Page 34 of The Devil's Playground

Again, she nods.

I trail my hands down her back. “You want more?”

“I want everything.”

I grin to myself as I pull out, slamming back home again. “Good. Because that’s exactly what I’m going to give you.”

I make Nicolette give me two more orgasms before I finally let her get some rest. I find a new washcloth in her attached bathroom after encouraging her to pee, then give us both a quick clean-up before joining her in bed.

Forever a gentleman, I end up sleeping in the wet spot anyway. Considering it’s only there because I got to fuck her twice, I don’t complain. Instead, I lay down with her, inviting her to snuggle up next to me.

When she does, I’ve never felt more victorious.

Just before I nod off myself, I remember that—for all intents and purposes—it probably seems like I disappeared off the face of the planet tonight. Here’s hoping that none of the guys needed me, but now that I have that thought, I go rooting along the edge of Nic’s bed for my pants.

I had my phone in the back pocket. I refuse to let go of her so retrieving my phone takes a bit of gymnastics as half of me stays on the bed, the other half nearly falling off, but finally I have it and?—

Shit.

Twelve missed calls. Thirty-five texts.

Rolling my eyes, I go right to Link’s name. Anyone else can wait, but the boss?

I called you five times.

You dead?

You better be dead, Royce.

Ah. That’s Link for you. He has a history of disappearing on the syndicate, and when he’s with Ava, the goddamn Playground better be burning down before we interrupt his time with his wife, but the second I ignore my phone for more than a couple of hours, he assumes the worst—and then he threatens me.

No, boss. I’m not dead. In fact, after spending the night with Nicolette, I realize just how much I’ve been sleepwalking the last six years. Blaming myself for some cocky Dragonfly taking a shot at me and accidentally killing a woman I barely knew. That’s the life, and I knew it, but I let it affect my life.

Not anymore.

In response to Link’s latest text, I snap a pic. My phone’s angled so that all you get is her blonde hair sprawled out on my chest, the top of my devil tattoo peeking out from between the tousled waves. Smirking to myself, I send it to Link and wait.

It takes two minutes.

About fucking time.

I know, Link.

I know.

TWELVE

BREAKFAST

NICOLETTE

Something’s burning.

I’m pulled out of a deep, dreamless sleep when my nose wrinkles at the acrid, smokey smell. The smoke alarm itself isn’t going off, so I’m pretty sure my mom’s house isn’t on fire, but when you’re half-asleep and wondering if the house you’re in is about to go up in flames, ‘pretty sure’ just isn’t good enough.

Sitting up, I squint as I look around the room. For a moment, I’m confused when I see the men’s button-down strewn on my floor since it’s not anything I would wear—until realization slaps me upside my head and last night comes rushing back.

That’s Royce McIntyre’s shirt.

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