by Misha Bell
“It appears we do.” He opens his laptop. “Do svidaniya.”
Channeling Buckley, I clear my throat. Not getting fired is just the first item on my agenda, but I’m not sure how to proceed.
“We can discuss the details of the integration project tomorrow, after my sister and I officially move in to these offices,” he says, clearly misunderstanding my hesitation to leave.
Here goes nothing. “There’s something else I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” He pins me with that intense cerulean stare. “Work or personal?”
My skin feels overly warm and tingly. “Work. Strictly professional. Not personal in the slightest.”
I force myself to shut up, as methinks I sound like that lady that doth protest too much.
He frowns. “So, work.”
Did I catch disappointment flitting across his features? Nah. Must be my overactive ovaries playing mind games.
“1000 Devils has a contract with NYU Langone hospital,” I say.
His eyes widen. “I thought you didn’t do corporate espionage. How do you know that?”
I remind him that his company website publicly lists him as the owner, and I tell him about my meeting at the hospital and why Dr. Piper informed me about the contract.
“So you want my help getting some games onto the headset?” he asks when I’m done explaining.
“Yes. I figure you’d make even more money from NYU Langone this way. So win-win.”
He scratches that cursed stubble on his chin—activating my grooming fantasies once again. “I’m not sure they would pay more. I bet they’d just include VR as a platform in the existing contract—they don’t make a distinction between tablets, consoles, or phones at the moment, so this is like that.”
My heart feels like a witch doctor has just shrunk it. “So you won’t help me?”
A satyr-like smirk illuminates his gorgeous features. “I didn’t say that. I think I might help you… for a price.”
Here we go.
I can practically envision myself pricking a finger and signing a contract that asks for my firstborn.
My insides start quivering, and not just my ovaries anymore. “What do you want?”
“Two more things,” he says, his voice low and deep. “Not work-related this time.”
I knew it. The Devil is demanding a deal—one cannot hide one’s nature.
“What are they?” I’m impressed with myself. My voice is steady, and the British accent hasn’t reappeared.
“Bella is going crazy wanting to know what you thought of the suit,” he says. “I want you to give her a full report. It’ll make her happy.”
I gape at him. On the one hand, this is not completely unrelated to work, but on the other, it’s bonkers.
“I’m not qualified for that,” I say, realizing I’m grabbing at straws. “I’m not QA.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “Bella has a form and everything. Also, she can put you in touch with Fanny—she’s got experience in these things.”
There’s someone named Fanny involved? Poor woman. In England, that means vagina—though here in the US, it means butt, so also not a great association.
Bugger. Now the Devil is making me think about vaginas and butts.
“What else?” I ask noncommittally.
His eyes gleam. “It’s my father’s birthday tomorrow. I want you to come with me to the celebration.”
My breathing quickens. “Like… a date?”
The smirk is back. “Not a real date. A pretend date. My mother has been trying to set me up with random women, and I want it to stop.”
That twat. How dare she try to set him up with some harlot? Why I—
Wow. That escalated quickly. For all I know, his mother might be a lovely lady.
“Not a date.” I taste the words and find them lacking.
Shouldn’t I be relieved he didn’t ask for that firstborn—or to father said firstborn? Also, why is it so easy to picture this hypothetical devil spawn? It would no doubt have his cerulean eyes, my oval-shaped face, his—
“So,” the Devil says, ripping me out of my hormone-induced delirium. “Have you ever been to a Russian party before?”
I shake my head.
“A Russian restaurant?”
Another shake.
“You’re in for a treat, then. There will be amazing food and a show.” He looks me up and down. “Just bear in mind, the dress code is pretty formal, so you might want to wear something nice.”
Is he saying I’m not wearing something nice now? Wanker. Also, he’s wearing a hoodie. Pot calling the kettle black much?
“Fine,” I grit through my teeth. “I accept your terms.”
“Great. I’ll text you the details.”
Turning angrily on my heel, I head for the door.
With a speed worthy of his supernatural nature, the Devil leaps to his feet and gets the door for me.
Seems that convincing the world he doesn’t exist isn’t the only trick the Devil tries to pull. He also wants me to think he’s a gentleman.
Bugger. Now if I want to leave this place, I’ll either have to pass close to him or rudely ask him to move, which I don’t want to do.
I take a step forward.
A faint aroma of a yummy tea enters my nostrils, making my mouth water. Oolong, keemun, maybe lapsang souchong, along with something ineffably male.
Another step.
Our gazes fuse.
There’s a tumult in my belly—my treacherous ovaries are no doubt trying to choke each other to death.
The closer I get, the more hypnotized I become by his gaze.
Maybe I should back away—or be rude after all?
That would be wise, but I don’t do either. Like a doomed star trapped by the gravity of a black hole, I’m drawn to him—which must be why I close the distance.
Leave, Holly.
My feet feel welded to the ground.
Don’t do it, Holly.
I rise on tiptoes.
His head dips toward me.
No. No, no, no. Can’t do this. Shouldn’t do this. If we actually kiss, my ovaries will explode and—
“Oh, sorry,” Bella’s voice says from just a few feet away. “I’ll come back in—”
I don’t hear what she says next. Finally tearing my gaze away from the Devil’s, I bolt for the elevator.
Thank heavens the doors open instantly—I might’ve gone for the fire exit staircase otherwise.
As I ride down and sprint for the cab, my mind is blank, my heart racing madly. It’s not until I get home and change my soaked knickers that I finally shake off the shock brought on by that brush with the Devil.
I follow my usual evening routine like a robot, but that leaves room in my brain for errant thoughts. Thoughts like: was he going to kiss me, or did I imagine it? And if he did want to snog, does that mean our fake date isn’t so fake?
No. Can’t be. I’m sure he doesn’t want me like that.
More importantly, even if he did, it can’t happen.
After the disaster with my ex, I’m not ready to date. Might never be—though if I were, it wouldn’t be the bloody Devil.
There’s nothing messier than mixing work and love life, even when a relationship would be deemed appropriate by HR—say, when the two people are in different departments. In this case, though, he’s pretty much my boss, so it’s definitely against corporate policy. And let’s not forget that he’s evil—might in fact be the Evil Consultant himself. Worse still, he’s untidy.
Speaking of that, why am I even attracted to him?
It’s a mystery of Bermuda triangle proportions.
When my routine is complete, I go to bed, but even with the weight of all that recent insomnia pressing against the backs of my eyes, I lie there for an hour before admitting I’m unable to sleep yet again.
Fine. I might as well do something useful instead of tossing and turning for hours.
Getting up, I open my clo
set to pick out an outfit for the upcoming birthday.
The problem is, my usual philosophy about clothing is going to bite me in the ass. To limit the time wasted on decisions, I wear the same thing every day: one of seven identical white button-up shirts (each with five buttons in the front) and one of seven pairs of identical black pants. Since I was wearing this exact combo when the Devil said to “wear something nice,” it implies my usual work outfit won’t do. Nor will my home clothes suffice. They’re also identical, with the t-shirts and yoga pants optimized for comfort, not “niceness.”
Sigh.
I look at the “outlier” section of the closet.
There are three identical dresses left over from when I went out on dates with my ex.
I hope they fit the Devil’s “nice” criterium.
I wriggle into one.
Grr. I can’t breathe and my boobs look on the verge of bursting out. Seems I’ve gained some weight.
Bloody hell. I can’t have nip-slip number three—especially since I will be in front of the Devil’s whole family.
Ugh. This means shopping.
I hate shopping, mostly because if there was such a thing as fashion intelligence, my IQ in it would be something abysmal, like thirty-one.
Oh, well. At least I’m otherwise intelligent enough to know to ask for help.
Getting my phone out, I text Hi to my twin. Despite her Criss Angel-inspired, rock-star-meets-vampire appearance, her fashion intelligence is at least three standard deviations higher than my own.
She instantly replies: You’re not asleep? Isn’t going to bed at eleven sacred?
Of course. She doesn’t know about my insomnia since I lied to her about the B & E.
Might as well come clean.
Can you do a video call? I ask.
Turns out she can, so I call her and tell her everything, including my lack of appropriate outfit.
When I’m done speaking, she has that mischievous expression on her face that I and the sextuplets learned to dread in our childhood—the one you see before you learn that she hid a dozen alarm clocks in your room, or duct-taped an air horn under your chair, or replaced the cream in your favorite doughnut with mayo.
“Before we talk about shopping,” she says, “I have to tell you, I strongly disagree with you.”
I audibly sigh. “What do you disagree with?”
“This restaurant outing totally sounds like a date.”
I bring the phone closer to my face so she can clearly see my disapproving frown. “No. It’s not.”
She also brings the phone to her face, so all I see is a giant blue eye. “Is too.”
“Is not.”
From here, the sophistication of our argumentative techniques regresses all the way down to:
“Yuh-huh.”
“Nuh-uh.”
The giant eye rolls, then she pulls the phone away from her face. “Agree to disagree?”
I also pull the phone away. “If that’s what it takes to get you to help.”
“Oh, I was going to shop with you regardless,” she says. “I’ve seen your closet. This is long overdue.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “We’re only getting what’s needed.”
Her grin is downright devious now. “Exactly. How about I meet you at your place at nine? We’re going to Madison Avenue. You can afford it.”
“Tidy,” I say without thinking.
“Toodles,” she replies hoity-toitily and hangs up.
Bugger. Forgot to warn her there’s no way in hell I’m wearing something slutty for the party—which will be her first instinct, no doubt.
As I put my phone on its charger, I realize a slight problem with our plan.
Being the CTO, I’ve never needed to explain my comings or goings to anyone at the office, but things are different now. Tomorrow is the day when the Devil and Bella are moving into our offices, and they’ll surely wonder where I am.
The solution is simple. I type out a text to the Devil:
Will not be in the office tomorrow. Have to prepare for the birthday. If you have a problem with this, I’d be delighted to call the whole thing off.
There. Maybe shopping can now be avoided?
His reply is instant:
See you at the party.
Oh, well. It was too much to hope he’d just call it off. Not that I really want him to do that anyway. Not if my sister is right and there’s even a sliver of a chance this thing is a date.
Which it isn’t.
No way.
And I don’t want it to be.
I head to bed, but sleep is again as elusive as an oiled eel.
It doesn’t take me long to pinpoint the main culprit. It’s the Devil’s second demand: sharing my suit experience with Bella. There are so many problems with that, I don’t know which is the worst. To start, when I do things, I like to do them properly—and in this case, I lack the QA experience to do the task justice.
I sit up. The problem is pretty solvable. Alison has a training manual for new QA employees.
Firing up my laptop, I look for the manual and hit paydirt quickly.
I start reading.
Fascinating. This is exactly what I needed.
When I’m done, I have a new respect for Alison and her team, but sadly, I’m no closer to sleep—even though some folks would find the reading material I’ve just finished sleep-inducing.
A part of me is tempted yet again by the suit. An orgasm might help me sleep, and without sleep, the party ordeal might be that much harder.
No. I’m not going to give in to my base desires, or use the suit as a sleeping aid.
But wait. Why are my legs taking me to the genitalia-decorated backpack?
And why am I taking the damned suit out?
When I lay the suit out on my bed, I readily come up with the reason: I will use it for Bella’s report. Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t finish the demo the last time and thus can’t give Bella a complete picture. Speaking of completeness, unlike cunnilingus, coitus is something I have done in real life, so I can answer any pesky “did it feel real?” questions.
Yeah, that’s it. I’m not doing this because I’m randy, but because the completionist in me demands it.
Jolly good. That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it. After all, using the suit with the QA manual in mind will allow me to pay attention to all the little things I might’ve missed before—like girth, length, and hardness of certain things.
When it comes to the schlong of the VR Devil, it’s all in the details.
Once I shimmy into the suit, I go through the same selection criteria as before—with a small difference.
I give the VR Devil a much, much bigger cock.
Chapter Fifteen
The naked Devil simulacra starts dancing, like the last time.
Gulping down drool, I desperately try to look at this as a QA person would.
Nope. I’m now picturing poor Alison having a heart attack, and looking at him this closely makes my distracting arousal worse.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
“Do you want me to give you a taste of what the suit can do?” the demo asks me once more. “Yes or no.”
A “yes” teleports the VR Devil next to me, his bigger cock making it hard to stand next to him.
Hard indeed.
How did Bella give the suit such a variety of phalluses without a bunch of hidden dildos?
I’d better not ask her that. She will never shut up about it if I do. Plus, like with Gia’s magic, some things are more fun when they retain their mystery.
Also, is it actually phalluses or phalli, given that phallus is Latin-based and has that -us ending? Must check—along with the plural for penis, another important item on my to-do list.
“Continue?” the demo asks.
When I agree, he cups my breast again.
QA manual? Report for Bella? What is that nonsense? I certainly don’t recall anymore.
After a prompt, he sque
ezes my nipple again.
I’d bet my life this is what it would feel like if the real Devil did it—which he never would.
Another prompt.
He touches my clit—and I nearly come on the spot.
“Do you want to sample the cunnilingus phase? Yes or no.”
Gee, I don’t know. Yes, sodding please.
The sensation of a wet tongue down under is so real I again dimly wonder how Bella accomplished it.
He licks me once, twice, thrice.
I’m getting close.
He sucks on my clit.
My toes curl.
Almost there.
Please finish. I’ve been good, I promise.
Nope.
Bugger. It all stops, just like the last bloody time.
Also, I’ve totally forgotten all about QA.
“Do you want to sample the penetration phase? Yes or no.”
I think about this for all of a second. I’ve never felt this empty before. Never been so ready to receive—
The whole VR world goes red, and a big box appears in the air, “Please charge batteries.”
Noooo.
This is what hell must be like—access to a big cock that loses its charge at the worst possible time.
Peeling the suit off me, I locate its charging port.
Whew. Regular USB port.
Feeling a little jealous of the USB hole that gets plugged instead of me, I leave the suit attached to my laptop to charge, then sprawl on my bed and debate if I should wait and resume testing today or finish myself off manually and deal with this another time.
My lids grow heavy, so I close my eyes—I don’t need them open to make this decision.
As if it were waiting for this opportunity all this time, sleep pounces and knocks me right out.
Chapter Sixteen
I wake up to the sound of the bloody alarm.
In my dream, the Devil—the real one, not the VR imitation—was just about to finally make me come.
Woe is me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d theorize this to be the work of the Wicked One—he’s building up my horniness past teenage-boy levels and into the territory where I just might sell my soul for an orgasm.
Wait.
My deal with the Devil. The party.
Gia is going to be downstairs at nine, so I need to get my butt out of bed and start my seven-step morning routine.
