Tempting Devil: Sinners and Saints Book 2

by Eden, Veronica

  Devlin makes a rumbling sound in response, stepping closer. His hands find my hips. He smells musky as he hovers his lips over mine, hair hanging in his face. Devlin breathes out and it coasts over my mouth. I swallow again.

  An ache twists low in my stomach and between my legs.

  Devlin cups my jaw. His warm touch lights me up. It feels like damnation, luring me in and dragging me under into the sweetest hell.

  He brushes his thumb over my cheek and pins me under his heavy-lidded gaze. “You want to earn that bonus?”

  His words sting with the truth of why we’re doing this, but I don’t care. I’ll face that later. I tilt my head up to accept the kiss.

  With a quiet growl, Devlin covers my mouth with his, immediately pushing his tongue past my lips.

  When we come together, we’re volatile. Rough. A violent storm hellbent on battering each other.

  He claims my lips with power, control, the same unstoppable force from the field putting me under his spell. My fingers fist in his white and green jersey.

  The kiss heats like a five alarm fire, blazing and engulfing us in desire. I didn’t expect him to kiss me like this, like I’m his favorite meal. I don’t know if he is equally taken aback, but judging by the muffled groan that vibrates against my chest, I have an idea.

  A sound hitches in the back of my throat as his tongue slides with mine.

  Devlin’s fingers press into my cheek and jaw. He wraps his arm around my waist, holding me close like he wants to be the only one to possess every part of me.

  The ache between my legs intensifies. This is too much.

  I push away from him, gasping. I press my hand over my swollen lips.

  Devlin’s eyes are hooded, his pupils bottomless pits that swallow his dark eyes. He drags his fingers over the sides of his mouth.

  His attention falls to my tingling lips. He tightens his hold on my waist, like he wants to pull me into another kiss. I plant a hand on his chest to stop him from sweeping me up again.

  Before either of us can say anything about the kiss, Devlin’s teammates crash into us, celebrating the win.

  “Yeah! Man, that was such a good shot!”

  “Did you see that play?”

  “The devil is back!”

  They absorb me into their huddle, patting me on the back. Even Trent and Sean seem happy to have me there.

  “Good job cheering, Davis.” Bishop ruffles Devlin’s hair. “You should come to our official matches, too. You’re a good luck charm.”

  I give him a strained laugh, feeling weird about being crushed in the middle of a huddle of tall soccer players. They all stink. It’s not nice and earthy like Devlin’s scent.

  “I think you guys are fine without me. Don’t you win all the time?”

  “Yeah, but not like that.” Bishop nods to Devlin. “I haven’t seen you play that way since JV. Like you gave a damn about winning.”

  Devlin brushes him off. He breaks free of the huddle and walks away, leaving me in the middle of the herd of sweaty soccer players.

  “Wait!” I push through the tangle of limbs and struggle to get out. I jog after Devlin to catch up. “Where are you going?”

  “Shower.”

  “Okay,” I drag out on a long syllable. “And—what you owe me?”

  Devlin stops, cutting a heated look my way. “You want more?” He huffs out a sensual laugh, the curve of his mouth obscene when he sweeps his eyes over me. He grabs my wrist. “Fine, come to the showers. I’ll pin you against the tiles and have your screams echoing through the whole locker room.”

  My entire face flames and my insides rearrange. What’s his problem? I did what he wanted.

  “Stop being such a dick!” I yank my hand out of his tight grasp. Lowering my voice, I ask, “What about my money?”

  The shift in Devlin’s expression is subtle, but I can see the way he shuts me out. I don’t get what his deal is, but somehow I’ve pissed him off.

  “You’ll get paid,” he snarls, stalking away from me.

  I watch his back retreat into the building, no longer caring that the short hem of the cheer skirt moves in the breeze.

  Nineteen

  Devlin

  Hot water runs over my head, sluicing down my arms. They’re braced against the shower tile in the locker room, flexing with each harsh breath I drag into my lungs. The water doesn’t drown out the pounding rush of blood in my ears or distract from how hard my cock is.

  I won’t touch myself while thinking about her.

  My hands ball into fists. I beat one against the slick tile with a grunt.

  “Fucking pest,” I mutter.

  My cock throbs as soon as the words leave me. The kiss replays nonstop, bombarding me with Blair’s breathy sounds, the way she clung to me, and the rush of desire to devour her right there on the field in front of everyone.

  I can still taste her on my lips.

  I swipe the back of one hand across my mouth, ignoring the throb in my groin.

  Once again, Blair made me forget about the game. While kissing her, I lost sight of the fact she only wants my money. It’s the damn lure she has all over again.

  She’s skilled at invading my senses, undermining my plans, and intoxicating me with her clever whiskey-colored eyes.

  I thought humiliating her with a kiss from her worst enemy would burn this little obsession from my system, but no. Instead, it thrived to life. This new curiosity is growing out of control now that I’ve had a taste of those plush fucking lips.

  My cock jerks, the twisted little fucker too stupid to realize I have no intention of sinking to Blair’s level. I’ll never let her beat me. Not at the game I’m best known for.

  “Yo, you dirty devil, I’m heading out if you’re not done jerking off,” Bishop calls.

  “Fuck you,” I grouse, raising my voice above the shower.

  Bishop’s snicker echoes off the tiles. “You got your little lady in there after putting on that show?”

  “No.”

  Bishop laughs again and slaps the wall outside of my stall. “But you wish she was.”

  My body certainly agrees with Bishop’s knowing tone. Sighing, I shut off the water. “Leave it.”

  “Whatever, man. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bishop leaves and I’m left in an empty locker room with my head a mess.

  * * *

  I hoped after a day or two, I would come to my senses. I hate being wrong.

  Blair is more inescapable than ever. My attention seems glued to her whenever she’s near at school. I’ve kept my distance, but it’s impossible not to watch her, even when I don’t intend to. Inevitably, my gaze seeks her out.

  She’s in my dreams, too. Plaguing me whether I’m awake or asleep.

  I’ve never felt so drawn to someone before.

  This campus suffocates me. I might cut out early for a drive through the mountains. Fuck coming back here until I can rein myself in.

  As I sit through another boring as hell English class, all I can focus on is Blair at the desk next to mine. My peripheral gaze is magnetized to her presence. I can’t stop thinking about the kiss on the soccer field—can’t stop thinking about Blair.

  Thoughts run through my head, intertwining with the stuttering thrum of my heart when I catch a hint of sweet vanilla shampoo. I toy with the idea of paying her to take a ride with me, driving her home, and keeping her to myself. Trap her away until I’ve had my fill. She’s slippery, though. It wouldn’t last long enough to stamp out this addiction to her.

  I can’t let my impulsive side run loose, no matter how strong the urge to wrap her in my arms is.

  It’s insane how much she’s invaded my thoughts. When I’m close to her, my stomach clenches. It’s a challenge not to draw her into a secluded corner. The desire to flirt with her just to see her freckled cheeks blush fills me to the brim.

  Giving into this means giving her power over me.

  What I need to do is step ba
ck.

  It’s time to cut my losses. If I can’t control myself, then the next viable option is to remove the temptation. I’ve given her the payment for the kiss, and that’ll be the last she gets from me.

  Blair’s eyes flick over, catching me watching. Fuck—when did I stop looking at her from my periphery? Her gaze jumps down to my lips and heat sears my insides.

  I want her.

  And that’s exactly why I have to stop.

  Twenty

  Blair

  The tasks from Devlin have dried up. It’s been almost a week.

  After the last payment for making a spectacle of myself in a cheer uniform and the kiss, Devlin has gone radio silent on me.

  Plagued by anxiety that I’ve somehow fucked up the deal, I’ve bitten my nails down to the beds. They haven’t been this bad since last year. It feels weird to have no nails again. I can’t stop prodding my fingertips.

  I tear my attention from my sad nails and refocus on my homework spread across the coffee table. It’s hard to concentrate with the itchy tweed of the ugly plaid couch irritating my thighs and leaving indents in my skin. I shift around, adjusting my cotton shorts.

  Five more minutes of trying to work on my history essay—a subject I normally love—and I close my eyes, falling back against the couch with a defeated groan. I cover my eyes with the sweater paws of my oversized hoodie.

  The damn kiss with Devlin won’t leave my head. The sweep of his tongue, his grip on my waist, and the muffled groan he made are all seared into my memory. I had no idea kissing could be like that. The few kisses I’ve experienced have been sweet, awkward, or void of feeling.

  Kissing Devlin was overwhelming. Uncontrolled. Unforgettable.

  Ruinous.

  A coil of heat twines my stomach into a delicious tangle. “This is ridiculous. And pathetic. Get it together.”

  I’m confused. That’s all. There’s no way I’ll let him convince me to kiss him again. Even if he pays me one million dollars.

  Well…

  Okay, it wouldn’t be a hardship for that much. I fall sideways on the couch, stretching my arms above my head. A lopsided smile lifts the edge of my mouth as I daydream. With one million bucks I could buy Mom a nice house, a reliable car, wipe out the debts and bills, and still have some left over to pay for college.

  In the middle of imagining picking out the perfect art history classes for my college schedule, the rattle of the door startles me into sitting upright.

  Mom walks through the door hours before she’s due home from her evening shift at the diner. Her shoulders droop and her face is too pale, making the bruised bags beneath her eyes stand out starkly.

  “Mom!” I pop up from the couch and rush over. “What are you doing home?”

  She releases a shuddering breath and takes my hand. Her fingers are ice cold.

  “Oh, baby girl,” she whispers raggedly.

  I don’t like the broken sound of her voice. Worry weighs down my stomach like bricks covered in sludge, sticking together and creating an enormous mass of discomfort.

  “Come sit down.” Lacing my fingers with hers, I guide her to the small table in the kitchenette.

  Once she’s seated, she puts her head in her hands, bony elbows on the table. Her waitress uniform hangs from her small frame. If I’m skinny, Mom is almost deathly thin. She could never keep weight on. And it has always been hard when our meals are rationed throughout the month.

  It would be better if we qualified for food stamps, but Mom makes too much. The system is a joke to everyone like us, slipping through the cracks because we have too much income to qualify for government assistance programs that would be a huge help, and have too little income to sustain ourselves without worrying. Ridgeview is still an expensive place to live, even on the rough side of town. Most of Mom’s paycheck from the diner goes toward rent on the trailer, then the bills in order of priority and consequences. It’s a horrible existence to constantly dread if we can afford our bills or if we’ll get to eat from week to week.

  An anguished sob escapes Mom and she scrunches her hair in her clawed hands. My heart shatters as I wrap her in my arms.

  “Don’t cry,” I whisper, as broken as she is. I hate seeing her cry. It wrecks me, stabbing my heart like lethal daggers. “It’s okay. Just breathe, Mom. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

  The words feel hollow, but they won’t stop coming. I have to do something to stop her tears.

  Mom turns with a strained whimper, banding her arms around my waist and burying her head in my chest. Tears sting my eyes and clump my lashes as I stroke her hair, soothing her with gentle shushes. We stay like that until she calms down.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says repeatedly in a tight voice. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Helplessness shackles me, clamping me in iron. How can I fix this?

  Mom pats my back and pushes me off gently. I lean back to give her room and she peers up at me. She immediately bursts out laughing.

  “Oh my god,” she breathes through weak laughter. Her shoulders shake under my hands. “You look like a raccoon.”

  I blink, swiping away tear tracks from under my eyes. My thumb comes back smeared with mascara. I huff out a laugh and shake my head.

  Giving her a wry smile, I hug her. “Let me go wash my face, then I’ll make some tea.”

  When I return, Mom has her name tag in her hand, tracing the plastic letters that spell Macy. I plug in our electric kettle that I found at the thrift shop downtown and pull out cups and tea bags. As I make the tea, Mom remains quiet.

  It scares me when she breaks down. She doesn’t usually cry in front of me, so for her to lose her composure instead of going to cry in her room, I know it’s bad.

  “Here,” I say as I set down a steaming mug of tea in front of her.

  Mom sets aside the dinged up plastic name tag and curls her hands around the mug. There’s something about a warm drink that has magical calming powers. No matter how bad things get, it helps ground us.

  I take the seat across from her and chew on my lip as I work out how to broach the subject. “So…”

  Mom sighs, weary and beat down by the world. It makes my heart twinge, the fractures like the prick of a thousand needles. I swallow, my throat thick and tight.

  “I was let go from the diner.”

  A lump lodges in my throat. I wheeze when I try to breathe around it.

  Mom rubs her temple, scrunching her face up. “I don’t know how we’ll make rent by the end of the month. I’ll have to start looking for another job right away.”

  “I could get a jo—”

  “No.” Mom cuts me off with a fierce look. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Blair. Focus on school. I’ll take care of us. I just want you to worry about your studies. You worked so hard to get your scholarship. I won’t see you waste that opportunity because of money worries.”

  “But it’s not even your fault! It’s all because Dad left like a goddamn—”

  Mom slams her hand on the table. I jolt. I’m glad she has some fight in her still, even if it’s to scold me.

  “That’s enough. It doesn’t matter anymore. We just have to keep moving forward. Dwelling doesn’t do us any favors.”

  I lean back in my chair, sighing. I tap my nail-bitten fingers against the side of the mug. There is another option. I was going to save it up, but since Devlin hasn’t talked to me all week, I might as well give it to her now.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Blair?”

  I hold up a finger as I go to my room. I wait for a second, hands planted on my hips. Sighing, I go to the mattress of my futon and lift the corner. In the closet, I dig money out of two different pairs of boots. From my sock box, I retrieve the last of my saved stash of cash. The stack is thick, all twenties and fifties earned from playing Devlin’s game.

  It’s everything I’ve saved up so far.

  Going back to the main room
of the trailer, I put the stack in front of Mom. “Here. We can use this for rent. I think there’s enough for two months at least.”

  Mom gapes, whipping her shocked gaze from the money to me. “Wh—Blair, where did you get this?”

  I shrug, picking at an angry red cuticle on my pinkie. The stinging bite of pain keeps me anchored.

  Mom thumbs through the money, mouthing the count. The higher she goes, the more her eyebrows creep up on her forehead. “Blair,” Mom rasps. “This is almost five thousand dollars.”

  “I know.”

  “Where did you get this much money?”

  I skirt the question. “I’ve been tutoring some people at school. They’re all rich, so they pay great. Just take it. Will it help?”

  Mom shakes her head in disbelief. “Yes, but…”

  Covering her hand with mine, I implore her. “Please, Mom. Let me help. I’m not a kid anymore and I don’t want you to stress over this. This way you don’t have to kill yourself searching for a new job. You can get some rest first.”

  I take in her sunken eyes, the exhausted creases at the corner of her eyelids, the limpness to her low ponytail, and the alarmingly pale pallor of her skin. Mom is only 37. She married my dirtbag dad at 18, young and so in love. He gave her the world, and she gave him me at 19. She works so hard and looks like she’s ten years older than her age.

  Mom has been through too much.

  Her lip quivers and her eyes turn glassy, filled with fresh tears.

  “Oh, baby girl.”

  I squeeze her hand. “We’ll be okay, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Mom gets up and drops a kiss on top of my head. “Have you eaten yet? How about we splurge on a pizza?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  As Mom calls for delivery, I gather my homework from the coffee table and set it with plates. While she’s ordering, I grab my phone and tap out another text to Devlin to find out what’s up with our deal. If Mom can’t get a job, then I need him now more than ever. As much as needing him makes my blood boil, he’s the easiest way I can make money right now.