Dance with the Devil: Chapter 8

As I finish up my last client of the day, I lean back in the leather office chair and run my hands down my face. Despite feeling well rested this morning, I’m exhausted after the long day. It’s not until I remember my dinner plans with Francesca that I perk up. Closing my laptop, I put it away in the slim computer bag and walk out of the conference room I booked for the day. Checking my watch, I realize it’s five to seven.

The need to be close to her nearly overwhelms me.

When I get to the lobby, I stop walking when she comes into view.

Fuck.

She’s facing away from me, but I can see her profile from where I’m standing. A tight, white dress clings to her luscious curves. I want to flick my tongue between her breasts and up her neck to her full cheeks. Her hair is pulled up, exposing her back and her golden skin. I let my eyes wander down the white dress, eyeing the way it hugs her waist before flaring slightly. She’s wearing white sandals, and her small purse and trench coat are on a nearby chair…

She laughs—a deep, throaty sound that instantly makes my cock hard.

My eyes drag to the reason for her laughter, and before I can process what I’m seeing, my hands curl at my sides.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Grant Faulkner—also known as Francesca’s very brief fling from a year ago.

I thought I’d gotten rid of him, but apparently the motherfucker was persistent.

Walking forward and attempting to keep my stride casual and not angry as fuck, I crack my knuckles and school my features into something indifferent. By the time Francesca notices me, I’m almost smiling.

“Dr. Kincaid,” she says, my name a breathless invocation on her tongue. “This is one of my old friends, Grant Faulkner.”

I know who he is, I almost say. Instead, I reluctantly push my hand forward.

“Nice to meet you,” I grind out.

“You as well,” Grant says, smirking. He takes my hand. “The infamous—” His eyes flash in surprise at my grip, dropping my hand instantly when I squeeze it as hard as I can. “The infamous boss,” he adds, his expression unsure as he pulls his hand away and shakes it once.

“Are you here for the conference?” I ask. I know he’s not, because I know he teaches surfing lessons for a living in San Diego.

“No, just visiting. I saw Frankie was here and messaged her.”

I look at Francesca, and she gives me an apologetic look. “I invited him to dinner. I hope that’s okay.”

Jutting her jaw out slightly, my cock hardens even further when her tongue darts to her lower lip, licking it once. Lashes fluttering, she looks almost… pleading.

Just as I’m about to very vocally say hell no, she tilts her head and narrows her eyes. Those gray eyes pierce into mine, and one of her brows arches quizzically.

She’s fucking with me.

“Of course,” I say quickly. “Any friend of Francesca’s is a friend of mine.” The look of surprise on her face is priceless. “Excuse me for a moment while I go drop my bag in the room. I’ll be right back,” I tell them.

I walk away, and when I get to the private elevator twenty feet away, I look over my shoulder. My employee is watching me as she speaks to Grant, and I give her my darkest, most menacing look. Her chest rises and her mouth drops open at my angry expression.

I’m not happy about this.

You’re mine, I want to tell her.

Snapping my gaze away, I stalk into the elevator and jab the button for our floor.

Grant fucking Faulkner, of all people.

I’d seen on Francesca’s social media channels that they were dating casually. I’d asked her to work late and work harder that month more than ever—throwing a giant, adult-sized temper tantrum from two hundred miles away. And then when she’d asked for a long weekend off to go to Cancun with him and some other friends, of course I asked her to work. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being alone with him. Whenever she went too long without emailing me, I’d send over some time-consuming problem that I needed help with.

To this day, she thinks I can’t remember my passwords, but it was all a fucking excuse to keep in touch with her.

It still is.

They broke up shortly afterward, so I thought my plan had worked… but I hadn’t done enough, apparently.

When I get inside, I toss my computer bag onto the entryway table while furiously shrugging off my suit jacket and undoing my tie. Walking to the bathroom to freshen up, I stop when I see a few pairs of lacy underwear drying on the towel rack. There’s a pair on the floor—a dark red, satin thong. Before I can think, I snatch it up and bring it to my nose.

Groaning, my cock twitches at the scent of her. The musky, salty, perfect smell.

I didn’t want to brush my teeth this morning because I could still taste her on my tongue, could still smell her on my fingers.

I wish beyond anything that I could remember what happened, other than the shock that went through me when I realize I’d fucked her in my sleep.

And even more shocking… that she was pretending to be asleep afterward.

Was my cum leaking out of her all day?

Was her panic attack because of what happened, or because she realized that two could play at this game?

Or perhaps she’d finally figured out that I was utterly, irrevocably obsessed with every single inch of her?

I inhale her scent again, and even though I want to wrap the silky panties around my aching cock and leave her a little present inside, I don’t.

Over the years, I’ve found that jacking off before bed means I’m less likely to experience my parasomnia.

No, I would hold off, but only so that I could wake up to my cum leaking out of her perfect fucking cunt again.

I might not remember it, but I’d be damned if I could stop myself.

Plus, I want to experience her while cognizant and awake.

Now that I’d actually been inside of her, there was no way in hell that I would let her go.