DEVOUR ME: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (The Wicked Angels MC)

by Sophia Gray

  “You can, um, freshen up in there if you want,” Christopher offers, flipping the light switch. “I’ll find you some clean pajamas.”

  There are two types of people in the world, my father used to tell me. Those who go through the medicine cabinets at their friends’ houses and those who lie and say they don’t. I couldn’t resist the temptation to look around the bathroom, but there was nothing very interesting outside of a small hutch filled with porno magazines. Classy. Besides, don’t they have that stuff on the internet now?

  I wash my face and rinse with mouthwash, hoping to at least be able to get my things out of the car in the morning if nothing else. I know the vehicle is buried by now, my toiletries and things locked up in the trunk.

  When I emerge, I find Christopher in the smaller of the two bedrooms, laying a tee and boxers on the bed along with a pair of thick knee socks. “This was the best I could do,” he says, shrugging. “They’re old, and smaller than the stuff I wear now.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine for bed.” I can’t help but feel touched by how hard he’s trying. He’s just awkward, unused to having people here with him. That has to be it. Otherwise he’s not such a bad guy.

  “I’ll leave Scout with you if you want someone to help warm the bed for you. I can’t say I’m up for the challenge.” Oh, wait. Now I remember: he’s a total asshole.

  “I don’t need you, or Scout, thank you very much. I’ll be just fine in here on my own. Goodnight.” I place my palms on his chest and firmly push him in the direction of the open doorway. Instead of moving him, however, I only manage to notice how firm his chest is. The guy is built, and utterly masculine. His strong, assertive energy fills the tiny bedroom.

  “I’ll go. You don’t need to shove.” He grins, backing into the hall and closing the door behind him. I fight the urge to scream at the closed door, knowing it would only make him happy to know he’d unnerved me.

  I sit on the bed with a heavy sigh. What the hell am I gonna do with this guy? One minute I want to punch him straight in the face, the next I want to tackle him to the ground and make out with him. If not more. I look down at my hands, which were just on his chest. Damn, he’s in fantastic shape. Like, supernaturally well-built.

  I can’t afford to think about this stuff now. I have to try to get to sleep and forget my hormones for a little while. The shirt, a faded old thing that looks like it might once have advertised a band whose name I can’t make out, hangs halfway to my knees. The boxers are enormous, too. The socks pretty much go most of the way up my calves.

  At least I’ll be comfortable.

  I crawl into bed, marveling at how soft and comfortable it is. Much better than the idea of sleeping in my car and freezing to death.

  No matter how much he pisses me off, I have to remind myself that he saved my life. I’d easily have died out there if he hadn’t come to drag me to this house, to sleep in this warm, comfy bed with its down comforter and feather pillows.

  Now if I can just manage to get some sleep and stop wondering what Christopher looks like naked, I’ll be all set.

  Chapter 7

  Christopher

  This is fucking ridiculous. Any other woman would be in my bed right now, either fucking me or recovering from being fucked.

  So what’s stopping me from taking this one, just like I take any woman I want? It’s not like I’ll ever see her again. Sleeping with her wouldn’t be a big deal. I’ve done it before—many times, more than I can count. My only rule has always been “one time only.” No attachments. No commitments. The last thing I need is to catch feelings, or have a woman catch feelings for me.

  I won’t go through that again. Not after Michelle.

  So what is it about this girl that’s stopping me from picking her up and carrying her to my bed? I don’t know her, and once the storm’s over she’ll be gone forever. It’s the perfect setup.

  Why am I alone in bed, then?

  I turn to the side, punching my pillow, desperate to get comfortable and fall asleep. Once I’m asleep I won’t have to think about her anymore. Why am I thinking about her anyway?

  Because she makes me think. The whole time I shoveled that snow, I thought about her. The entire reason I went outside in the first place was to get away from her for a minute and tire myself out. I thought that once I was physically tired out I wouldn’t be tempted by her anymore.

  I was wrong. I got inside the house and made that crack about the cookies, and she got pissed off. And I was more turned on than ever. Something about her reached something in me I’d thought was dead. All I’d felt for women in the years since Michelle was physical want. I’d meet a sexy woman and want to sleep with her. It was never really hard for me to get one into bed once I set my mind to it. But once I got off, that was it. I didn’t want anything to do with her anymore.

  I’d probably feel that way about Amanda, too. I’d fuck her and get tired of her as soon as I got off. The end.

  Why aren’t I convinced? Maybe it is the way she is so quick to challenge me and call me a dick when I am being one. Maybe it has to do with the way she took the trouble to bake cookies while I was outside. Who does that? Who bakes cookies just because? So what did I do? Did I thank her? No, I made that stupid housewife joke. No wonder she was pissed.

  What was I supposed to say? That something as simple as homemade cookies blew me away? That I felt something for the first time in forever? That I’ve never known a woman like her?

  Maybe it’s because she’s a challenge. Women have never been a challenge before. Back in the day, it had a lot to do with the sort of life I lived. It was exciting; people wanted to be part of it, women included, or at least a certain type of woman. And that was fine with me as long as they were willing.

  Now, even when things aren’t as exciting as they were back then, it’s still not hard to get a woman into bed. They see my face, my body, my ink, and they’re sold. They sure as hell don’t tell me off, hands on hips, eyes blazing. And they don’t make cookies and put on the tea kettle.

  What’s making this even harder is the way she was looking at me. I didn’t give her a hard time about it because I didn’t want to embarrass her, but I saw it. I’ve seen it before. Normally, I take advantage of it. It’s instinctive. What man wouldn’t? Knowing she wants me—at least in weaker moments, maybe fueled by whiskey—means I have to go against every instinct and habit to avoid her.

  Damn it. Why couldn’t I have found a little old lady in the snow, or a guy? No, it had to be her.

  I turn over, punching my pillow again, wondering if I’ll ever be comfortable. I was sure that after all the exertion outside, I’d be exhausted. Instead, I’m horny. Maybe I should take care of things myself. At least that would help me fall asleep.

  I think about her now and wonder what she’s doing. Is she asleep? I imagine how beautiful she must look when she’s sleeping. For once, she’d be peaceful, I’m guessing, and not constantly on the defensive. I remember how insulted she got when I made that crack about blowjobs. What was that all about? Had she been hurt somehow? Maybe she is just a prude.

  If she is a prude, that was a damn waste. She has a body made for sin. Big tits, tiny waist, firm ass. Her legs are long and slim and would fit perfectly around my waist while I fuck her. My dick is starting to get hard just thinking about it.

  I can’t stop this train of thought…and I don’t want to. Now that I’m turned on, I wanna see it through. It’s been at least a week since I’ve had sex, I realize. My hand reaches under the blankets to find my hard dick and starts stroking.

  I imagine her. The way she smells and tastes. The sounds she makes when I suck those huge tits, playing with them, pressing them together to slide my dick between them. In and out. She licks the head every time it comes into contact with her mouth, and I groan softly as my hand moves faster along my length.

  Then I take her, forcing her thighs apart with my knee. She gives in easily, begging me for it, rolling over onto her hands and knees
so I can take her from behind. She moans when I slide into her, then starts panting the harder and faster I go. I ride her, making her mine. She whimpers and says my name over and over, her head swinging from side to side as she screams. I unlock all the passion in her and she tightens around me. My hand tightens as I imagine her coming all over me.

  I’m close, but not there yet. I imagine her riding me now, my body stretched out across the bed with her straddling my hips. Bouncing up and down with her tits moving in time. I hold onto her waist, slamming her onto me. She begs me for more, her voice pleading and desperate. I start thrusting up into her, meeting her with each stroke faster and faster until we’re both grunting and moaning and sweating. I’m so close…so ready…

  The crash against the roof makes my eyes fly open, my hand instantly leaving my cock. Fuck! Perfect timing. I’m already softening, the surprise ripping me out of the moment. I’m also scared shitless, truth be told, wondering what the hell just hit the roof.

  I jump out of bed and rush to the hall. It’s dark out there, and I don’t see her coming in time to stop us from crashing into each other.

  “Shit!” I reach along the wall until my fingers make contact with the light switch. She’s leaning against the wall, rubbing the elbow that just jammed into my ribs.

  “You okay?” I’m looking around, seeing if there’s any damage to the ceiling.

  “I’m fine. What the hell was that noise?”

  I struggle to hold back the frustration I’m feeling. “If I knew, would I have come running out into the hall like I did? It sounds like a tree limb fell onto the roof. I guess it makes sense. The snow’s probably pretty heavy.”

  “It sounded so loud. I was just about to fall asleep.”

  “I guess it was even scarier, then,” I admit. “Honestly, I’m not getting my clothes back on just to go out there in the dark. If nothing came through the roof, it’ll wait ’til morning.”

  “Okay,” she says, biting her lip. She crosses her arms over herself, looking fretful.

  “Are you gonna be all right?” I ask, now extremely aware of her and the fact that she looks cute as hell in my t-shirt and boxers. They’re several sizes too big, and she’s swimming in them. She’s not wearing a bra either. Her nipples are standing out against the cotton tee, hard as bullets from the cold.

  “Sure,” she mutters, looking away from me. She won’t make eye contact. I glance down to make sure I got myself back into my boxers all the way before running out here and realize it might have something to do with the way I’m dressed, in just the boxers and nothing else. It’s obvious she’s avoiding looking at my chest and shoulders. Not just because they’re inked either.

  “Well, um, I guess I’d better let you get back to bed,” I say, wanting to let her off the hook.

  Her cheeks are getting red now and it’s obvious she’s embarrassed. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Sorry if I hurt your ribs.” She takes a few backward steps and slips into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  Damn it. Why does she have to be so…her? Could she possibly make it any harder for me to leave her alone? Plus, now that I’ve seen her in that shirt, I can’t get the image of her hard nipples out of my head.

  At least I have new material for my spank bank.

  Chapter 8

  Amanda

  Last night was a close one. It was only by the grace of God and the fact that Christopher suggested we go back to bed, separately, that I didn’t wind up with my legs wrapped around his waist. I was almost lost, wanting him. He would have needed only to make a move, one single move, and I’d have been in his bed. Or on the floor, right there in the hallway.

  I can’t remember ever feeling something so powerful. I have no idea what to do with it now, now that it’s morning and the storm has blown over. The storm inside me hasn’t blown over. It’s only hit a lull.

  Can I leave and never see him again? Sure. In fact, I know that’s the best course of action. I’m not a stupid person. I’ve just made bad decisions when it comes to the people in my life. I can’t afford to make another decision I end up regretting.

  But what if I only end up regretting leaving here without giving in to what’s obviously between us? What if I never see him again? What am I supposed to do, forget he’s out here all alone? Wait and hope to see him walk through the door of my shop again? Drive past the house late at night to see if he’s here, with my car radio playing songs that remind me of him? This is a mess.

  I lay in bed for a long time, a lot longer than I need to, trying to get a hold of my brain—and, frankly, my body. I feel an actual physical ache when I think back to how he looked last night. Before that moment, when we met in the hall, I’d only gotten a brief glimpse of him. Over the jeans, under the tee, just a wide strip of skin and the muscles beneath.

  When he flipped the lights, I got a view of the entire package, or at least eighty percent of it. My elbow had been hurting like hell until that moment, from where I jammed it into his ribs and then into the wall when I rebounded from him. Then I saw him and the pain was forgotten.

  Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. Defined pecs and an eight-pack leading down to his slim waist. Those “fuck me” lines were there, the ones leading diagonally toward his groin, so clearly etched. His strong, thick legs were clearly the result of a lot of bending, squatting, carrying heavy bags of mulch and soil. He was every woman’s fantasy come to life, plain and simple.

  I even caught a glimpse of what looked like a fairly substantial bulge in his shorts. I’d half-hoped the fly would be open so I could get a peek at it before I forced myself to avert my eyes. The more I looked at him, the more certain I was that I needed him. I had never felt such a strong physical need for another person. I never had to tuck my own hands under my crossed arms to keep myself from touching someone or something. It was lust, straight-up, and I was lost in it.

  I realized, at that time, that I was pretty much undressed. I felt my nipples harden from arousal and the cold and knew he could see them. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I was glad. I was desperately, wildly praying Christopher would make a move on me so I could give in to everything I was experiencing.

  He didn’t, of course. He sent me to my room, like a child. That’s probably how he thinks of me.

  But wasn’t he maybe, just maybe, staring at my chest? I thought he might have been, just before I turned back toward the bedroom.

  Now, with the bright morning light streaming through the window, I’m a little cooler. A little calmer. More in control of myself. For now.

  It’s almost painfully bright, actually, the sun reflecting off the fresh snow. This is a cheerful bedroom, very country style. Again, nothing like I would expect a man like him to own. Especially now that I’d seen the extent of the ink on his body.

  There is a lot of it. That is one more aspect of him I found puzzling, especially since I’d never particularly been attracted to men with tattoos before. I always thought they were a little low class, a little common. Sometimes I’m a snob; I can admit it. On Christopher, though, they look natural. Defiant. Sexy. Not the sort of thing a guy would do after getting drunk and dared to by his friends. Not some stupid fake tribal symbol. Not a collection of Chinese characters the tattoo artist swears means “strength and honor” but which really translate to “chicken chow mein.” This is the sort of ink a man wears.

  The biggest piece of all, covering much of his chest, depicts an angel surrounded by flames. There is no color, yet the vividness with which it was drawn speaks volumes anyway. She looks afraid, in pain or defiant—I couldn’t decide which. It was around that time I forced myself to stop looking for fear of leaving a drool puddle on the floor.

  I roll over onto my side, away from the glare of the outside, holding a pillow close to me. A man like Christopher probably has a lot of demons. I remember how pensive he looked when I pointed out the way he lives here alone. There might even have been sadness in him as he stared into the fire. There has to be a backstory to this ma
n. He’s young and gorgeous, and I can’t help admitting that he’s pretty smart when he’s not acting like a prick. So why is he closed off from the world? Why shut down the way he has? Living with just a hound dog.

  I can’t have anything to do with a man like this. Why does it seem like I’m always attracted to the guys with the shitty demons? I punch the pillow, frustrated with myself and the way life always tends to go. I keep getting led down the path toward guys like Christopher…and my ex.

  Lucas. Just the thought of his name sends a chill down my spine and leaves me feeling nauseated. At first, things with him had been great, wonderful, the way so many relationships start out. We were in the “puppy love” phase for a while, where nothing could convince me love was anything less than magical and beautiful.

  Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though. Looking back, I see now the little things I missed then. The way he’d pout when I’d suggest spending time with people other than him. Back then, I told myself he loved me so much that he couldn’t stand being away from me. Then there’s the way he’d overreact, blowing up at the stupidest things. The car was running low on gas and we were running late. We’d go out to dinner and the waiter wasn’t attentive enough or the food took too long to get to us. Just stupid, little, everyday things like that were enough to send him into a tailspin. I told myself he was passionate, highly strung, used to having things his own way. I’d help him get past all that nonsense, I was sure.