He’s straight-up nasty. The freakiest man she’s ever met. Nothing he won’t do. Nothing he won’t try. That actually rates him above her last five Tinder dates. What should stop her, though, what should legit make her slam the door in his face every time he shows up, is that Greg Peters is also evil incarnate. Satan’s henchman. Beelzebub’s boy. Every time he touches her…which has been entirely too many times in the last three weeks…she feels the prints of sin left behind on her skin.
“You love it.” He murmurs it like he knows what she’s thinking. And maybe he does. Because she hasn’t ever been shy about her regrets. About how stupid and disgusting and completely batshit insane what they’re doing is. “You can’t get enough of me,” he says, sprawling back against the headboard, playing with the scalpel he taught her how to use, walking it across his knuckles like it’s a coin or a pen.
“More precision than a kitchen knife. More sterile, too.” Light from the bedside lamp glints off the blade, sending a chill down her spine. There are a dozen tiny cuts across his broad chest. Dabbed with ointment now, sealed with butterfly bandages. She did that. Pressed sharp metal into his flesh while he gasped and hissed “yes” and came all over his stomach. And then she patched him up. The Florence fucking Nightingale of aftercare. Gently washing away blood and spunk.
Rondell tries to keep the disquiet out of her voice. Throws attitude in there instead, matching it to the swing of her hip as she walks back to the bed. “Mhmm. And you’re just what…? Here because it’s cheaper than paying a dominatrix to Fifty Shades your kinky ass?”
Peters—because, somehow, strangely, she still can’t bring herself to think of him as just ‘Greg’—tilts his head, stares up at her with those wolfhound-blue eyes. “How do you know I’m not still paying a dominatrix?”
Her gaze trails downward. He’s butt-ass naked, completely lacking in shame or modesty…every inch of him calling to every inch of her, like her own personal body positivity movement. “I may be new at this, but I know all your bruises belong to me.”
A few of his inches in particular love that statement, rallying at the possessiveness she didn’t mean to infuse into her tone. Lord, but he does have a massive dick. Appropriate for someone who is a massive dick.
He tosses the scalpel aside. It lands on the nightstand with a clatter. “Come here, Rondell,” he growls all low and rough, in that way she’s already begun to recognize as damn-near-out-of-his-mind-with-want.
There is not a man born who has ever succeeded in telling her what to do. Except this one. Evil incarnate. Satan’s henchman. Beelzebub’s boy. That has to be it. A dark demon’s powers compelling her back to a bed they’ve already defiled a thousand ways—just so they can make it a thousand-and-one.
“I still hate you,” she tells him as he joins her in the middle of the mattress, his lying mouth deceptively soft on the nape of her neck. Then her shoulder. Her spine. Lower.
“Uh-huh. You still hate me,” he agrees. “But you want this more. What I give you. What I do for you.” His laugh is so smug. It rumbles arrogantly across her lower back.
“Please.” Rondell scoffs even as she shivers and shakes at the path of his tongue—he’s put that tongue inside her, is about to do it again, and she still can’t call him Greg. A therapist would have a field day with that. “You are not the only man in Atlanta who eats ass.”
“I’m the only man in this room. You’re the only woman in this room.” His fingers dig into her hips, sinking into the rolls as he groans with appreciation against the curve of her butt. “Fuck, Rondell. I’m glad you’re the only woman in this room.”
Here, enclosed by these four walls, they can be whatever, whoever, they want. Nasty. Freaky. Two people doing unspeakable things. He’s not trying to tear down and pave over something she desperately wants to preserve. Instead, they're wrecking each other. Destroying her boundaries until she’s gripping the covers for purchase and near sobbing. Exploding his defenses so he’s jacking himself while he’s working her up, determined to come when she does.
Partners in pleasure, not sworn enemies. Just for this hour. Maybe the next. And the one after that. Until the sun comes up and reality sets in and he pulls his shirt on over the marks she’s left on his skin. Matching the shadows of sin he’s put on hers.
If Greg Peters is evil incarnate, Satan’s henchman, what in the world does that make her?
“Satisfied?” he asks, once they’ve collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs and damp sheets.
Yes. Oh hell yes. It makes her satisfied beyond belief.