Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1)

by Lydia Rowan

  “You’re ready, eh?” he said as he lined his cock up to her hole. “Here I am.”

  She’d never get used to this, the pulling stretch that burned so good, the way her folds opened at his unyielding invasion, the slick rub of skin still potent, even through the latex barrier. Inch after inch he went into her, slowing only when he reached the last couple, mindful that he was thicker at the base. She tilted her hips up and pressed against his waist, the movement fully seating him inside her.

  Once again she felt whole.

  Her pussy pulsed around his cock, and she squeezed her inner muscles tight, legs locked around his waist. And then he moved, shallow thrusts at first that increased in speed and tempo, the movement wrenching grunts and moans from her. Silent but for an occasional moan here and there, she could map his pleasure from the hitches in his breath, his deep exhales, the way his movements became more frantic and less rhythmic.

  Color flashed behind her eyes, and the tingle in the pit of Julie’s stomach exploded into a burst of pleasure that flamed through her body so powerfully she couldn’t release a sound. As the wave crested, she felt him harden even more, thrusts now more powerful and erratic before he too froze and released his seed on a low moan. The energy seemed to drain from his body, and he lowered himself on top of her, careful not to crush her with his weight. They touched everywhere, arms, legs, torso, and best of all, he was still buried deep inside her, his cock sporadically twitching. He leaned down to capture her lips in a deep kiss, hands exploring her body.

  She felt him softening and clenched her muscles, trying to hold on for as long as she could. But soon he slipped out of her, and she sighed at the loss.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered as he framed her face with one of his big hands.

  He lay on his side next to her and coaxed her into an embrace, her back to his front.

  Safe. Underneath the bone-deep satisfaction, the wanton sex that was so at odds with who she was, she felt safe.

  Without a doubt, she knew this man would protect her. She knew his body. She suspected she knew his soul.

  If only she knew his name.

  The tightening of his arms around her told her he felt the turbulence of her thoughts. He kissed her shoulder, held her closer, and she grabbed his hand and placed a gentle kiss on his knuckle.

  “Sleep, nebesa.”

  She resisted, wanted to steal every second she could, even if she dared not ask him any questions, but it was a losing battle.

  When she woke, he was gone.

  Chapter Two

  D’yavol hurried down the block toward his car on full alert. He had lingered longer than he’d intended, but such was always the case with Julie. Coming to her was madness, and dangerous, but it had gotten harder and harder to resist. He reasoned that at least he wouldn’t be seen, the location of her apartment allowing him, or anyone with half a brain, easy entry and exit. He bristled at the thought. He hated her living there, or anywhere unsafe, and had often considered moving her somewhere else. It was a stupid thought, would require him to get more involved, not less. So many of the times he’d visited, he’d sworn it would be the last, that he’d see her and never come back, get away before the taint of knowing him finally poisoned her.

  But each time he went, saw her open the door, her brown eyes tentative but her happiness at seeing him clear, he relented. D’yavol’s presence was typically greeted with a much different reaction, and even though he knew this thing with Julie was mostly just play and definitely temporary, he welcomed the feeling,

  Being wanted.

  Giving joy instead of fear, pleasure instead of pain.

  Julie was his nebesa, his heaven, and had been since the very first time he’d seen her…

  ••••

  The block was quiet, but that was to be expected at this hour, the time of day that could be late into night or early morning, depending on one’s perspective. For D’yavol, it was the end of a long, and unfortunately uneventful, night. He’d been off tonight, so, as he so often did, he’d gone out to watch, maybe see what the new crew that had arrived recently was up to, maybe find some trouble. They called themselves the Steel Hearts, and, from what D’yavol had learned, they acted much like a motorcycle club with their bikes and beards and jackets and old ladies. Not a problem on his end, but Demon, his friend and “promoter,” suspected they were looking for more unsavory diversions, perhaps to poach talent or to establish competing events, and for that, they would need permission, not to mention a hefty fee. Demon fancied himself a businessman and liked to use flowery words like “license” and “operations.”

  D’yavol had no such illusions. They were animals. He was an animal. And a murderer.

  Sure, he didn’t mug people or rob liquor stores, kept innocents out of harm’s way, and yeah, he’d thought about trying to leave that filthy, violent world behind, but none of that changed the reality of who and what they—and he—were. And if these Steel Hearts were intending to set up a new operation, D’yavol was here to remind them this “operation” came with rules and at a price. Besides, he liked to take the measure of new groups. More than a few had tried to co-opt him for their organizations, and they weren’t shy about their means, using everything from promises of wealth to vague or not so vague threats. Neither ploy moved him. D’yavol would always be independent. But still, a little information could never hurt.

  D’yavol figured he’d hang around until the sun came up. From his vantage point on the roof of an apartment building, he could see the group five Steel Hearts he’d been watching all night still huddled in an alley, drinking and generally being buffoonish. He idly wondered why none of the neighbors had complained, but looking at the Steel Hearts, he could understand the reluctance to get involved.

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw an approaching figure, below-average height, delicate steps suggesting a woman. What the hell was a woman doing out alone this time of night? Momentarily diverted from the Steel Hearts, D’yavol looked at the woman through his binoculars. She wore athletic shoes that had seen better days and green scrubs, tight around the thickness of her thighs and hips, the top loose, though it didn’t conceal the fullness of her breasts, with a white turtleneck under it, her only concession to the cold. She also had some kind of badge around her neck, but it was flipped so he couldn’t read it. Best guess, she was a hospital worker heading home after a late shift.

  There was no rational explanation for her walking home alone at this hour, in this neighborhood especially, but in any neighborhood really. And she should be more alert, but this woman seemed relaxed and open, not remotely furtive, and to predators like the Steel Hearts, like him, she screamed one thing: prey.

  If she were lucky, the Steel Hearts might catcall her a little but leave her mostly alone. D’yavol didn’t believe in luck. And for some reason, though it wasn’t his place to interfere, he couldn’t let this woman fall victim and do nothing about. He wouldn’t.

  The Steel Hearts had noticed her approach, so, releasing an epithet, D’yavol gathered his belongings and headed down to the street. She was about fifty feet from the alley by the time he reached the street, and two Steel Hearts stepped directly into her path, both fairly young, but tall, broad, and menacing-looking, probably especially so to a woman alone. They wore insignia jean jackets with the sleeves cut off, a gray heart with a knife through it embroidered on the back. After a momentary start, she recovered nicely, said, “Excuse me,” and stepped into the street to go around.

  D’yavol was impressed. No doubt the Steel Hearts were trying to funnel her closer to the wall and the alley, but she’d given herself freedom to move. The Steel Hearts were undeterred. One walked beside her, the other in front, and the three remaining members stayed hidden in the alley.

  “Nice bag,” the taller of the two said.

  It wasn’t. In fact, it looked like one of those reusable grocery bags with an area supermarket’s logo screen painted on. She didn’t respond, just gripped the bag tigh
ter and sped up. The tall one stepped into her path and tilted his shoulder. She bumped into him and recoiled hard, the impact sending her to the ground. There was fear in her eyes now, and it ignited instant rage, made D’yavol’s blood flow through his body hot as lava, and spurred him down the street on a beeline toward the woman. The shorter Steel Heart approached, but before he could reach her, D’yavol kicked his legs from under him, sending him to the ground, his arm making an audible crunch at the impact. D’yavol looked at the taller man and glanced at the alley, sure that all could see the rage that backed up the two hundred forty-five pounds of pure muscle on his six-five frame.

  Tall grabbed his compatriot, and they rushed off to the alley, and with half a brain still on what was going on behind them as the Steel Hearts gathered themselves and ran off, D’yavol looked down at the woman and offered his hand. She hesitated a moment, looking uncertain, but then she reached out and accepted his hand, and he pulled her up.

  At her wince, he said, “You are unharmed?”

  Her eyes widened for a moment, maybe at the anger that had knocked his deep voice two octaves deeper.

  “Yes, thank you. I might bruise, but I’ll be fine.” She stuck out the hand that she’d retracted upon standing. “I’m Julie, by the way. Julie Manchin. I appreciate your help, Mr….”

  “Let me escort you home, Julie.”

  “Um, well…” She hesitated, seeming to consider whether to agree, her hesitance more than warranted by the night’s events. He intended her no harm, but no way was he letting her walk alone.

  “Okay. It’s just up this way.”

  They started off, and Julie, clearly feeling the effects of leftover adrenaline, talked.

  “I suppose I should call the police.”

  D’yavol balked at the thought. That couldn’t happen.

  “But then again, it’ll take them forever to get here, and they probably won’t be able to do anything anyway. Yeah, I won’t waste the time.”

  “Why were you walking alone?”

  “That was stupid of me, wasn’t it?” She looked over at him. “Don’t answer that. You don’t have to. I was working a double and just wanted to get home, but the buses had stopped running, and I didn’t want to spend the money on a cab. Oh, well. From now on, I’ll just have to stay at the hospital until the buses start.”

  “Are you a doctor, nurse?”

  Julie looked at him like he had two heads and laughed. “Not in this life. I’m a custodian. And this is me. Thank you again. I don’t know what would have happened…” She shivered, the full force of the horrors she’d avoided clearly hitting her. It engaged D’yavol all over again.

  “Take care of yourself, Julie Manchin,” he said and walked away.

  He went to track down the Steel Hearts and formally introduced himself.

  One of them ended up in the ICU.

  ••••

  The buzz of his cell phone pulled him from his memories. He looked down at it, noting that, as expected, it was Demon, but didn’t answer. Instead he broke into a light jog to speed his arrival at his vehicle. D’yavol hated the things, but recognized their necessity. Still, he wasn’t ready to let go of thoughts of Julie quite yet. Even the less pleasant memories of Julie were preferable to the reality that he was without her. Over the year since that first meeting, she’d calmed him, soothed his soul. That need that had always crackled right beneath the surface, waiting, praying for a moment to come out, had been kept at bay. His work remained inordinately pleasurable, and he still craved the feeling, fist against flesh and bone, the dull thwack of a punch. But lately, he’d allowed himself to imagine a life beyond this. It was stupid; he was D’yavol, the devil. Nothing more. But still…

  He pushed those thoughts aside as he reached his car, drove toward his destination the late, or early, depending on one’s perspective, hour leaving the streets mostly deserted, and parked in front of the nondescript warehouse on the industrial side of town that served as home base. A friend of Demon’s, some rich guy he knew from the old days, ran a string of companies, one of which was this metal-recycling facility that he allowed Demon to use. Some of the other guys preferred working out of the offices, or a fancy gym, but D’yavol preferred it here. Anyone who saw him knew what he was, and he didn’t want to waste time with the pretense and trappings of professionalism. Combat boots, cargo pants, a T-shirt, and his standard icy scowl were his uniform.

  Demon met him at the door.

  “I was on my way,” he said before Demon could even ask why he hadn’t answered his phone.

  “Good. You look relaxed. Did you get enough rest?”

  None, but he wouldn’t tell Demon that. The man got too worked up as fights approached, and he might have had a stroke if D’yavol confessed that he’d spent most of the night in a beautiful woman’s bed instead of focusing and training as he usually did. It was a testament to Demon, their friendship, that D’yavol even cared. Though D’yavol didn’t share the other man’s dreams, Demon had proven a loyal and worthy ally and was one of the few people D’yavol would ever consider trusting.

  D’yavol laughed as he took his first good look at Demon’s attire. Today Demon was decked out in a suit and loafers, his hair slicked back. Undoubtedly, the intent was businessman or accountant, but Demon had missed the mark and was dangerously close to used-car kingpin. He was far from an accountant or a used-car salesman, but unlike D’yavol, he had aspirations beyond the ugly world they’d grown up in. He wouldn’t forget—neither of them could—but Demon, as he liked to say, had plans. What those plans entailed, he’d never really specified, but D’yavol wouldn’t deny his friend his dreams. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t give him shit.

  “You’re going to sell cars today, yeah?”

  “Fuck you, man,” Demon responded playfully. “Have you ever heard the term ‘dress for success’? I’m going places, and to get the part, I have to live the part.”

  “What places?” he asked as he walked across the recycling floor, quiet at this hour but a hive of activity when the trucks started rolling in.

  Demon followed close behind. “You know. Places.”

  Despite himself, D’yavol laughed again. “Get a better suit.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Tom Ford,” Demon mumbled as they walked across the plant to the sub-building located on the back of the property.

  When the recycling plant was idle, D’yavol had free rein over the place and it was his playground. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, happy to be back in the sanctuary he’d found here. After spending time with Julie, he needed the reminder of who and what he was, and, outside of a particularly brutal fight, nothing brought that message home better than this sparring arena.

  Sparsely furnished, the place had two main features: a nicked, polished-concrete floor and huge, high ceilings. D’yavol didn’t really know what it had been used for before, but it was a perfect place to train. The slick, hard floor forced him to stay mindful of his footwork or face a painful encounter with concrete. High ceilings captured sound and helped recreate the thunderous, ringing noise the spectators would produce even at the smaller sites.

  He was surprised to see four other guys, Tony, Mark, Daniel, and Joey, already running through drills. D’yavol didn’t pay attention to fights he wasn’t in, but Demon, with his eye for talent and insatiable need for advancement, had seen these guys and thought they had potential, and after much pestering, D’yavol had relented and allowed them to train at the facility with him. He was not a coach, had no interest in being one, but he corrected their forms, gave them tips, and they’d fallen into reproducing his training routine. It hadn’t hurt that after a month of ribbing and insinuating that they could take the “old man,” as they called him, he’d challenged them to a four-on-one spar and beaten the crap out of all of them without breaking a sweat. Now their grudging respect boarded on idolization, but D’yavol did his best to shut that down.

  He should be nobody’s idol.

  “Tony, that
jab is leaving you open. You always have to protect the flank,” he said as he walked across the floor. He had no formal training, but he was literally a graduate of the school of hard knocks, and there was nothing he hadn’t seen.

  “What’d you find?” Demon asked as he plopped down in the chair behind the desk after they entered the room that Demon called his office but which was actually more of a makeshift locker room.

  “Nothing specifically,” he said carefully. He was usually honest with Demon. Their years of friendship and Demon’s unwavering support deserved that much, but he hadn’t any shared details about Julie, only the vaguest description of their first meeting, and he intended to keep it that way though he wasn’t quite sure why. Even so, as far as Demon knew, D’yavol’s disdain for the Steel Hearts was strictly professional.

  “No run-ins? Nothing?” Demon asked as he settled his large frame into the office chair, seemingly distractedly as he fiddled with his hideous tie, though D’yavol knew him too well to believe that for a moment. His friend didn’t miss anything.

  “No. It’s quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me.”

  D’yavol had lived in the city his whole life and been involved in its fighting circuit for longer than he cared to remember, and he knew well the rhythms of both. If people weren’t where they were supposed to be and matches didn’t happen when and where they were supposed to, it made him antsy. Over the last year, the Steel Hearts had been an increasing nuisance, with rowdy parties and in-fighting ratcheting up to petty and more serious crime. He figured that could account for the quieter streets, as sane people, those unlike him, tried to avoid trouble. But that was just a guess and something with which he was mostly unconcerned. The change in the fights, though, that was definitely a concern.

  “You heard anything?” he asked Demon.

  “Rumblings here and there. The Steel Hearts are looking to get in on the matches in a bigger way, but I don’t know if they have cash or a stake or a sponsor.”

  D’yavol scoffed. He’d heard that a couple of guys claiming to be Steel Hearts had shown up at a couple of fights, were even allowed to participate at some of the grimier venues. It wasn’t a surprise really; these smaller, “unsanctioned” fights weren’t uncommon, especially for guys looking to make a quick buck, but staking in on bigger matches was an entirely different ball game. The circuit was an open secret around town, but it was still highly illegal, and the big-money participants, fighters, promoters, and patrons alike, valued discretion above all. Messes of the type groups like the Steel Hearts no doubt created wherever they went were avoided at all costs.