, every Monday morning…

She is mine without even realizing it.

And then of course being nice and throwing her off the game completely, taking her by surprise. Turning on the romance and making her second-guess every single interaction we’d ever had. Taking care of her. Flirting. It’s all a part of the plan.

She’s trying to throw me off my game, too, I think.

And though I’d anticipated that she’d push back a little bit, I had no idea she’d commit to our little game this perfectly.

Closing my laptop and standing, I reach inside my pocket and touch the birth control ring.

Mine.

As if that thought summons her, Francesca’s door opens. She emerges wearing black heels and a little black jacket to complement her dress.

I’m momentarily speechless.

Last night she was dressed like a teenager—the white dress making her seem sweet and innocent. Tonight, though? The all-black villain-esque ensemble does something to me, and I subtly adjust myself as she walks out.

“Time to go?” she asks, looking down at her phone.

Look at me, I want to yell.

“Yeah.”

She finally looks up from her phone, and Christ…

She’s wearing red lipstick, and her hair falls in loose waves around her face.

How the fuck am I supposed to take her to a work event when she looks like this? If anyone were to look at her for a second too long, I’m pretty sure I’d rip their head off.

There’s no way in hell I can compose myself.

“You look nice,” I tell her, my voice even despite the inner turmoil.

“Too casual for where we’re going?” she asks, twirling and giving me a perfect view of her narrow waist and an ass I want to knead and slap.

“No. It’s perfect.” My eyes dart down to her feet. “We’re walking a few blocks. Are those shoes okay?”

She gives me a sardonic smile that makes my cock twitch. “I’ll be fine, but if not, maybe you can give me a piggyback ride.”

Fuck. Me.

She’s good.

I don’t smile—instead walking over to the dining room table and grabbing my suit jacket. I can feel her eyes on me as I slip it on.

“What’s the tattoo for?” she asks, and when I turn around, she’s a bit closer to me now, leaning against the wall of the dining area. Her handbag is slung over her shoulder, and fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“It’s a bit of a personal story,” I tell her, brow wrinkling.

“Oh, I didn’t⁠—”

“My parents divorced when I was five. After Rocco…” She nods, and I take a steadying breath before continuing. “My mother remarried, and her husband had this large garden snake that he kept as a pet. As a kid, I was terrified of snakes. I didn’t like my stepfather as a person, and he knew it. I didn’t trust him. For four years, he’d let the snake roam free in our house. My mom never said anything—after all, he was better than my birth father. One night she had to work late, and he thought it would be funny to lock me in the bathroom with the snake.”

Francesca’s mouth drops open. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

I shrug. “I decided that day to not be scared of snakes anymore. I refused to let him win. For three hours, I let that snake slide all over my legs, up my neck, around my back… I’d sweat through my shirt, but when he unlocked the door, I was shaking and sitting there holding the snake. After I stood up and put the snake back in his terrarium, I walked over to him and punched him square in the nose.”

She laughs. “He got what he deserved!”

I smile, delighting in the way her eyes track over my face when I do. She likes it when I smile—I’ll need to remember that.

“He never fucked with me again.”

Well, he tried—and got close a few times. Didn’t stop him from verbally abusing me, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Good for you.” Her smile is soft, and I want to touch her. Press my lips against hers. Run my hands down her arms. Grab the flesh at her hips.

“The snake represents conquering my fears. From that point forward, I realized I was in control. Not the snake, or the tall mountain, or the enclosed space. Just me.”

“I should try it. I hate spiders. If there’s a spider in my house, I will leave and sleep at Ari’s house.”

My lips tug into a smile again when I imagine it. “You’re lucky to have her.”

Francesca rolls her eyes. “I know. But she can be a pain in my ass.”

“How so?” I ask.

Her cheeks turn pink, and I realize she must’ve mentioned something about me to her friend.

Have you been talking about me behind my back, baby girl?

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She looks over at the clock on the wall. “What time is our reservation?”

“We’re not going anymore,” I tell her simply. “Change of plans.”

“Did it get canceled?” she asks.

I let my eyes wander over her body as I take a step closer. “No. I just changed my mind about sharing you.”