Devoted to Wicked Page 5

  I, however, am totally serious.

  Keeley starts her next song, a more recent pop tune, in a breathy, a capella murmur. “Can’t keep my hands to myself.”

  She taps her thigh in a rhythm only she can hear until the band joins during the crescendo to the chorus. Keeley bounces her way through the lyrics with a flirty smile. It’s both alluring and fun, a tease of a song.

  Though I rarely smile, I find myself grinning along.

  As she finishes, I glance around. There’s more than one hungry dog with a bone in this damn bar.

  I didn’t get ahead in business or life by being polite or waiting my turn. She hasn’t even wrapped her vocal cords around the last note but I’m on my feet and charging across the room.

  I’m the first one to reach the corner of the bar closest to the stage. I prop my elbow on the slightly sticky wood to claim my territory, then glare back at the three other men who think they should end Keeley’s supposed sex drought. They are not watering her garden, and my snarl makes that clear.

  One sees my face, stops in his tracks, and immediately backs off. Smart man.

  Number Two looks like a smarmy car salesman. He rakes Keeley up and down with his gaze like she’s a slab of beef, but she’s flirting my way as she tucks her mic on its stand. I smile back.

  She’s not really my type, but man, I’d love to hit that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the approaching dirtbag finger his porn ‘stouche. To stake my claim, I reach out to help Keeley off the stage. She looks pleasantly surprised by my gesture as she wraps her fingers around mine.

  I can be a gentleman…when it suits me.

  Fuck, she’s warm and velvety, and her touch makes my cock jolt. Her second would-be one-night stand curses then slinks back to his seat.

  That leaves me to fend off Number Three. He looks like a WWE reject—hulking and hit in the face too many times. If she prefers brawn over brains, I’ll have to find another D-cup distraction for Griff.

  That would truly suck. My gut tells me Keeley is perfect for the job.

  Would it be really awful if I slept with her before I introduced her to my brother?

  MORE THAN NEED YOU

  More Than Words, Book 2

  By Shayla Black

  Now Available!

  Click here to purchase!

  I’m Griffin Reed—cutthroat entrepreneur and competitive bastard. Trust is a four-letter word and everyone is disposable…except Britta Stone. Three years ago, she was my everything before I stupidly threw her away. I thought I’d paid for my sin in misery—until I learned we have a son. Finding out she’s engaged to a bore who’s rushing her to the altar pisses me off even more. I intend to win her back so we can raise our boy together. I’ll have to get ruthless, of course. Luckily, that’s one of my more singular talents.

  Sixty days. That’s what I’m asking the gritty, independent single mother to give me—twenty-four/seven. Under my roof. And if I have my way, in my bed. Britta says she wants nothing to do with me. But her body language and passionate kisses make her a liar. Now all I have to do is coax her into surrendering to the old magic between us. Once I have her right where I want her, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I more than need her.

  * * *

  Working to take my fury down ten notches, I try to stay practical, scan the yard. I don’t see any children. Is Jamie already asleep? Maybe so. It’s ten thirty. Do little kids go to bed early? I don’t know. I didn’t consider that sooner. Damn it.

  Now what do I do? I’m hardly in the mood to stand here and toast the bride.

  Britta isn’t hard to find since she’s the only blonde among a sea of native Hawaiians in bright, tropical prints and sandals, clinking glasses and smiling.

  From a distance, she’s wearing a pencil skirt in a sedate gray that clings to a curve in her hips she didn’t used to have. Her ass looks lusher, rounder. Her hair, though wrapped up in some classic twist, looks longer or thicker—something.

  The lust that hits me is stronger.

  She’s talking to a pretty brunette who’s about her age. The striking woman hugs her, joy evident in her huge smile. Britta replies. I can tell because she still talks with her hands. She’s graceful, as always. Not surprising. She entered college on a dance scholarship.

  I remember watching her move on stage for the first time. The beauty of her dance stunned me, the way she was aware of her every muscle, the complete control she had over even her smallest movement. Pale tights and a flowing scrap of chiffon flirting with her thighs gave me a hard-on from hell. I was her boss at the time. She’d just begun to work for Maxon and me. I appreciated her smarts in the office and her talent on stage, sure. But more than anything, I wanted those slender thighs wrapped around me while I fucked her. I told myself to back down. She was so young. Everything about her screamed hands off. I didn’t listen. I corrupted every bit of her purity. Then I walked away, leaving her with a pregnancy she hadn’t planned for, and myself with a mountain of furious regret.

  I wonder how much she’s changed. Is she bitter now? Withdrawn? Maxon told me that I broke something in her. Fuck. Is she angry? Does she hate me?

  How many beds has she slept in since mine?

  I swallow the question down. I have no right to ask.

  Besides, do I really want to know?

  I keep staring at her, watching her slender shoulders as she laughs gently. I hear the sound rising above the din of conversation. It’s good to hear her happy even though I’m so fucking sad.

  No one else has noticed me. I need to approach her, think of something rational and non-confrontational to say. Or turn around and come back tomorrow, when she doesn’t have a whole bunch of company who will gawk at me the minute I demand to see my son. When she isn’t celebrating her pending union to another man.

  But I can’t make myself leave. I just stare, willing her to look at me.

  Suddenly, she stiffens. I see the moment she becomes aware of my presence. She tilts her head toward her right shoulder. I see the jut of her chin. She pauses for a sliver of a second, as if she’s not sure she truly wants to know if I’m just beyond her line of sight, making her senses flare.

  “Britta,” I call out to her.

  At the sound of my voice, she whips her head around, as if she’s heard a ghost and is eager to dispel the notion I could be standing ten feet behind her.

  Our eyes meet. My breath stops. God, she’s still so fucking beautiful to me.

  In that moment I know one thing: no matter what’s happened, how long it’s been, whatever Britta thinks—she’s still mine.

  A gasp falls from her lips. She drops her drink, her face going pale in an instant.

  The woman she was speaking to frowns in concern and grabs Britta’s shoulders, shooting me the evil eye.

  Yeah, I’m the bad guy here. Everyone knows it, even me.

  I take a step toward her, and that seems to pull her from her daze. She waves off her concerned friend and darts in my direction, bearing down on me with something between shock and fury.

  Her eyes are still such a stunning shade of blue, almost turquoise, like the warmest ocean waters near the shore. They’re the first thing I noticed about her. Blue-eyed blondes aren’t terribly unusual, especially in Los Angeles, where I spent my childhood. But everything about Britta is different. Her eyes are slanted and slightly far apart, framed by heavy lashes. The effect is exotic, sexual. Her pillowy mouth sucks me in next, bent with an exaggerated bow on top and a puffy curve on the bottom. I still dream of that mouth. I remember every time I kissed it, every pleasure it ever made me feel. Tonight, she’s exaggerated her pouty lips with a soft gloss that makes me want to tell everyone else at this gathering to fuck off so I can eat it from her now.

  No one else has lips as enticing or soft as Britta Stone. Believe me, I’ve looked. A lot. But when I really want to torture myself, I close my eyes and stroke my cock to a memory of her eyes flaring wide for me while her mouth opens to let loose
the gasp of orgasm she can’t keep in anymore.

  Any wonder I’m harder than hell?

  Any wonder I want her back?

  “What are you doing here?” she hisses in demand.

  How did I find her house or why did I choose this moment to invade her life again? I’ll spare her the boring details of both. “Somewhere in the back of your head, you must have known this day would come. I want to see my son. Where’s Jamie?”

  Her eyes flare wide with shock. Her chest caves in, as if my words are more of a battering ram than a question. She braces her left hand over her heart. She’s wearing a round diamond solitaire on a simple gold band. The sight of another man’s ring on her finger makes me homicidal. Someday, somehow, some way, I’m going to remove it and replace it with my own.

  “Griff…”

  When her face goes taut, I see she’s fighting worry and tears. I want to do something—hold her, reassure her I don’t mean to take Jamie away, wrap her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets about the world.

  But when I reach for her, she jerks away. “Don’t. Why would I know this day would come? He’s two and a half, and before tonight you never showed any interest—”

  “I found out he exists an hour ago. It took me three minutes to coax your address out of my brother and fifty-two minutes to drive here.”

  She stares at me in blinking shock.

  MORE THAN LOVE YOU

  More Than Words, Book 3

  By Shayla Black

  Coming February 13, 2018!

  Click HERE to pre-order!

  I’m Noah Weston. For a decade, I’ve quarterbacked America’s most iconic football team and plowed my way through women. Now I’m transitioning from star player to retired jock—with a cloud of allegation hanging over my head. So I’m escaping to the private ocean-front paradise I bought for peace and quiet. What I get instead is stubborn, snarky, wild, lights-my-blood-on-fire Harlow Reed. Since she just left a relationship in a hugely viral way, she should be the last woman I’m seen with.

  On second thought, we can help each other…

  I need a steady, supportive “girlfriend” for the court of public opinion, not entanglements. Harlow is merely looking for nonstop sweaty sex and screaming orgasms that wring pleasure from her oh-so-luscious body. Three months—that’s how long it should take for us both to scratch this itch and leave our respective scandals behind. But the more I know this woman, the less I can picture my life without her. And when I’m forced to choose, I realize I don’t merely want her in my bed or need her for a ruse. I more than love her enough to do whatever it takes to make her mine for good.

  MISADVENTURES OF A BACKUP BRIDE

  Misadventures, Book 1

  By Shayla Black

  Now Available!

  Click here to purchase!

  An Overnight Billionaire

  When Carson Frost inherits a confectionary that rakes in billions but is too cash-strapped to last another sixty days, he agrees to take a loan from his late father’s rival. There are two catches: Carson has to sign over a permanent stake in the company, and marry the man’s daughter.

  Concocts a Fake Bride

  Two weeks before the wedding, he gets cold feet and claims he’s in love with someone else. The investor says he’ll still hand over the cash if Carson takes a stroll down the aisle—with the woman who owns his heart. Since he isn’t even dating anyone, Carson panics. Where is he going to find a bride willing to jilt him at the altar on such short notice?

  And Whips Up a Little Love

  Ella Hope is an actress happy for any paying gig, but jilting a hottie in public isn’t what she had in mind. Still, she needs rent, and he’s in a bind. How hard can it be? While playing at matrimony, suddenly their intimacy isn’t so fake. Ella can’t help but fantasize that Carson is her groom and they will live happily ever after. But once his company is safe, will he want her anymore?

  * * *

  EXCERPT:

  ELLA

  “Want me to open a bottle of wine?”

  With sleepy eyes, I slide a glance over at the clock. “It’s almost three in the morning. Aren’t you tired?”

  He shovels some of the steak into his mouth, followed by a forkful of potatoes. Then he unwraps another covered dish, and the scent of the lobster macaroni and cheese almost has me swooning.

  “A little. But between you and our amazing leftovers, I’m getting my second wind. It’s only midnight for you, West Coast girl. What’s your excuse?”

  I laugh. “I’m usually in bed by ten so I can be ready for early morning auditions. You’ve kept me up a lot longer.”

  Carson lifts the sheet away from his lap, then shoves it aside. His cock—every bit as big as my toes discovered—is standing tall. “You’re keeping me up, too.”

  I can’t believe he’s hard again…and I can’t say I’m unhappy about it.

  “Are you always this insatiable?” I’ve barely finished the question before he’s plying my taste buds with the creamy, soft goodness of the macaroni. I bite into a chunk of the lobster and moan.

  “No. That’s all you,” he says solemnly.

  “That’s amazing…”

  He quirks a golden brow at me. “My stamina?”

  “That, too. But I meant the orgasm in the takeout tin over there.”

  When I laugh, he does the same. “Well, I’ve got more—of whatever you want.”

  Then he sets about tugging at the sheet covering my naked breasts, exposing my well-loved nipples and the flesh slightly rosy from orgasmic glow and whisker burn.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I promise with a catch of my breath.

  He sets his food aside for a moment, then leans in to kiss my lips, my neck, my shoulder, the swell of my breast… My eyes slide shut for a luxurious moment. I know where this is headed. We still haven’t managed more than a few bites of food. We haven’t retrieved my suitcase from the car yet, either.

  I slide a hand between my flesh and his mouth before he can suck my nipple and make me lose my mind. “You promised to feed me before you tumble me to the bed again. And didn’t we discuss a shower?”

  Carson grimaces and backs away. “Yeah. Sorry. I lose my head with you. I have to be in a meeting in five hours. And right now, I just don’t care.”

  “You should. You’ve done a lot to save Sweet Darlin’,” I point out. “But you surprise me. You’re not as driven as I thought when we first talked.”

  “What do you mean? I’m ambitious.”

  He is. If he weren’t, he never would have assumed the helm of Sweet Darlin’ or found himself engaged to Kendra Shaw. “But you’re not the kind of workaholic who forgets there’s another person in the room. You’re not the sort to disregard the people around you.”

  At that observation, he scowls. “Have you dated someone like that? If so, he sounds like a terrible prick.”

  In a weird way, that’s actually sweet of him to say. Normally, I wouldn’t share much about my past with a boss or a date. But Carson is different. “No. I’m talking about my parents. My dad was a reporter for the ABC affiliate in Los Angeles. My mom was a costume designer who worked for various TV shows. They both worked incredibly long hours. When Dad was home at all, he was forever on the phone or leaving in the middle of dinner to meet an informant or chase a crime scene. Mom was around more, but she always had her head stuck in a sketchbook or was cozying up to her sewing machine. Sometimes, my younger sisters and I felt invisible.”

  His face softens. “I’m sorry. My mom and stepdad had their faults—they were human, after all—but they were great parents. I know how it feels to be invisible and irrelevant, though. I spent a lot of time growing up wondering why my own dad never wanted me, why my mom had to marry someone else to find a guy who gave a shit about me.”

  I nod. It seems as if he truly does understand. “I had to become an adult to realize that my parents weren’t awful or uncaring or neglectful on purpose. They simply picked occupations they were so passion
ate about that sometimes they would forget everything else. In some ways, they saw the work they did as a public service. My dad gave truth to the community. My mom added beauty and authenticity to the world.”

  “But it would have been nice if they’d remembered to be parents more often, too, right?”

  I nod. “Exactly. I can’t complain much. I grew up in a nice house, went to good schools, had awesome friends. No one beat me. I never went hungry. I shouldn’t complain.”

  “But everyone wants to be loved,” he says softly.

  Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe my emotions are raw because in the last few hours, this man has opened my body to him in nearly every conceivable way. All I know is that my eyes well with stinging tears.

  “Yeah.” I sniffle, determined to lighten the suddenly heavy mood. “And love in return, so could you give me another forkful of those heavenly potatoes?”

  With an understanding smile, he hands me the round tin and my fork, then sets about inhaling his own dinner. “God, everything tastes amazing. I was starved.”

  “I was, too.” Not just for the food but for the toe-curling sex, affection, and understanding.

  ABOUT SHAYLA BLACK

  Shayla Black is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixty novels. For nearly twenty years, she’s written contemporary, erotic, paranormal, and historical romances via traditional, independent, foreign, and audio publishers. Her books have sold millions of copies and been published in a dozen languages.

  Raised an only child, Shayla occupied herself with lots of daydreaming, much to the chagrin of her teachers. In college, she found her love for reading and realized that she could have a career publishing the stories spinning in her imagination. Though she graduated with a degree in Marketing/Advertising and embarked on a stint in corporate America to pay the bills, her heart has always been with her characters. She’s thrilled that she’s been living her dream as a full-time author for the past eight years.