Dance with the Devil: Chapter 7

When I exit the elevator, my breath hitches when I see him speaking to a colleague in the lobby. He’s holding two to-go Philz Coffee cups, and once I get closer, his eyes flick over to me briefly. I stop walking as he tips his head and holds out one of the cups to me—as if the brown cardboard cup is a peace offering. And there’s no indication that he’s sorry or remembers what happened. I take a deep breath and gird my loins, walking toward him again.

Each step sends a heavy, aching pulse of pain to the space between my legs. After all, it’s been years since I’ve had sex, and he wasn’t exactly gentle last night.

I have to keep my mind from defaulting to the memories from last night—most importantly, the noises he made when he was fucking me, the way his hands gripped me like he never wanted or intended to let go. The desperate way he drove into me—like he knew he was dreaming and he didn’t want it to end.

“Good morning, Francesca,” he says, handing the coffee to me.

My eyes find his, and I take the cup from him as I study his face. But there’s nothing in his expression—no hardness of his jaw from guilt, no narrowed eyes, daring me to speak of it. His hand brings his cup to his lips and he takes a deep sip of his coffee, and if I’m not mistaken, his eyes are sparkling and bright this morning.

In fact, the dark bags that normally shadow his upper cheeks are gone, and his lips quirk into a small smile as he continues conversing with his colleague.

I inhale sharply as he lets out a jovial laugh, and my eyes hang on his expression. He’s lighter somehow, and… happier.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I moan out loud when the sugary liquid hits my taste buds. He ordered me a hazelnut latte. My favorite. I didn’t realize he’d been paying attention the last few mornings when I ordered my coffee to the room, but I must’ve mentioned it at some point.

Dr. Kincaid’s colleague says goodbye, wishing us a good day before departing. Once he’s a few feet away, he looks down at me as he takes another sip of his coffee.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

My heart stutters in my chest when his lips form a frown, and his eyes grow a shade or two darker as he watches me.

“Fuck,” I whimper, fists curling. “Dr. Kincaid⁠—”

I can’t look away from him, and the room begins to spin as I contemplate whether or not he’s fucking with me… because my intuition is telling me he remembers waking up, and he knows exactly what he did. That thought sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

But why isn’t he apologizing? He’s a decent person, or so I thought.

It can’t have been the first time he did it, so he must have some way of handling the aftermath of his… condition.

He must sense my dilemma, because he tilts his head ever so subtly, as if daring me to say it.

He’s not going to admit it until I do.

Suddenly, I see how this game is going to play out.

He knows I was faking it when I pretended to be asleep, and I know he’s faking it when he pretends it never happened.

It’s a game of cat and mouse—and for whatever reason, the idea of fucking with him just as much as he’s fucking with me is… tantalizing.

The thing is, I have no idea if I’m the cat or the mouse in this scenario.

“Fine,” I tell him, keeping my expression neutral.

His jaw tics as he studies me just as closely as I was studying him just a minute ago. The intensity of his stare has me shifting my feet to tamp down the throbbing between my legs, and when I do, I feel his cum leak out of me.

This is so fucking wrong.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice just a tad too hard.

His eyes light up again, like he’s enjoying this game as much as I am.

“I slept better than I have in years,” he admits.

My eyes scan his face, trying to find any indication of what happened… but there’s nothing. He’s either really good or I’m completely out of my mind and he truly doesn’t remember.

Though, it feels like the former.

He’s good.

He has to be—he is the devil incarnate, after all.

“That’s great to hear,” I tell him, finally looking away.

My heart is racing in my chest. It has been since I laid eyes on him—or rather, since everything happened last night. Thank God I have a contraceptive ring, or else I’d be hightailing it to a pharmacy right now for the morning-after pill. The thought of a sexually transmitted disease runs through my mind, but it’s too late now—what’s done is done. I make a mental note to get tested once I get back to San Diego because you can never be too sure. The thought of going to the doctor’s office when I actively try to avoid it…

It’s fine. It has to be done, and it’s fine…

The caffeine begins to hit my bloodstream and mixed with the adrenaline from last night, I suddenly feel lightheaded and tired all at once. The result is dizzying. I’m just about to excuse myself when Dr. Kincaid turns to me and begins speaking.

“Long day today. There’s the Kressler presentation at nine-thirty, and then the American Psychiatric Association luncheon at eleven-thirty. I’d like you present and taking notes for both…” I can’t make out the rest of what he’s saying, and his eyes quickly flick between mine. “Francesca?”

A low buzz is beginning in my mind, and I instantly recognize the start of a panic attack.

The room begins to spin and I’m suddenly hyperventilating⁠—

“Sit down,” he says quickly, guiding me to a nearby chair.

I vaguely register the soft cushion and warm hands on my thighs. Closing my eyes, I try to remember the strategies I used to bring myself down from the edge of a panic attack. A deep, soothing voice guides me down, breath by breath. My heartbeat slows, and I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my legs.

“…three, four, five…” A heavy sigh. “Good. You have some color back. Take another deep breath for me, Francesca.”

I do as he says, opening my eyes when I’m done.

Dr. Kincaid is kneeling in front of me with a concerned expression.

Ah, so the devil can have empathy.

“I’m okay,” I tell him with a shaky voice. “Panic attack.”

“I figured,” he says, frowning.

“They come on randomly sometimes.”

“I see,” he says simply. “Perhaps you should take the morning off⁠—”

“No,” I say quickly, placing my hands on top of his. We both suck in sharp breaths at the unexpected contact, and I pull away before he can. “Distraction helps me more than anything. I’d like to attend the presentation and luncheon.”

“Very well.”

He stands up and holds a hand out, but I reject his help and stand up myself. My knees are wobbly, and my body is filled with frenetic energy that I know will cause me to crash later. Still, aside from the shaky legs, I feel a lot better.

“Let’s get you something to eat.”

Checking my watch, I see that it’s just past eight, and that gives us over an hour to eat.

This is going to be a very long hour.

This is going to be a very long seven days.

How is it that it’s only been three days since we arrived? How do we have a week left?

I go through the motions of ordering breakfast at the restaurant, and fortunately Dr. Kincaid doesn’t speak—instead, he appears to be writing an email on his phone. It’s better that we’re quiet, anyway. The longer I sit, the more sore I get between my legs, and it’s just a reminder of what we did and what we’re not admitting to.

I’m not sure how much longer I can play this game.

Breakfast passes quickly, as does the presentation. By the time the luncheon rolls around, I expect Dr. Kincaid to pull me aside and apologize for last night, or inquire about my sleep further. However, much to my chagrin, he only appears to become even more confident and unaffected as the day goes on. After the luncheon, he’s called up to give a speech about his work with sleep disorders. I’m sure he’s going to confess afterward—a low, murmured confession as he comes to sit back down next to me—but he doesn’t. He just gives me a small nod before the luncheon ends.

He ushers me out of the dining room a minute later with everyone else.

“You may spend the afternoon as you please. I’m meeting with a few patients virtually in one of the conference rooms, and I’d like for you to join me for dinner tonight.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll catch up on emails and make sure your calendar is⁠—”

“Not working, Francesca,” he practically growls. “I’m giving you the afternoon off.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking, Because you feel guilty for what you did last night? But I don’t, because I didn’t hate it.

I liked it.

In fact, while I was watching the boring presentation earlier, I kept getting whiffs of his spicy, cinnamon scent, and it took me back to last night and how incredible it was.

“Fine,” I say, nodding. “I’m sure I can find ways to amuse myself for a few hours.”

I don’t intend for it to come out so sultry, but Dr. Kincaid’s eyes narrow at the tone anyway.

“Meet me in the lobby at seven.”

He stalks off without another word, and I watch as he disappears around a corner. It takes me a second to realize that the empty feeling occupying my chest is there because I miss him—what the actual fuck? Shaking my head, I make my way up to the room and step out of my loafers. Pacing the room for a few minutes, I debate calling Ari and telling her what happened. Except, no matter how I paint it, she’d call the cops on Doctor Devil’s ass so quickly. I love her for it, but she’s too protective for this.

No, I can’t tell her.

But maybe I can frame it in a way that makes it seem like we both had too much to drink and that it just happened…

I’m calling her before I can change my mind. The nervous energy is going to burst out of me soon if I don’t tell someone.

“Hey!” she says, breathless.

“Hi?”

“Sorry, I’m… on a run,” she adds.

I bark a laugh. “Is there a gun to your head?”

“I’m trying… something new… okay?” she pants.

“Okay. Well, lucky for you, I have a funny story so you don’t need to talk while I explain how it happened.”

“You slept with him,” she says quickly.

“Um, what?”

“That was… quicker than I expected…” She coughs and swears. “Running is… for the devil…”

“Jesus, Ari,” I giggle. “Maybe try slowing down so you don’t pass out.”

She groans and there’s a few moments of silence as she catches her breath. “Fine. Go on. Tell me how you slept with Doctor Pretty.”

I frown. “Now he’s Doctor Pretty?”

“Well, yeah. This is like some sort of office rom-com playing out. One room. Enemies to lovers. And now the hate sex. You’re so predictable. So, how was it?”

“Trust me, it is not a rom-com.”

More like a horror book… but in a good way?

“Oh, boo. Was it bad?”

“No! It was incredible. I’ve never… had sex like that,” I add quickly, trying to find the right words. “We’d had a little too much to drink, and it just sort of happened. Afterward, he went back to his bed and he hasn’t mentioned it at all today. I’m trying to figure out if he really doesn’t remember or if he’s waiting for me to confess first.”

“Hmm… probably the latter. And if this follows all of the they’re in denial books I read, neither of you is going to admit it because you’re both bullheaded as fuck. Oh my god, this is so exciting! Please update me tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because he’s definitely going to want to fuck you again tonight.”

I scrunch my nose. “I doubt it⁠—”

“Trust. Me. Are you guys going out again tonight?”

My eyes flick over to the bedroom door lock, and I pull my lower lip between my teeth. “Yes.”

“Good. Now all you have to do is make him squirm. He’s going to play dumb? Fine. You better look hot as fuck tonight at dinner. Flirt with the server. Lick the whipped cream off your spoon in slow motion. Drive him wild, Frankie.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work⁠—”

“Report back tomorrow. Now, be a good girl and go get waxed.”

I laugh and cover my mouth. “Oh my god, Ari!”

“What? You forget we have the same esthetician, and she asked me last week how you were because it had been months. And maybe buy some pretty undies while you’re at it.”

“I’m not spending my free afternoon doing things to please Doctor Devil in the bedroom.”

“Fine,” she sniffs. “I should get back to running. Be safe and update me tomorrow.”

“I will. Don’t die.”

We hang up and then I decide to change into jeans and a t-shirt. It’s beautiful out—sunny and warm. I slip my feet into sneakers. I have no idea where I’m going, so I just walk. I eat lunch at a burger place on Market Street and then I meander up to the Embarcadero. Walking up to Pier 39, I snap a few touristy photos, and as I begin my long walk back to the hotel, I pass by a beauty salon advertising waxing services.

It’s silly—it doesn’t matter at the end of the day.

But maybe Ari is right.

If he can make me squirm, I can do the same to him.

Fortunately, I’m able to get waxed quickly, and though it hurts more than normal because it’s been so long, I clench my teeth through the pain.

On my way back, I pass by a small boutique and a white dress with a strawberry pattern catches my eye. I walk away, but in the back of my mind, Ari’s words play out.

He’s going to play dumb? Fine. You better look hot as fuck tonight at dinner. Flirt with the server. Lick the whipped cream off your spoon in slow motion. Drive him wild, Frankie.

I’m clueless when it comes to love and relationships. I met Jake in high school and he asked me out. I never had to work for his affections.

Until the very end, when he walked out on me…

And then there was Grant. A brief, stupid mistake that happened about a year ago.

This isn’t love, though. It’s some sick game of reverse psychology and revenge. And if I’m going to win, I have to play dirty and utilize my assets.

Circling back to the shop, I try on the dress in the largest size they carry, and lucky for me, it fits my curvy body perfectly. It accentuates my narrow waist, large bust, and hips. It’s not overly revealing. In fact, it makes me look… innocent.

Smiling, I pay for the dress and walk back to the Four Seasons.

You want to play, Doctor Devil? Then let’s play.