Deal with the Devil

by March, Meghan

  “Why can’t I say things like that?” I whisper.

  “Because then I’ll want to do this.”

  He shifts his grip and pulls me onto his lap. My knees spread, one landing on either side of his thighs as he cups the back of my neck with one hand and slides the other down to palm my ass.

  With a rough tug, he yanks me against his body until my every curve is pressed against rock-hard muscle hidden beneath his tux. Except one part isn’t hidden at all. The bulge is an iron rod, and I can’t help but shift against it. Forge’s mouth hovers over my lips for a second, and I stare at him as his gaze pierces straight through me.

  One heartbeat. Two. Three.

  I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but I’m dying to feel his lips on mine. His expression changes just before his mouth crashes down.

  This is no soft, sweet kiss. It’s a storming of the gates, and my defenses are already in shambles. He demands entrance and my lips part, letting his tongue charge through.

  Just like I thought earlier, the whiskey tastes even better mixed with him.

  I release a low moan as he grips my ass tighter and lifts me to press harder against his cock. He’s a marauder, plundering just like the pirate I thought he was the first time I saw him. He takes without permission or apology.

  And I love it.

  I rock my hips, and lust lights up every nerve ending. I need this. Need him. Want him. With a desperation I haven’t felt in . . . well, ever.

  The kiss goes on and on, and the liquor goes straight to my head, releasing me from my inhibitions as I bury my fingers in his hair. I tug at the long strands, pulling him closer. Begging him silently to kiss me harder. To take more. To make me forget this mess I’ve found myself in, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

  My body is primed and ready. Wetness soaks my panties. I’ve never been so hard up for a man in my life.

  And then he stops.

  Like he flipped a switch, Forge’s body stiffens, and his hands leave my neck and my ass to go to my hips as he sets me away from him on the sofa and rises to his feet.

  What the . . .

  I stand up, reaching out to grab him by the lapels, but he holds me at arm’s length.

  “Sit down, Ms. Baptiste.”

  “Why? What the fuck, Forge?”

  “This isn’t happening. Not here. Not now.” His roughened voice tells me he’s not as unaffected as he wants me to believe.

  My attention drops to the massive hard-on testing the strength of the thin material of his pants.

  “You’re turning me down again? Are you serious? Because your dick has a severe problem with your decision.”

  He narrows his eyes on me and then nods to the floor. “Then feel free to take care of it, but I’m not fucking you.”

  The heat burning through my veins turns to anger, and my hands clench into fists. “Oh, hell no. You can fuck right off, Forge. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  His gaze turns heavy-lidded as he studies me.

  I know he wants me. So, why isn’t he taking what he wants?

  Forge’s hands drop away from me, and he steps back. He touches a finger to a glass panel next to the sideboard, and one square illuminates with blue light. Ten seconds later, a man enters the room.

  “Get Ms. Baptiste dinner,” Forge says without looking at him.

  Dinner? He thinks I want food?

  “I don’t—”

  Forge’s chin cuts toward me, silencing my protest. “You’ll eat, and then you’ll send the photos and videos to the email Koba gives you.”

  With his final order delivered, he turns and walks out the same doors the other man just walked in.

  That motherfucker.

  Before he disappears from sight, I catch a glimpse of his hands flexing into fists and releasing.

  What the hell is Jericho Forge’s game?

  24

  Forge

  The feel of her skin sears my palms. I shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have kissed her. Not yet. Not like this.

  I have plans for India Baptiste, and while I should be glad she has no aversion to fucking me, I can’t allow myself to be distracted.

  And, holy fuck, is she distracting.

  I’ve had some of the most beautiful women in the world throw themselves at me, and not a single one has affected me like she does. Not even my most skilled mistress could turn my dick rock hard so fucking fast.

  It’s not just the curves of India’s body that I want to learn every inch of, or her stunning face. It’s her. Her attitude. Her grit. Her determination. Her loyalty to her sister, even though the girl fucked up.

  If I’m being honest with myself, there’s nothing that could suck me in faster than that.

  Which means I have to be vigilant. I can’t let myself see her as more than a means to an end. But my cock has other ideas. I try to think of anything to deflate it as I head for my office on board, but nothing works.

  I’m too old, and honestly, too fucking rich, to take care of my hard-on by jacking off in the shower. It was on a whim that I told her she could handle it herself, but I don’t know what I would have done if she’d dropped to her knees right there in the salon.

  Bullshit. I know exactly what I would have done.

  I would have unzipped my pants and watched her blue eyes go wide when she caught sight of my dick. I’d have let her lick and suck and try to swallow me down until she gagged on it with tears streaming from her eyes.

  Then I would have gripped her by the nape of her neck, tilted her head back, and taught her—

  Instead of going down, my dick hardens to the point of pain.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I need to concentrate, and not on how much I want to bend her over and fuck her mouth, her pussy, and her ass.

  I walk into my office and shut and lock the door before heading straight into the attached bathroom.

  Fuck it.

  Within seconds, I’ve stripped, and the water from the shower pours over my shoulders. I wrap my hand around my cock and tug hard enough to punish myself for letting her steal my ironclad self-control.

  With my head bowed, I brace myself against the wall as I jerk my dick, picturing her plump pink lips, and how fucking tight they’re going to wrap around my cock while I show her exactly how I’d like to fuck her face.

  God, I want to see that.

  The picture becomes even clearer in my mind, and I would swear it’s the most provocative sight I’ve ever had in my brain.

  India Baptiste is another level.

  Jesus, fuck.

  My balls draw up, and I know it won’t take long to shoot my load all over the shower wall.

  I shouldn’t come this fast. But there’s no denying that I’m going to blow before I’m ready.

  I don’t bother to muffle my roar as lightning shoots down my spine, and I picture India swallowing every single drop of cum that spills out of me.

  I stumble backward and crouch on the floor of the shower, letting the water rush over me, like it’s going to erase the traces of what I just did. But nothing will. India Baptiste is under my skin.

  Fucking hell. I knew she was going to be a problem. I knew it. I also know exactly what I’m going to do next.

  25

  India

  I’m alone in the salon when a noise that sounds like a wounded, enraged animal rumbles through the ship.

  Was that Forge? I stand up and whip my head around, waiting to hear pounding footsteps of people running to the rescue, but there’s no sound at all until the blond guy returns with a tray and sets it on the round table in the back corner of the salon.

  “Did you hear that sound?”

  He looks at me blankly. “I’m paid not to hear anything, Ms. Baptiste.”

  Um. That’s awkward and weird. Now I want to know about all the things he’s been paid “not to hear.”

  “So, just to be clear, you did hear it, or you didn’t hear it?” I ask.

  “I hope you enjoy y
our dinner, ma’am.”

  I manage to stem the urge to roll my eyes. “I said I didn’t want anything.”

  “Mr. Forge said you’re eating, so you’re eating.”

  With a mulish set to my jaw, I cross my arms. “Not unless Mr. Forge plans to force-feed me.”

  It may be the new glass of whiskey I helped myself to that’s making me so impertinent, or it could be the fact that I really despise being told what to do by strangers.

  “Mr. Forge is otherwise engaged at present, but he’ll be quite unhappy if he finds out that his orders haven’t been followed.”

  “Then that’s his problem,” I say as I walk to a sofa in the opposite corner of the salon from where he placed the tray.

  My snappish comment is fueled by the fact that the man left me with a heinous case of female blue balls, and now all I need is a goddamned orgasm so I can clear my head and figure out what the hell my next step is if Forge can’t or won’t help me get Summer back.

  The man holds out a business card. “Send any pictures and videos of your sister to this email address.”

  So the blond guy is Koba. Got it.

  I reach out and snatch it from him. It’s a black card with nothing but an email that’s a long string of numbers followed by a domain I don’t recognize.

  “That, I can do. But you might as well take the food away. It’s going to go to waste here.”

  “I follow orders, regardless of whether you like them. Enjoy your meal, Ms. Baptiste.”

  Well, that makes one of us, I think as Koba turns and leaves the room.

  I move to the decanters and top off my drink, but decide to send the pictures before I sip. My capacity for doing anything useful is disappearing with every taste of whiskey.

  After opening my email, I attach pictures of Summer and a video I have of her dancing around Alanna’s flat last Christmas. I type in the email address, checking it three times to make sure I got it right, and hit Send.

  With my glass in hand, I toss my phone on the sofa and take a long pull of the whiskey. Delicious scents emanate from the covered tray, and against my will, my stomach growls.

  Goddammit. I’m not hungry.

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I lift the lid to see a succulent piece of white fish on what looks like mashed sweet potatoes, topped with sliced almonds, edamame, and a lemony butter sauce.

  Seriously? Someone just threw together a gourmet meal for a late-night snack? Then I remember where I am. A superyacht owned by a billionaire. Gourmet is probably all that’s on the menu, regardless of the time of day.

  I take another deep breath, and the glass of whiskey in my hand wobbles. Maybe it’ll blunt my hangover in the morning if I eat . . .

  With that reasoning in mind, I sit down and take a single bite. It melts in my mouth. Before I know it, the plate is clear.

  “I knew you would eat.”

  Koba’s voice comes from the doorway, and I whip my head around.

  “Jesus Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

  He comes forward to retrieve the tray. “Mr. Forge told me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Where did he go? He and I need to have a discussion.” I toss my napkin on the silver lid before he moves it out of range.

  “Busy,” Koba says before leaving the way he came. As he steps through the sliding glass doors, he adds, “I’ll return to show you to your cabin shortly.”

  I don’t bother to reply. Instead, I help myself to enough whiskey to make me forget I have a single care in the world.

  26

  India

  Bright light stabs my eyeballs like spears of fire as I open them. “Oh God. Turn off the light.”

  When there’s no answer and no dimming of the surface of the sun beating down on me, I shield my eyes and roll over on the silky-smooth sheets of the bed.

  Wait. What bed?

  I sit up with a start and clasp the sheet to my chest, even though I’m still wearing my dress from last night.

  I don’t remember leaving the salon. I certainly don’t remember getting into a king-size bed and curling up under the sheet fully clothed.

  Rising from the bed, I slowly take in the massive cabin. It has the same reclaimed wood floors as the salon, but the walls are dark gray and the sheets are navy blue. It’s dark and masculine.

  This is Forge’s cabin. All I have to do is breathe in deeply to catch the hint of sandalwood and fresh man-scent I smelled on him the night at La Reina.

  I check the pillow beside the one I used. It shows no signs of being disturbed. Forge didn’t sleep here. Where is he?

  My bladder protests that his whereabouts doesn’t matter right this moment, and I glance around and spot a door across the room that I hope leads to the facilities.

  I push it open, and instead of finding a luxurious en-suite bathroom, I find an office with a large desk and computer monitors mounted on it. I turn to leave, but I catch sight of something on the desk that shouldn’t be there.

  My phone.

  It’s connected to a laptop with a cord.

  What the hell?

  I stalk over to it and pick it up. Sure enough, it’s mine. I tap the screen, and instead of bringing up the lock screen, it opens without a password.

  He hacked into my phone. What. The. Fuck?

  I yank out the cord and storm out of the bedroom, propelled by fury. The next door I yank open leads to the bathroom. That works too.

  After making quick work of the facilities, I try the rest of the doors in the cabin until I find the one that leads to a bright white hallway that extends in acres of wood in both directions.

  Forge is somewhere on this damn boat, and when I find him, I’m going to rip him a new one for invading my privacy. I sent him the damn pictures. What else did he need that he had to hack my phone?

  “Ms. Baptiste, can I help you?” a woman with dark hair slicked back into a tight bun asks. She’s wearing what must be the ship uniform of a navy polo with a silver logo in the shape of a stylized F on the breast, paired with white slacks and deck shoes.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Mr. Forge. Can you take me to him?”

  The woman’s expression stays completely placid. “I’m afraid he’s unavailable right now, Ms. Baptiste.”

  “You don’t understand. This is an urgent matter. It can’t wait.” I clutch my phone in my hand, and even though I want to show her and explain exactly why I need to see the hacking bastard, I don’t.

  “I’m sorry—” she says, starting to apologize and give me another excuse.

  “Can you at least tell me if he’s on the boat?” I watch her face for any flicker of information that might be helpful.

  “In a matter of speaking.”

  “What does that mean?” I glance around like he’s going to pop out of the ceiling. He doesn’t.

  “Ms. Baptiste, if you’d please come with me to the salon, we have breakfast waiting for you. Mr. Forge will join you at his leisure.”

  At his leisure? I repeat silently. My temper begins to rear its ugly head, but I remind myself it’s not this woman’s fault that he stole my phone and hacked into it. Forge is the only one who needs to answer for that.

  “If you follow me, you’ll be one step closer to speaking with him.” The woman spins on her deck shoes and moves efficiently down the hallway.

  I have two choices, and pouting like a child isn’t going to get me anywhere. Besides, the more ground I can cover, the more likely it is that I’ll find Forge. It may be a massive boat, but there are only so many places the man could hide.

  We reach the salon, which I remember from last night, despite the throbbing in my head from too much whiskey. Beyond the sliding glass doors, there’s nothing but blue ocean, even though the boat isn’t moving.

  What the hell? We left Monaco?

  “Where are we?”

  The woman, whose name I still don’t know, follows my gaze out the window. “The Mediterranean.”

  I blink repeatedly, but the view outs
ide doesn’t change. “The middle of the Mediterranean?”

  She shrugs. “Not exactly the middle.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask as I step closer to the windows.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share that information with you right now. But if you’ll wait for Mr. Forge, I’m sure he’ll answer your questions.”

  My brain spins in a hundred different directions as I stare out at the gorgeous blue sea, and the only thing I can think is that with every nautical mile this boat has moved, I’m farther away from getting my sister back.

  “Where the hell is he?” I turn to find that I’ve asked the question to an empty room, and there’s nothing but silence as a reply.

  I tap the screen on my cell phone to see if I have service, but of course, I don’t. My wireless package doesn’t exactly include middle-of-the-ocean capabilities.

  That’s when I hear a splash from somewhere beyond the large sliding glass doors at the rear of the salon.

  I rush through them and find myself on a massive teak sundeck, complete with white wooden loungers with navy-and-white striped cushions. In the middle of the deck is a pool. But that’s not where the splash came from, because it’s completely empty. I hurry to the side of the boat and spot someone with dark hair cutting through the water, stroke after strong stroke.

  Forge.

  It has to be him. I follow the railing of the boat to the stern to get a better look at the man.

  Of course he’d get his exercise swimming in the middle of the goddamned ocean like he’s Aquaman. Suddenly, visions of Jason Momoa flash through my mind, and the uncanny resemblance between the two men hits me. No wonder I think Forge looks like a pirate, because he’s built like someone who plays a warrior superhero in movies.

  Before I can open my mouth to yell at him, he dives underwater and disappears.

  I count to sixty before panic filters into my system, overtaking the anger. Where did he go? He can’t drown. I need him!