by Charles, Eva
Decadent
The Devil’s Due
Eva Charles
Quarry Road Publishing
Copyright © 2020 by Eva Charles
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without express written permission from the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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To Chris, who makes my life easier, because she makes his easier. You have my eternal gratitude.
What is moral is what you feel good after, and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.
Ernest Hemingway
Contents
1. Delilah
2. Delilah
3. Delilah
4. Delilah
5. Delilah
6. Delilah
7. Gray
8. Gray
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
9. Delilah
PRESENT DAY
10. Gray
11. Gray
12. Delilah
13. Gray
14. Gray
15. Delilah
16. Delilah
17. Gray
18. Delilah
19. Delilah
20. Gray
21. Delilah
22. Delilah
23. Delilah
24. Delilah
25. Gray
26. Delilah
27. Delilah
28. Gray
29. Delilah
30. Delilah
31. Delilah
32. Delilah
33. Gray
34. Delilah
35. Gray
36. Delilah
37. Delilah
38. Delilah
39. Delilah
40. Delilah
41. Gray
42. Delilah
43. Delilah
44. Delilah
45. Delilah
46. Gray
47. Delilah
48. Gray
TWELVE WEEKS LATER
Epilogue
Afterthoughts
Acknowledgments
About Eva
More Books In The Devil’s Due series by Eva Charles
1
Delilah
When I’m outside the gates of the archbishop’s lavish home, I pull off the mask and snake my way through a series of barren alleys to the rental car, careful to stay in the shadows. I’ve made this kind of getaway dozens of times, and used every precaution to ensure I wasn’t followed tonight.
Then why does it feel like I’m being stalked?
I glance over my shoulder. Nothing—not a nocturnal hunter tracking a meal, or a leaf rustling in the distance. Nothing. Still, I can’t shake the feeling.
I don’t know what’s spooking me. Probably that bastard priest who thought he was Jesus Christ.
This is the second time in a week that I’ve sensed someone close. The last time, Virginia Bennet’s ankle was shattered by a bullet inside St. Maggie’s Church. We still don’t know who fired on her, only that the shot came from the balcony, near where I was positioned. Someone had gotten close to me that night. Too close.
As I reach for the car door handle, a large, gloved hand muzzles me, with a strong thumb positioned beneath my jaw in such a way that I’m unable to sink my teeth into the leather palm covering my mouth. A second hand captures my wrists, while powerful thighs cage my legs. Before my brain fully registers the danger, the muscular body has me pinned securely against the car door.
In mere seconds—that’s all it takes—the attacker divests me of every tool I have to protect myself. He’s a trained professional. He has to be.
I draw a deep breath, as reality sinks in. There’s no escape.
No escape.
No escape.
No escape.
The warning blasts inside my head, activating the floodgates until the adrenaline rushes in, triggering every human survival instinct my body knows. Fortunately, years of CIA training fall front and center. Leaning on those lessons is my best chance for survival, but only if I keep my wits about me.
I curl my toes, digging them into the soles of my shoes, pressing hard enough that I can almost feel the hard ground beneath me. The connection is enough to shift my focus.
There’s no immediate escape, but I need to let it play out a little. I need to wait for the opportunity to present itself. He wants something. Otherwise, he would have already slit my throat.
“Who are you?” I sputter through clenched teeth.
The man says nothing, letting my anxiety build.
Can he sense the growing fear? Smell terror seeping from my pores?
I regulate my breathing, and concentrate on detecting a scent or a tic, anything that might help me identify this stranger.
But there’s nothing. Not a single thing to clue me in to his identity.
I’m at his mercy, and the longer this goes on, the more control he has over me. But there’s not a damn thing I can do to help myself. You can keep your head and find some patience. Yes. That I can do.
While I wait for the stranger to reveal himself, I peer into the pitch-black night, at nothing.
The air around us is still, thick enough to choke a horse. And the only sound is the high-pitched call of the cicada, escalating the drama inside my head.
Will the assailant deliver his response with razor-sharp words or with a brutal physical act? I brace for the latter with the laser focus only adrenaline provides.
If he moves to strike me, I’ll be able to free myself—as long as I don’t hesitate. I can’t squander the opportunity. It might be the only one I have.
Somewhere I find the discipline to remain quiet. It might be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But when I asked who are you?, the ball moved squarely into his court. Anything I say now will only be a show of weakness.
Finally, after what feels like hours, he lowers his head, his warm breath an inch from my temple, and the ridge of his steely cock pressing into my lower back. “More than just a pretty boy,” he taunts.
2
Delilah
Gray Wilder. Using my own words to mock me.
I’d know his voice anywhere. It haunts my dreams. Day and night.
It’s always Gray. Always.
His clever fingers teasing my needy flesh. His lazy drawl coaxing me to come again and again. Demanding it. And before the tremors subside, it’s his spicy scent that lulls me into a restless sleep, stirring a primal need to submit that I haven’t felt since Kyle died.
Gray Wilder is dangerous.
Never more so than now.
“Let go of me,” I mumble into the supple leather stretched across his palm.
“In good time. I’m enjoying this too much. You, helpless. Mostly silenced. My hard cock near enough so you can think of nothing else, but not close enough to where you want it. It’s like Christmas Eve at Wildflower, all over again.” He lowers his head, until I feel his warm breath on my scalp. “I hope you’ve been a good girl. Otherwise Santa will
leave you wet and wanting.”
The memories come flooding back.
“Remember?” he murmurs, his lips grazing my hair.
When I don’t make any effort to answer, he squeezes my thighs between his, tightening the vise little by little, until all I know is the ache in my core. “Remember?”
“Yes,” I concede in a muddled response. It’s enough to satisfy his arrogance, but not enough to bow fully to him.
“The opulent Sultan’s Palace. You, bound to the bedposts with long silk cords. Open to me. A jewel in your navel and another in that pretty little ass. Do you remember how you whimpered when I tightened the jewels on your nipples? Do you remember how much you begged?”
I don’t utter a sound.
“What were you beggin’ for, Delilah?” His voice is low, wrapped in a luscious timbre as he cajoles an answer from me.
But tonight, unlike Christmas Eve, I don’t acquiesce easily. If he wants something from me, he’s going to have to take it.
As if he reads my mind, his teeth sink into my neck, into the very spot he knows will make my knees weak.
“Ahhh.” The lusty moan escapes into the humid night before I can stop it. Damn you, Gray Wilder.
“I can’t hear you,” he taunts, with the ring of victory in his voice. He loosens his hold on my jaw. Why not? He knows he’s won. “What were you beggin’ for that night?”
I’m not afraid of Gray. Not physically. But I do want him to let me go. And I want to know how he managed to overpower me so easily. He’s a billionaire playboy, and I’m a trained agent—a lethal one. It’s no contest.
Then why can’t I move?
“Release,” I hiss into his leather-clad fingers. The asshole loosens his grip so I can speak audibly, but not enough that I can weaponize my teeth. It’s the only reason he still has all his fingers.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Delilah,” he purrs. “What were you beggin’ for?”
I’m going to knee the bastard in the balls the second I’m free. “An orgasm.”
“Better. But not good enough.” He sinks his teeth into me again. Biting and sucking the tendon in a way that’s sure to leave a bruise—in a way that sends shivers skittering in every direction. Dammit. There’s no way to hide my body’s reaction from him.
The slow curl of his mouth singes my skin. Bastard. I squeeze my eyes shut.
There’s no response too small for him to miss. I learned that lesson on Christmas. At the time, it felt like a gift. But now, I imagine a smug, self-satisfied smirk. The same look he had right before we left Wildflower late Christmas morning—when he told me I’d be thinking about his cock all day—every time I walked, or bent over, or sat down, or relieved myself. The muscles will scream, he murmured, while we waited for the elevator, his forehead resting against mine, and every time they do, you’ll remember how I owned your pussy. And you’ll long for me to own it again.
The bastard was right. The exquisite ache lingered for days. First as a stark reminder of the hedonistic pleasure, then as a craving, eating at me until I fed it. But no matter how much I gorged, neither my fingers nor my favorite toy ever satisfied the urge completely. And no matter how hard I tried to forget, I saw him everywhere, in everything. It scared me to death. Sometimes it still scares me.
Pull up your big-girl panties and swallow your pride, Delilah. He owns you right now. You can still get your licks in, but not until you’re free. I never swallow my pride easily. I’m not that kind of woman, but there’s no damn choice.
“I begged for your cock.” Something I’ll never do again, asshole.
“Mmhm. That’s how I remember it too. You writhing, back arched off the mattress, your juices soaking the silk sheets. The musky scent saturating every molecule of air I breathed.” He licks the bruised tendon, before blowing on it gently. I shiver at the sensation. “But your helpless screams thrumming in my veins—that’s what made my cock weep.”
I wish I could say his filthy talk isn’t affecting me. That my breasts aren’t growing heavy, that my nipples aren’t tightening and tingling, sending steamy messages directly to my throbbing pussy. I wish I could say that I don’t want his cock. That I don’t want him. But I can’t say any of it.
“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about that night? How many women I’ve fucked in that room, trying to replace the memory of your tight little pussy? How many times I’ve pushed away images of your submissive body, spread in glorious offering under the sheer canopy that enclosed us in our own dirty little world? Do you know how many times I’ve come thinking about that night? Do you?”
I can’t let him pull me back into the fantasy. Not here. Not now. Not ever. I draw a long breath in an effort to slow my pounding heart.
My muscles are beginning to cramp from being immobilized, but I don’t ask him to release me. He won’t until he’s good and ready, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of telling me no.
What does he want? I don’t have a damn clue. But I do know all about the Sultan’s Palace on Christmas Eve. I knew then he would destroy me if I allowed it.
Without a word, Gray removes his hand from my mouth, freeing it completely. I open and close my jaw a few times, wiggling it from side to side before speaking. “How did you—”
The hand that had been over my mouth is now tangled in the hair at the base of my neck, pulling on the long strands hard enough to tip my head back. “Shhh!” he hisses. “You’re going to listen, not talk, for a change. This is the address where I’m staying tonight.” He slips something deep into my front pocket. His long fingers linger at the edge of my mound while he speaks. “I have a job for you. Go directly to that address when you leave here and we’ll talk.”
What? “You have a job for me?” What the hell is wrong with this man? “Most people just text or email when they want something.” I feel his cock twitch against me. “I’m not having sex with you. If that’s the kind of job you’re talkin’ about, you can forget it.”
He tugs my hair harder. “You are done giving orders.”
“That remains to be seen. But regardless, I’m still not having sex with you.”
“I advise you to do as I say. Otherwise, this goes to the authorities.” He holds his phone up so I can see the screen. It’s a photo of me hovering over the archbishop’s lifeless body.
My pulse hammers as I struggle to breathe. “You—you wouldn’t do that—to me.”
“Try me,” he threatens in a tone that bears the shrill ring of finality. With nothing more, Gray releases me and walks away.
When it seems safe, I turn my head cautiously, catching his long familiar stride in the distance. He’s so certain I pose no danger, he doesn’t spare me even a fleeting glance over his shoulder. It’s arrogant and foolish, but the confidence it exudes is heart-stopping.
For several seconds, I watch him, taking note of the sharp lines and creases. His proud gait. His hair, which he’s let grow, secured in a knot at the nape of his neck. His broad back tapering gently as it approaches narrow hips. His dark shirt stretched across his shoulders, yielding to the muscle. The same muscle I clutched and buried my fingers in as he carried me to the steamy shower and took me hard against the imported stone.
It was early Christmas morning. We hadn’t yet slept. His unshaven face was covered in translucent droplets. A mixture of condensation and sweat shimmered under the soft light. I craned my neck and lapped the salty beads from his skin like a thirsty whore, while he rutted deeply. He had already used me well, but still, he showed no mercy.
Stop it, Delilah! Pull yourself together, woman.
I force myself into the car and lock the doors. But when I close my eyes to clear the cobwebs, all I see is the force of his release. His slack jaw. His shuttered eyelids. His face contorted as though the surrender cost him deeply. As though pain had clawed its way into the bliss, until it pried a strangled roar from somewhere deep within.
I bang my forehead on the steering wheel, cursing soft
ly.
When I open my eyes, Gray has disappeared into the moonless night, like an apparition that visits while we sleep. But he exists. Everything about those fevered hours we spent together was real. And late at night, alone in my bed, I still hear the echoes of his pleasure off the Italian marble.
My fingertips find the place on my neck where he marked me. Despite his little show of strength tonight, I’m still not afraid of him. Not in the traditional sense of the word. But I am terrified of my feelings. Feelings I developed while working at Wildflower. Feelings that found me submitting to his every whim, after too much brandy milk punch and too many warm and fuzzy emotions. The magic of Christmas can lure a woman astray. Even a woman like me.
But not tonight, Satan.
I lift my chin. I’m not going to his damn hotel room. No matter how curious I am about the job, and about how he subdued me so easily. No matter how much I want…no, Delilah. Just no.
Was it Gray in the church? Did he fire on Virginia? I grip the wheel tighter. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to that hotel.
He went to a lot of trouble to take that picture of me with the archbishop, but he’s not sending it to anyone, because once he does, it’s of no value to him. And he wants something. It might not be help with a job, but he wants something from me.