Page 47 of Devil's Due: Sarge

Okay, if this is how he wants to spend our time until dinner, I’m down. I wrap one of my legs around his hip, drawing him, or more importantly, his cock thickening behind his fly, in tightly against my honey trap. I genuinely want him to feel the heat of me, to understand my desire and thankfulness that he’s here with me.

Exactly when I need to pull in a breath, he moves his mouth from mine, dropping down to ravish my neck. When he touches me like this, I can almost forget that he doesn’t love me—desires me, but not love and I won’tletmyself forget that. I figure the more I make myself remember, the less it’ll eventually hurt when he calls his wife’s name out at night while he’s sleeping. The things that will carry me over:

He likes me.

He desires me.

He came to my rescue.

None of these points are anything to sneeze at.

“Where’d you go?” he asks against my skin.

“I’m here.”

“No, you’re not, baby… but I think I can bring you back.”

“Oh…wow,” I moan, my knees buckling as he does this twisty-pully thing on my nipple. His body is the only reason I’m still standing. One more of those and I could seriously orgasm.

And it feels like he’s moving in for another strike when there’s a rapping on the door and a snickering Vlad calls through it, “Sorry to cockblock, but we’ve been summoned to dinner.”

His mouth still pressed to my neck, Sarge growls. “Fuck.”

“Get me out of here and it’s a promise,” I reply cheekily. Cheekily and breathing heavy.

While he adjusts his erection to make it not so noticeable, I strive to make myself less disheveled. It doesn’t really work. The hair is sort of a dead giveaway, even after I comb my fingers through it.

We’re almost to the landing at the stairs, Sarge to one side of me and Vlad to the other, when it occurs to me—why didn’t I use a brush? I’d been in my bathroom, for crying out loud. That’s why being around Sarge is dangerous. He gets his lips on me and I cease to think coherently.

That, however, is the least of my problems. Despite knowing my mom would be there, when we finally reach the dining room, I spy my mom, Drew, andbothmy stepbrothers sitting at the large table.

This cannot end well.

18

Sarge

Greer doesn’t look like her mother. I think she might have told me that she looks like her dad at some point. Maybe the shape of the mouth is similar, but that’s about it. The woman begins to choke on the sip of sparkling water or whatever other clear beverage she’d been taking when the three of us walk in.

“Oh, my…” she finally says after coughing everything up, never tearing her eyes from us.

“Mother.” Greer pointedly turns her attention to the woman and by design, completely ignores the other two men staring at us. “This is Sarge”—she wraps her arm around my waist, giving it a squeeze— “and Vlad.”

Her mother sounds like she’s on the verge of going into actual, clinical shock when she murmurs, “They’re bikers.”

Greer sighs. “I told you at lunch that I was sleeping with a biker.”

That sparks some life back in the broad. Her face turns hard and reproachful as she looks between me and Vlad, judging us. “You were joking,” she says, then turns to her husband. “She was joking.” Turning her ire back on Greer, she continues. “You saidabiker, not two—and no woman of class actually cavorts with bikers. It’s just not done. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Mom…” she says sharply, then she pauses as if to attempt to find her calm. “I’m with Sarge. Vlad is my friend. He’s very much taken by my best friend, Nicola.”

“Nicola? I don’t know a Nicola.”

The elder Broadchurch cuts her off. “Please sit so we can get on with dinner.” Greer takes a seat closest to her mother, leaving one other next to her open and one across from that open. I slide onto the chair next to Greer. Vlad takes the one opposite me.

Drew finishes the introductions once we’re seated. “This is my oldest son, Patrick.” He points to the man at the end of the table opposite himself at the head. “And this is my second son, Stephan. We’re surprised, to say the least, to have you show up. We had no idea Greer had made friends with…” He seems to search for the right words, then finishes with, “Your people.”

“If by ‘your people,’ you mean people who actually care for her and want what’s best for her… then I’m sureyouwere very surprised.” Although my voice sounds as non-threatening as I can make it, he and I have a brief stare-down. I want him to know that I mean business. The stare-down only ends because Greer reaches under the table to squeeze my knee, and I have the feeling it’s in more of ashut upthan athank youway. For her, I drop it.

---