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Book:The Devil Wants Me Published:2024-11-11

Rita
Changed? Changed? “I’m sorry, didn’t we already establish that you don’t get to pick and choose what I wear?”
He drags me through the sand back to the path that winds up the bluff toward the house. My flip-flops slap at my feet. Water drips from his hair, drying on his perfectly muscular chest. Around us, tall dune grass bends in the breeze. He has a very attractive, very nice-looking chest, I’ll admit that, but god, I’m pissed at him.
Don’t get distracted. Focus.
“They were staring at you,” he says through his teeth. “That fucker Carson and his little twat brother, Nolan.”
“Yeah, so what? Aren’t you proud to have a hot wife?”
“I am proud to have-wait, god damn it, don’t twist this.”
“You should be happy I look good.” I pull away from him once we’re out of sight of the others. Angry as I am, I’m aware that I have a role to play. “And I don’t need some macho controlling bullshit, Scar. Seriously, this is stressful enough as it is.”
He hesitates for a moment. My heart’s racing as I face him. We’re standing on a sandy, rock-strewn path, halfway to the house, in sight of nothing and nobody, only the gulls in the sky and the fluffy white clouds drifting across the sun.
“You wore that outfit to distract me,” he says, eyes roaming down my body. Lingering on my tits. “Well, it fucking backfired. Carson made a joke about wanting to sleep with you. He made it sound like I had to offer you up to win the job.”
I step back as disgust rolls through me. “That asshole,” I whisper, crossing my arms over my chest. “What did you say?”
“I told him that I know how to hurt him.” Scar puts a hand on my arm. I shake him off, guts twisting.
I like dressing to show myself off. I have a good body-and I work hard for it. I’m not ashamed to be young, fit, and attractive, and I refuse to tailor my outfits to someone else’s idea of what’s proper.
Except there’s something sickening about being objectified like that. I knew it might happen-criminals aren’t exactly known for their progressive ideas about gender equality-but hearing it from Scar just now really hammered home how these men see me.
Like I’m nothing but a pair of tits. Something to be passed around.
But fuck them. Fuck them, those assholes. I straighten up, jaw working. Anger rushes into me. I’ve been dealing with men like Carson my whole life. Every woman does, especially women that take some risks, that dress how they want. The world’s full of Carsons, leering little shitheads. I won’t bend for him. I won’t change.
“I’m fine wearing what I have on,” I say, back still turned to him.
“Didn’t you hear me? Those mob pricks-”
“I heard you,” I say, turning around. “I also heard you try to get me to put different clothes on just because some asshole made a joke.”
“I’m trying to win work from them,” he says, glaring at me. “This isn’t some swimsuit competition.”
“What, you’re embarrassed or something?” I feel so mortified I could die. “God, this is so pathetic.”
“Rita,” Scar says but I’m already walking away. Fuck him and fuck this job. I don’t need this. Maybe I’m screwing myself by storming off but what the hell, I was at rock bottom once. I can do it again.
He follows me. “Go away,” I say, walking faster. The house comes into view up ahead. “I’m not about to stick around for some asshole that’s embarrassed to have me around.”
“You think I’m embarrassed?” he asks.
“You sure as hell keep acting like it.”
“Rita, just stop.”
I reach the outdoor shower and turn toward the back stairs, but Scar grabs my arm.
I yank away. “Stop touching me.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” he says, leaning close, and pins me up against the shower door. I suck in a surprised breath at the look in his eyes. Pure lust. Pure rage. Possessive and intense. “Fuck, Rita, you’re incredible. You’re fucking beautiful. By far the sexiest woman I’ve ever see in my life. You’re gorgeous. You think I’m embarrassed? I’m proud to call you my wife, even if it’s not real. God damn, you look absolutely incredible, and it’s taking all my willpower to keep my hands to myself.”
I blink at him. Water glistens on his body. His lips hang open, his breath coming fast. His hands are on either side of my shoulders, keeping me locked in front of him. The old, scratchy wooden door digs into my back.
My anger doesn’t go away, because he’s still a dick, but that was nice to hear. “Then why are you asking me to change?”
“Because I can’t stand letting those assholes want you,” he says, eyes burning into mine. “It killed me, hearing him say that. It has nothing to do with what you’re wearing. It has everything to do with making you mine. I hate that Carson’s staring at your body, thinking about fucking you, when I’m doing the same thing. And I can’t even take what I want.”
“What do you want?” I whisper, licking my lips.
“You,” he said, tone strained. “Fuck, Rita, you have to see that. I want you, but we both know it would be a massive mistake.”
“You want me,” I say, mouth hanging open. Core shivering with desire.
This is stupid-absolutely a mistake-but yet I can’t help it. The way he’s looking at me, his shirtless, damp body. It’s all rushing through my skull. Chasing away the anger. Leaving only adrenaline and pure lust behind.
“If we cross that line-” He stops himself, jaw tight. His fingers dig into the wood of the outdoor shower. “I’m not a good man. Carson said something out there. He said I have a reputation for flexible morality.”
“Why do you care what he thinks?” I whisper.
“Because I’m afraid he’s right.”
I reach up on impulse. I don’t know what I’m doing, but my fingers dig into his chest, my palm against his skin. His heart’s racing-god, it’s hammering so fast. He’s nervous, afraid, excited. All of the above. His pulse matches my own. My anger slowly fades, not forgotten, not by a long shot. But muted.
His skin is so warm under my touch.
“You care about things,” I say. “You have friends. You care about them.”
“I know that.”
“You care about me too. Back in Boston, you kissed me, remember? You told them we were married. That made your life a lot more complicated, but you did it to protect me.”
“It was convenient for me, too. It was a way to save face.”
“Maybe,” I say, tilting my chin up toward him. Raising my lips closer to his. “But you still took the risk to make sure they wouldn’t hurt me.”
“What do you want from me, Rita? I hate the way Carson looked at you. I hate the way it made me feel. Like I was losing something. Like he might take it from me.”
“Nobody’s taking me from you,” I say, blinking at him. “Is that what you think?”
He shakes his head. “It’s stupid. I’ve just-” He lets out a sharp breath. “I’ve lost before. A long time ago. It-it fucked me up. Made it hard to trust.”
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“I think so. I know we can do this. We work well together.” His eyes drift again. To my lips. To my chest.
“We do work well together.”
“I can’t handle the thought of wanting you like this but being unable to act on it. Stuck at the same level as those mafia fucking pricks.”
“You don’t have to be stuck,” I whisper. “But you have to stop acting like you’re embarrassed of me. No more asking me to change.”
“I won’t,” he says. I believe him. He still doesn’t move. I’m still staring into his eyes, chin tilted up. Practically begging him to press his lips to mine.
Why won’t he kiss me? Why is he holding back, now of all times? We’re supposed to be faking this the right way-so why not give in?
Whatever we do now, it doesn’t count. None of this is real.
But even fake things can feel good.
God, what am I doing? What am I thinking? If I go further than kissing with Scar-what will that mean?
It’ll only complicate things.
But I want him. I want him so badly, it’s like a craving I can’t shake.
Every kiss. Every time his hand brushes against my skin. Every time he grips my thigh or grabs my arm.
It makes me want him more.
Now, the way he’s looking at me? It’s like he’s going to break if he can’t taste my lips.
His right hand brushes against my cheek. Knuckles drift down to my chin, down my neck, down to my collarbone. To the tops of my breasts.
“I could claim you,” he whispers. “Leave my mark.” His hand turns, palm flat against my chest. Inches from my bikini. Inches from my tits. His fingers curl, digging into the skin. “Let everyone here know who has you. That way, I won’t be so paranoid. I can still be possessive, but I won’t let it overwhelm me. Knowing you’re mine.”
“Then why don’t you?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine.
And he kisses me.