The Devil I Don't Know

by LK Shaw

  Jacob had encouraged me to just give my list to our housekeeper, a woman I have yet to meet, but I declined. It’s a task I’ve always helped my mother with, and I enjoy it.

  My only real complaint is that aside from our trip yesterday, I’ve still spent the majority of my marriage alone. Not that before the wedding I didn’t hide away inside the library of our brownstone for most of my days, but there was always…noise. With a family of seven, not including Grand-da, our home was never completely quiet. If I wanted company or someone to talk to, I only had to go into another room. Inside this place, I’m isolated.

  Lonely.

  And still a virgin.

  I can’t get Jacob’s father’s words out of my head. That my marriage means nothing until it’s been consummated. Why hasn’t my husband made love to me? No, I shake my head. That sounds too intimate. Although isn’t that what sex is? Intimacy? I guess I won’t know until my husband—or I—does something about it. In the meantime, I have other things to worry about.

  My eyes dart to the clock. I should be asleep at this time of night, but I can’t relax. Jacob said he and Pierce had some business to take of and not to wait up. Any time my father and brothers came home this late, it’s because they were doing something dangerous for my grandfather’s organization. I assume this is the case with my husband, which is why I’m a nervous wreck.

  The lock rattles, and I jump to my feet. The door opens, and at the sight of Jacob, I let loose a sigh of relief. He turns and closes it, holding his left arm awkwardly against his side. Something isn’t right.

  “You should be sleeping,” he lightly scolds, striding through living room. The metallic scent of blood reaches me.

  He enters the kitchen and turns on the overhead light. My eyes land on the dark wet spot spread across the left sleeve of his suit, and I gasp. “What happened?”

  Jacob doesn’t answer. Instead, he flips over a pair of glasses and pours a small amount of whisky in each. He picks up the first and holds it out to me. Once it’s in my hand, he lifts his own and tosses it back in a single swallow. Then he refills it and takes a smaller swallow.

  “Under the sink, in the bathroom over there, is a first aid kit.” He points. There’s strain in his voice. “I recommend you take a few sips of that before you get started.”

  Oh, god. My hands shake, so I do as he says and take a healthy sip hoping the bitter sting will calm my nerves. I manage to only cough once this time and rush into the bathroom, grabbing both the kit and a couple towels. Jacob is shrugging out of his suit jacket, a grimace crossing his face. The small bit of alcohol I consumed must be doing its job, because I feel a bit more in control.

  “Sit down and let me help you,” I demand.

  His eyes flash my way before he concedes. He’s managed to get his right arm out, and I grab the fabric and gently maneuver it down his left arm doing my best not to jar him. His white dress shirt is soaked in blood. I swallow and begin unbuttoning it. My fingers slip a few times at the unfamiliar task. I’ve never undressed a man before.

  My gaze darts up to Jacob’s face, and he’s staring intently at me.

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” I say, trying to keep my mind off how nervous I am. “What happened? I mean aside from getting shot.”

  One corner of his mouth tips up. “That sums it up pretty well, don’t you think?”

  I glare at him. “Let me rephrase then. Who shot you, and why?”

  His expression shifts from one of amusement to rage. “Russians.”

  There’s so much hatred in that single word. I’ve managed to remove his dress shirt. My gaze skates over the bullet hole in his left bicep that appears to still be oozing a little blood. I can feel my own blood leaving my face. His strong hand palms the back of my neck, and warm, dry lips claim mine. I inhale a sharp breath, and Jacob’s tongue slides inside my mouth. He’s whisky flavored.

  My body sags slightly against him, and I open further. He takes full advantage. I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. He tastes me like he can’t get enough. All my nerves are firing. My lips and breasts tingle. My core throbs with need, and wetness spills from me. He consumes me, my entire being going up in flames. I relish the burn. Before I’m ready, Jacob pulls back, and rests his forehead against mine. Both of us are breathing heavy.

  “As much as I enjoyed that, and most assuredly plan on repeating it, I need you to focus,” he says.

  Oh, god, his wound. Snapping back to attention, I pull away and lock my eyes onto his. His diversionary tactic has clearly worked, because I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out anymore.

  “I’m all right now, promise.”

  Jacob nods and takes another sip from his glass. I do the same before getting to work. Heat radiates off him, and it has nothing to do with his injury. I gently clean both sides of it. He hisses under his breath. I jerk back. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine,” he assures me.

  I examine it more closely. “It looks like the bullet went all the way through.”

  “Figured as much.”

  Once I’m confident it’s clean enough, I grab two packages of large, white square bandages and a roll of white gauze. It seems to have stopped bleeding. Carefully, I wrap the wound, until I use the entire roll, doing my best to ignore how his muscles shift beneath my fingertips and how warm his skin is against mine. Once it’s taped in place, I step back and assess my work. Only, I stumble. Jacob latches onto me and pulls me onto his lap.

  “Breathe,” he commands.

  My vision goes in and out, and black dots appear, but I do as he says. Slowly, it starts to clear. He reaches up and cups my cheek. “It’s the adrenaline crash. Just keep breathing.”

  After a couple minutes, I’m less shaky and almost back to normal. My gaze zeroes in on my husband, whose lap I’m still sitting on. I make to rise, but he wraps his arm around my waist, holding me where I am. Not having the energy to fight, I lean against him.

  “You did good tonight.”

  I soak up his praise. “I’ve never seen a gunshot wound before,” I admit.

  He seems surprised by that. “Surely your father and brothers have been shot?”

  “They have, but my mother always rushed me out of the room before she tended to them. She’s protective of me. Maybe too protective.”

  “Is that what you meant when you said your parents kept you in a protective bubble?”

  I jerk in surprise. He remembers that? “Yes.”

  “That explains why communication is so important to you.”

  “It is. I understand there might be things you absolutely cannot tell me about. To be honest, I probably don’t want to know about them anyway. But I want to be involved when I can be. Even if it’s doing things like visiting widows like Carmella. Although, I pray I don’t have to do that often.”

  “Sadly, it’s a part of our life. One I’ll never get used to either. We were lucky tonight. No casualties on our side.” His relief is palpable.

  I can’t imagine how hard it is for him to lose any of his men. Like he said, it’s a way of life. Our life. Still, it can’t be easy. I also can’t picture my grandfather being bothered or upset by any deaths that occur while his men do whatever it is they do. Which only further illustrates the difference between the two.

  “Is Pierce all right?” I ask.

  Jacob nods. “He’s fine. Lucky bastard.”

  I can’t help but smile. “I’m glad.”

  There’s a lull in conversation, and I’m acutely aware of my husband’s muscular thigh beneath me and the fact I’m leaning against his hard chest. I clear my throat. “We both should probably get some rest.”

  Our eyes meet and lock. Once again I’m on the verge of drowning in their depths. The swirls of emotion are like a riptide pulling me in. I lick my lips, and Jacob drops his gaze to them. A flare of arousal simmers inside me at the heat flashing in his cognac-colored stare. He raises his eyes.

  I don’t know w
hich of us moves first. It doesn’t matter, because in the next breath he seals his mouth over mine. Riotous need rushes through me. I open to him. He doesn’t even have to ask. I’m officially addicted to Jacob’s taste, and I want more. I thread my fingers through his hair. It’s so much softer than I imagined.

  His tongue swirls against mine. I follow his lead, completely under his control. My nipples harden almost painfully. I want to rub them against his chest and ease the ache, but I’m not that bold. Instead, I focus on the amazing kiss and all the feelings it brings. It goes on and on, neither of us breaking the connection. This is what I wanted from my marriage. This closeness. I sigh against Jacob’s lips. Far too soon, we separate.

  “You’re a dangerous woman, Brenna Ricci.”

  “How so?” I ask, a little too breathless.

  “Because you make it difficult to maintain control.”

  A rush of pleasure surges through me at his words. I’m not the type of woman that makes men lose control.

  I’m too bookish.

  Too quiet.

  Too invisible.

  Except Jacob seems to see me.

  “I wouldn’t mind, you know,” I whisper.

  “Wouldn’t mind what?”

  I bite my lip before answering and his gaze drops to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “I wouldn’t mind you losing control.”

  A groan rumbles from his chest, the vibration traveling through me and settling deep in my center. I shiver. Jacob closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again.

  “It’s late. We should probably sleep.”

  Disappointment flares, but my body chooses to turn traitor on me. I yawn. Between the tiny bit of alcohol and the adrenaline crash, fatigue rushes to the surface, as though brought forth by his words.

  “Go on,” he urges. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  With more effort than it should take, I slide off his lap. I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn my head for one more look. Jacob is still seated, but his arms are resting on the table top, palms up, and he’s staring into his open hands. There’s an expression of such pain on his face that it punches me in the gut. He clenches his fists and closes his eyes. Feeling like I’m intruding on a private moment I don’t understand, I rush up the stairs.

  Chapter 17

  Jacob

  * * *

  Once again, I wake to find Brenna on my side of the bed, her lithe body pressed tightly against me with an arm draped over my stomach. The heat of her core warms my thigh from where her leg is nestled between mine. Just the slightest movement on my part would be enough to generate friction against her pussy. My cock jumps at the thought of her growing wet with arousal.

  Carefully, I untangle her limbs from around me. Will we have a repeat of this every morning? I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to last not touching her, especially after last night. The more I’m around her, the more I question why I hesitated in the first place. I curse and slide out of bed. A quick glance assures me she’s still asleep. I escape into the bathroom.

  While the shower heats up, my eyes land on Brenna’s personal items scattered over the bathroom counter. Several hair ties with strands of red hair clinging to them dot the top of the surface. Her bright pink toothbrush stands next to my blue one in the holder. There’s even a smudge of toothpaste stuck to the inside of the sink. It’s disorderly and chaotic and wholly unpleasant. I hadn’t pictured my quiet wife being messy, but the evidence surrounds me.

  Discarding my briefs, I step under the hot water, steam wafting throughout the room already, leaving a thin layer of condensation on the mirror. My soap-covered hands roam over my body. There’s no avoiding getting my bandage wet. I’ll ask Brenna to rewrap it for me when I’m finished. The sting from the water hitting it like pellets of hail make me hiss in discomfort.

  To take my mind off it, images of last night flash behind my eyes. The taste of her lips. The drowsy innocence on her face after that kiss. My cock had been hard for hours. I grip my shaft, wishing it was Brenna’s slender fingers wrapped around me. Up and down, I stroke my hardening length, picturing her biting those luscious pink lips before her tongue darts out to wet them. I imagine her green eyes flickering with desire as she takes in my thickness, her innocence in desperate need of corruption. I groan with need.

  My rhythm picks up and my forearm supports my upper body against the wall. Water sluices down my hanging head. Images shift, and I’m picturing pert breasts with cotton-candy colored nipples. And not just anyone’s, but my wife’s. A drop of water hangs from the small tip and my strokes grow faster, until finally, that tiny droplet falls. With it comes an explosion of seed erupting from my cock. “Fuck.”

  There’s a sharp gasp, and I swing around in time to see a flash of red disappear away from the cracked open bathroom door. It would seem my wife is a voyeur. I quickly finish my shower and wrap a towel around my waist before stepping back into the bedroom. Brenna is nowhere to be found. I throw on a pair of briefs and go in search of her. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts to the high ceilings and hits me. I find her at the stove.

  “Breakfast should be ready soon.” She greets me with flushed cheeks before returning to her task. There’s a new tone to her voice, one she hasn’t used before, but I can’t quite place my finger on what it is.

  I pour myself a cup of the steaming hot liquid.

  I wouldn’t mind you losing control.

  Fuck. Why did she have to say that? With a sudden need to push her a bit, I move to the counter, and lean back against it so Brenna’s face is visible to me. My eyes track her movements, and the hot brew settles inside me with each sip. Her gaze remains focused on the food in front of her.

  “You could have joined me, you know.” I rasp out.

  She nearly drops the egg she picks up, but swift reflexes save it. “I’m sorry?”

  Mug still in hand, I gesture with a finger toward the ceiling. “In the shower. No need to be shy. I am your husband.”

  “There are those who might disagree with you. Your father, most of all.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

  “My father has no say in our marriage.”

  “That may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that according to traditional customs, I’m not fully your wife if the marriage hasn’t been consummated.” That tone is back. She looks my way before returning to making breakfast.

  I study her. This isn’t the same woman from last night. That woman was confident. Almost, but not quite brazen. Boldly stared me in the eye. This morning, she can barely look at me.

  “What happened to the siren who sat on my lap, clutching my head to hers, while my tongue plundered her mouth?” I ask. “To the woman who practically begged me to lose control and take her to bed?”

  Brenna smacks the frying pan down onto the stovetop and whirls on me. This whole time I’ve been contributing the flush of her cheeks to embarrassment, but the fire spitting from her Irish green eyes tells me it’s rage coloring them.

  “She’s not here at the moment, and most likely won’t return any time soon. Not as long as she has a husband who would rather not touch her and who uses his own hand for pleasure instead of using his perfectly willing wife.”

  Her words piss me off. “Use you?” I snap. “Is that what you think I should do? You think I should just throw you onto the bed, ram my cock into you with no thought to your feelings, and take my pleasure?”

  My fists clench, and my chest heaves with matching anger. Brenna doesn’t cower at my temper though. She faces me head on.

  “I’m pretty sure I made my feelings known last night. Unless that was some other woman sitting on your lap with her tongue in your mouth. As you so kindly pointed out, I was practically begging you to take me to bed. Yet it’s clear that begging doesn’t work, since I’m still just as much a virgin today as I was yesterday.”

  A growl roars through me. I take a single step forward, grab her face between my hands, and slam my mouth dow
n on hers, putting all my anger and sexual frustration into a single kiss. Brenna whimpers in arousal. I change angles, lashing my tongue against hers, and she matches every parry with one of her own, fighting a battle for control she will not win. The fiery passion spilling from her fans the flames of mine. My mouth moves over hers, dominating every inch.

  “Fuck,” I curse harshly against her lips. “Do you know how much I want you?”

  “Apparently not enough.” Brenna’s voice is just as ragged.

  I push her none too gently against the counter and cage her body, pressing myself against her. “Do you feel that? I’m always fucking hard for you. I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.” The admission is pulled from me against my will.

  “Yet you haven’t done anything about it,” she says with a bite to her words. “I’m your wife, Jacob.”

  “I know that,” I snap back.

  “Then why don’t you do something about it for god’s sake?” Brenna’s voice rises on the last.

  With a pained groan, I force myself away from the temptation her question evokes. It’s I that can’t look at her this time. “I have a meeting to attend, but I’ll be back.”

  I pivot and head up the stairs, almost running in my need to escape her. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as the heat from her confused and angry stare bores into my retreating figure. Once I reach our room, I stand there fighting the urge to return to my wife and finish what we started.

  My eyes land on the dresser, and a wave of guilt floods me. My marriage isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s meant to be an alliance between two families to destroy a mutually hated enemy. I am not supposed to be attracted to my wife. To find her intelligent, kind-hearted, brave, fascinating. Most of all, I’m not supposed to like her and enjoy her company.

  I move to the dresser and open the top drawer. For the first time in seven years, there’s a reluctance to reach inside. I do so, more slowly than ever, pushing aside the undershirts lining the bottom. The familiar velvet pouch caresses my fingertips. With another unusual show of hesitance, I pause before grabbing onto it and pulling it out.