Page 20 of Never Dance with the Devils
“Is it her?” Riggs demands, reaching for my phone.
Jerking it out of his grasp, I growl, “Hands off, asshole. She texted me.” But I flash him a shit-eating grin, intentionally poking the bear. Or well… the Riggs, but kinda the same difference.
“Because you’re the one who gave her your number.”
“Exactly,” I agree, “which means I get to talk to her and you don’t.” Risking my life and limb, I make a hip-thrusting, arm-pumping motion, implying I don’t mean justtalkingat all. But not wanting to push too far, I relent and read her text aloud to him. “Now what?”
He flops to the couch beside me. “She has a point. Flowers were lame.”
“They were better than any idea you had, which was nothing, and they did get her to text us. We’re basicallyback in, baby.” I hold my hand up for a celebratory high-five. Riggs shakes his head, leaving me hanging, so I high-five myself.
He lays his head back on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes. “What are we going to say back? Sorry for not leaving you alone… again?”
I roll my eyes. This motherfucker is all-apologies thanks to Eliza. I swear, he’s not still hung up on her in the slightest. In fact, I think he’d rather cut his dick off than ever see her again. Okay, maybe not his dick, but a toe or a pinkie finger for sure. You can play hockey without those. I know a guy who proves that point. But since he hasn’t really dated after she gutted him, the damage she did is coming to the surface like bubbles of pain past, and if there’s one thing Eliza always wanted, it was an apology for some imagined slight, usually in the form of retail therapy.
“I’ve got this,” I inform him, already typing away. “Aaaandsend.” I click the little arrow before showing the message to Riggs because I already know he’ll want to change it or veto it outright.
“What’d you say?” he demands, his eyes suddenly real fucking clear and laser locked on me.
I smirk and he grabs for my phone. I let him snatch it away this time because I’m not saying what I said to Kayla to him, even if it’s just reading it. I watch his face as he takes in my masterpiece.
But we can pin you to the wall and make sure you can’t walk straight tomorrow. Can you do that yourself?
And if so, can we watch?
“Are you fucking kidding me with this, Maddox?” he roars, rising to his full height to loom over me, shoving my phone in my face to show me the messagesas if I don’t already know exactly what they say. When I don’t give him the target he’s looking for, he resumes pacing again, this time with a purpose, though I think the purpose might be to keep from killing me.
I shrug. “I saw it on a meme and thought it was some good shit. Besides, it’s true.” He throws my phone to the couch beside me. Having some mercy—and knowing that I still have to live with the asshole—I explain, “When what we were proposing was a sexy menage opportunity, she was in, whole-heartedly and hole-heartedly.” He takes a deep breath, done with my bullshit. “And once she realized we weren’t there to fuck up her life, she was semi on-board with a repeat performance until one of us—and I’m not saying who—went and mentioned doing it two, three, a hundred times.”
“That was you,” he interjects, pointing at me like it’s a case-breaking accusation when I’m the one who brought it up in the first place.
“One of us,” I repeat. “It’s not important who. Butthat’swhat set off her freak-out function instead of her freak-a-leak mode. So, we need to dial it back. Sex is on the table, more is not.” I stare at him, letting him catch up to the genius I’ve already puzzle-pieced together, making good use of the time he spent grunting and grumping around, feeling sorry for himself.
“We said we should only reach out to her if it was about more than sex,” he reminds me, as if I wasn’t there for that conversation too.
“For us,” I correct. “You only wanted to pursue her if we wanted more than sex. But what if that’s all she wants? You’re all ‘respect her boundaries’, but what if sex is her boundary? You can’t honestly say that you don’t want another taste of her, don’t want to feel hercoming on your dick, don’t want to hear her groan your name?” I stare at him pointedly, knowing I’m right even before he grunts in acceptance. “Exactly. So if that’s all we get of her, it’s all we get. And maybe, just maybe, over time, we can get her addicted to us the way someone—again, not saying who—said he became an instant addict to her.”
“Fuck.” He shoves his hands into his hair, pulling on the strands. “Fuck.” He squats down, staring at the floor. I can see him thinking it through, sitting amid the broken glass of his heart as he tries to decide whether he can withstand a relationship that might crush those shards to dust.
Is it stupid to go after her hoping that she’ll eventually want the same thing we want? Absolutely. But if a little of Kayla is all we get, I’ll take it.
KAYLA
“Uhm, Kayla?” Angeline stammers.
I’m a woman on a mission, with the preliminary Jessup contract to review, but given hesitancy isn’t like my always to the point assistant, I stop. “Yes?”
“There was a delivery for you. Or should I sayanotherdelivery.” Her brows climb her forehead like she’s remembering the dramatic bouquet of flowers I received Monday. I’m sure it was quite the talk of the office, not that anyone would dare breathe a word about it to my face. “I opened the package like usual, not realizing it was personal. Sorry. It’s on your desk.” She smiles, but her cheeks are pink like she’s embarrassed.
My first thought is that Samantha sent me something. Along with her practice, she sells adult toys ranging from dildos and vibrators to butt plugs and electrified nipple clamps. Not that I’d have first-hand knowledge about all of that, but I have bought a few things from her. They usually come hand-delivered or in an unmarked box to my home, though. Never the office. “What’d Samantha do?” I ask, shaking my head. “Did she send penis confetti again?” Because yes, she has done that. Not to me, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
“No, no confetti. Just… well, you’ll see…” Angeline says mysteriously. Her blush has turned into a flush, her eyes sparkling with uncontained glee.
“Okay,” I answer, my brows furrowed. In my office, I see the box in question. It’s a nondescript white box with a blue satin ribbon lying beside it. Angeline must’ve untied it to deal with the delivery appropriately. I sit down, eyeing the box before slowly reaching for the lid. As soon as I open it, I understand Angeline’s reaction.
It’s lingerie. A deep blue, sheer bodysuit, to be exact.
I pull it out of the layers of tissue paper, holding it up. It’s delicate, fine and lacy, and I recognize the La Perla quality instantly. This is not from Samantha. It’s from them. I know it before I even look for a card.
