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

by Sophia Gray

  But I didn’t. And before long, the puppy love was over and reality slapped me right in the face. Literally. I was left on the floor, hand to my burning cheek, staring up at him. I was too shocked to cry, though my face felt like it was about to explode. All I could do was look at him and wonder how he could hurt me like that when he told me he loved me. That first time, the sight of me on the floor was enough to snap him out of it, and he helped me to my feet with tears in his eyes and a million excuses on his lips. He’d flown off the handle, he’d never hit a woman in his entire life, it would never happen again because he loved me so much and now he was so ashamed of himself. I’d ended up being the one to comfort him, come to think of it. Holding him in my arms while he cried, wishing I had an ice pack to put on my cheek.

  It had been six months before he hit me again, and the second time he wasn’t sorry as quickly as before. This time when I looked up at him, where he’d knocked me to the couch, he didn’t look ashamed and guilty. He looked angry. Disgusted. He made a move at me, as though he was about to hit me again. I flinched, drawing back. And I saw what I knew was satisfaction in his eyes. He’d made me afraid of him, but he wasn’t ashamed now. He was proud of himself.

  Things didn’t get much better from there. Finally, I left him, after much too much pain and too many nights spent in tears. I moved away and bought a coffee shop and I’ve been happy ever since. Happy for me, anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever truly be happy unless he disappears off the face of the Earth. Because he’s still out there, still wanting me. Every so often he’ll text or call, just to remind me how I broke his heart when I left. Once, he left a vicious, drunken voicemail in which he promised to make me pay for hurting him. It’s knowing he can contact me at any moment that robs me of any real joy. He’s always lurking in the corner of my mind, waiting to spring.

  Lucas has his demons, and I have no desire to get to the bottom of them. That’s why I can’t get involved with somebody like him, somebody like Christopher, though time and again I find myself drawn to broken men. Angry men. Hurt men. In the end, they always end up hurting somebody else. I won’t let it happen to me again.

  I hear a loud bang coming from downstairs and know Christopher has gone outside, probably to clear more snow. He must think I’m asleep up here, though the way that door banged tells me he wants me to wake up and get my butt out of bed. Maybe he’s tired of playing host. I can’t blame him. If he’s not used to being around people, it has to be a shock to the senses. I’m sure he’s tired of me already. Maybe he even wonders why he bothered saving me in the first place.

  I get out of bed and go to the window, peering through its white lacy curtains. There he is, plodding through the snow that had fallen overnight and covered the work he already did. It’s not terrible, though, and he’s making quick work of the few inches left over. I see a great hulking white blob in the distance and realize it’s my car, parked by the side of the road. I could be in there right now. Dead. I know now if I’d stayed asleep, I would definitely have frozen to death. I hadn’t even had a blanket in the car, as Christopher had helpfully pointed out. The jackass.

  I move away from the window, shivering from the cold that leaks through the cracks in the frame. My nipples are painfully hard again, so hard they could have etched the glass. I brush my fingers over them, unable to help myself. Thinking about him. The way he looked last night.

  Before I know it I’m on the bed, hands inside the boxers I’m wearing. I’ve been aching for touch since last night, wishing I could find some sort of relief. The moment my fingers reach my aching clit, I can’t help sighing, not bothering to stifle the sound since I know he’s out of earshot. But what would happen if he walked in, right now, and found me like this?

  My eyes are closed, my mouth open as I breathe heavily. I imagine him stripping down, lowering himself over me, sliding inside me without a word. I rub my clit, imagining the way he tastes, the sounds he makes as he slowly fucks me. He’s like an animal, rough, hard, pounding me mercilessly yet slowly so he can relish the helplessness I feel. He grunts every time he slams home, and before I know it I’m grunting, too. “Do you like that?” he whispers, and I moan as my hand moves faster and faster.

  Soon my hips are swaying in circles as I imagine himself grinding into me. He throws his head back in triumph as he howls, exploding into me. Then I explode, too, biting my lip to hold back the cries while waves of pleasure roll over me. I can’t help but smile, relieved. Now, hopefully, I can keep myself under control.

  A while later, after washing up and getting dressed, I go downstairs. I explore a little, though there isn’t much to see. A living room with a wood burning stove in one corner. There’s a TV in here, fairly low-tech. A computer, also pretty simple compared to some I’ve seen. I guess he’s too busy working and keeping this place in one piece to spend a lot of time on technology. I’m the same way. By the time I get home from work, I’m exhausted—happy, but too tired to care what’s happening on whatever social media site people are spending their time on nowadays.

  There’s a dining room that looks as though it never really gets used. I can see why—Christopher doesn’t seem like the type who entertains. I can’t imagine him throwing a dinner party, or even a holiday meal. I don’t even know if he has a family. I remind myself it doesn’t matter.

  Then I’m back in the kitchen, which is clearly the heart of the home. The fire is blazing away, the dog curled up in front of it just as he was last night. I lean down to scratch him behind the ears. When I straighten up, I notice how hungry I am. There’s a pot on the stove over a very low flame, and a bowl in the sink. He’s already eaten. I take a look inside the pot to find oatmeal waiting for me. How thoughtful. The good, hot food warms me from the inside. I eat standing by the counter, watching Christopher all the while. He hasn’t tired yet. I wonder if he’s planning to dig the car out next.

  I remember something. My phone. Where did I leave it? I brought it in with me, I know that much, not wanting to leave it in the frozen car. I look around the room, in my coat pocket. Where is it?

  I see it sitting on the counter, plugged into a charger. Thank God he has a cord that works with it. I turn it on, wondering if I’ll have a signal this time. There’s nothing where I’m currently standing, so I unplug and start walking around the house in the hopes it will help.

  Once I get to the living room, it does help. The signal gets stronger, and suddenly my list of missed calls jumps to fifteen. I open the list to find that many of them were from my parents, before I called from Christopher’s phone. They left several voicemails, too, increasingly frantic.

  There’s one voicemail from a number I don’t recognize. I assume it’s a telemarketer or something similar, and press the play button.

  “Hey, it’s me.” My heart skips a beat, and not in a good way. Immediately, my palms start sweating. Why the hell is he calling me now? I told Lucas I never wanted to hear from him again after the last time he called, begging me to take him back.

  That’s what he’s after this time, too. “I don’t understand why you won’t give me another chance. I know I messed up, but one of the things I loved most about you was your forgiving nature. You’re such a good, sweet person. How can you do this to me? What’s come over you? Is there somebody else? I won’t let anybody come in between us. All I want to do is love you and be good to you. I know we can make it work this time, but you have to be willing to give us a chance. Please, let me be the man I know I can be. I know you’ll never be sorry.”

  I’ve heard this all before, and I close my eyes. I’m trying to fight off the waves of nausea threatening to overtake me.

  “Actually, you know what? Fuck you, you bitch. If you won’t even answer your fucking phone, I don’t see why I bother with you anymore. You think you can just break my heart and walk away like it doesn’t matter. Are you with somebody else right now? Sleeping with some other man, you slut? When I’m here begging for you take me back, like I did something wrong? Fuck
you, bitch.”

  He keeps rambling on. I take the phone from my ear and see there are another two minutes left in the message, so I delete it without listening to the rest. I don’t know why I started it in the first place.

  It’s always like this. He starts off loving and apologetic, but eventually begins spiraling. I don’t even have to be in the room for him to blame me. And he always blames me.

  I remember that last night together, the last time he hit me. The time I decided enough was enough. I had made dinner, his favorite: chicken parmigiana with homemade pasta and fresh-baked bread. I had spent all day on it, pounding the cutlets, breading and frying them. Preparing the pasta dough in my food processor, rolling it out and cutting it into strips. Kneading the bread dough, letting it rise until it was time to bake off. I even made a fresh marinara sauce. All for him, all to make him happy.

  But the butter was cold. When he went to butter his bread, he couldn’t spread it because it was too cold. I’d forgotten to take it out to soften before setting it out on the table.

  Before I knew it, the food was on the floor and I was against the wall. “Why can’t you do anything right?” he screamed in my face, his nose inches from me. Then his palm was against my cheek, hard. A flash of light in front of my eyes. I saw stars.

  That was it. I’m still not sure exactly what about that experience was enough to prove once and for all that I had to leave. Maybe the way I’d tried so hard to please him. I’d worked my ass off all day. I’d even planned a special evening afterward, complete with lingerie in the hopes of getting him interested. He’d seemed to be less interested in me. Of course, that was my fault, too, just like everything else. If only I were sexier, thinner, thicker, whatever he felt was lacking in me that day. The cold butter and his reaction was enough to finally get through to me. Things were never going to get better. When he left my apartment, leaving me to clean up everything he’d thrown around the room, I knew I had to get out. So I packed what I absolutely needed into my car and drove away.

  I stare at my phone now, standing here in the middle of Christopher’s living room. I can’t help thinking that, no matter how far I go, he’ll find me. But I can’t keep running away forever. It’s over an hour before Christopher comes back into the house. I’m in a terrible mood now, wishing I could punch something hard. Why can’t Lucas leave me alone and let me get on with my life? Other women break up with boyfriends and are able to move on. Why can’t I? I have my shop, and my customers, and I’m a part of the town. I really feel like a part of something for the first time in my life, like I’m adding to the community. Why can’t I have this little victory for myself?

  I need something to do. Christopher has plenty of books, more than I would have expected from him. But no, sitting still won’t do right now. I need to be on my feet.

  Before I know it, I’m back in the kitchen, not giving a shit anymore about whether or not Christopher cares that I’ve taken over. It’s either busy myself cooking or rip his head off for no reason the second he comes back inside. It’s not his fault I spent so many years with a sick bastard who’s creepily obsessed with me. It’s not his fault my life is a fucking wreck.

  I must be masochistic or something because I decide to make a soufflé. It’s one of the most difficult dishes to get right. The slightest hint of motion and the entire thing will fall. The effort it takes to whip the eggs is exactly what I need right now, though. I need to beat the hell out of something, even if it is just a bowl of helpless ingredients.

  Just as I’m about the put it in the oven, Christopher comes in—perfect timing, since if he’d come in and slammed the door while the soufflé was baking, it would have fallen. “What are you making now?” he asks, stomping the snow from his boots and pulling them off by the door.

  “Soufflé,” I answer, “but I’ll wait until you’re finished. We have to be extremely quiet or else it won’t puff up.”

  “Soufflé? Who randomly makes a soufflé in the middle of nowhere, on a snow day?” he asks with a laugh. When I don’t answer, he decides to dig further. “Besides, soufflé is girly. Why not make something you think I might actually want to eat?”

  I slam my hands on the counter and turn to him. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself with the insults if you can’t stop being a jackass about my cooking?” He’s shocked, his eyes wide. I realize I’m snarling at him, and it’s not even really at him. Not entirely, anyway. I’m also snarling at Lucas.

  “Wow,” Christopher says, his voice suddenly very quiet. “I didn’t know you’d flip out on me like that. I was just kidding around.”

  “I’m pretty sure I told you last night that I’m sick of your damned kidding around. You talk to me like I’m not even a human being. I don’t like being made fun of. I thought I could find some way to repay you for the nice things you’ve done for me, but I guess that’s not good enough. Maybe if you’d stop being so stupid and snide, I wouldn’t act this way!” Even as I’m saying it, I’m telling myself this isn’t the way to go. I can’t blame him for the way I’m feeling. Yeah, he’s being an ass, but he’s not the only person I’m mad at right now. I’m also scared, which is just coming out as even more anger. I sound like Lucas, blaming Christopher for my behavior. That realization only makes me angrier.

  “Jesus! I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so mad. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

  “No, you know what? I’m sick of this shit.” I’m not yelling anymore. Instead, I’m very quiet and very determined. I push past him and get my coat.

  “What are you doing?” He sounds exasperated.

  “I’m leaving. You dug the car out, right?”

  “Yeah, but you obviously forget there’s hardly any gas in it.”

  Shit. “I’m sure there’s enough to get me to a gas station.”

  “If one is even open! Do you have any idea how deep the snow got? I’m sure everybody’s digging out right now.”

  I’m doing my best to ignore him, buttoning my coat despite his protestations. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll walk if I have to.” I open the door, which he promptly shuts.

  “Stop this. You’re being insane! You’ll freeze out there in no time. There’s no telling what the roads are like either. I don’t think that little car is your best bet right now.”

  “I’ll do just fine. I’ll flag down a passing plow truck if I have to!” I push him out of my way. He’s surprised, easily thrown off balance, or else there’s no way I could have moved him.

  As soon as I step out onto the porch, I regret my decision. It’s below freezing, with a wind that makes it feel even colder. But there’s no going back now, not after the scene I just made. I raise my chin resolutely, as though this doesn’t matter one bit, and walk down the stairs.

  “Amanda! Come back here!”

  I ignore him, marching toward the driveway. Damn, it’s cold. Already, my toes are protesting, and I haven’t stepped into actual snow yet, thanks to his expert shoveling. This was a bad, bad idea. But my pride is on the line.

  Moments later, I feel his hand on my arm, spinning me around. “Let go of me!” I scream, pounding on him with my fists. I might as well be pounding on granite for all the good it’s doing me. Before I know it, he bends, scooping me up over his shoulder and carrying me back to the house. I scream the entire way. “What the hell is this? Are you serious? Put me down, damn it! You fucking jerk!” I’m still pounding on his back, my feet kicking helplessly.

  He doesn’t say a word, just carries me through the door and slams it shut behind us.

  “Put me down!” Finally, he does as I ask, and when my feet are back on the floor, I come to the realization that he’s strong enough to do whatever he wants to my body. Instead of scaring me like it should, the thought only turns me on. Yeah, that caveman act was obnoxious as hell, but the way he overtook me? Damn. There’s something so intensely masculine about him that I can’t help but respond to.

  He’s staring down at me, breathing heavily. But it’s not from
exertion, I’m thinking. I think his mind is heading in the direction mine is. I feel the tension rising between us, knowing he could overpower me in an instant and almost wishing he would try.

  Before I know it, he takes my head in his hands and pulls me to him roughly. His mouth covers mine and it’s like an explosion goes off between us.

  I try to fight him off for a moment, out of sheer instinct. But very soon, I’m falling into the kiss. I unbutton my coat, throwing it to the floor as he does the same with his. I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, melting into him. He’s strong but sensual. He’s exactly what I need right now, what I’ve needed since last night.