A Deal with the Bossy Devil by Kyra Parsi

21

It startedas a flickering ember in the deepest, darkest edge of my core. And as I sat there, staring blankly into the fire pit, it spread. Slowly, methodically. Until my entire soul was on raging fire and fighting to tear its way out of my body.

It had been a half-hour since Adrien had left me out on the patio after… whatever the fuck that had been. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to… I needed to…

UGH.

I stomped into the house and stormed up the stairs (but only after turning off the fire pit, the lights, locking the door, and putting the pizza away—because I was a guest in this home and not a wild animal), and then I barged right into our shared bedroom.

Adrien Cloutier, the undisputed baneof my entire fucking existence, was sitting behind his desk, casually tapping away on his phone.

He’d changed into a white T-shirt and black sweats. His hair was damp, and I could smell the soap and spice all the way from the other side of the room. How many fucking showers did the man take in one day? Why was every little thing about him so relentlessly aggravating?

The door shut behind me.

He looked up, took in my terrifyingly livid appearance, and had the audacity—the fucking gall—to smile. “Enjoyed the pizza?”

Embarrassment tore through me, clashing with the anger. He didn’t look like his soul was lit on scorching fucking fire. He didn’t look like his insides were a tangled, wobbly mess.

He’d won. Not in the timeframe we’d specified, but he’d won.

And I hated that we both knew it—that he knew it. And I really hated how cool and unbothered he seemed by the whole thing.

The air rushed out of my nostrils with so much force that it made me sound like a taunted bull. My chest was beating like an incessant war drum, propelling blood through my veins with enough force to make it sizzle. I was on fire.

None of it had been real, obviously. He’d been fucking with me the whole time. But I’d… for a second… stupidly…

UGH.

I shoved a frustrated hand through my hair and pinned him with one last devastating glower before I stormed into my designated closet, ignoring his sticky, questioning gaze.

The small room was filled with an overwhelming number of shopping bags. And because I didn’t know what else to do with myself, I snatched one off the floor, tore into it, and began anger-organizing.

Obviously, he hadn’t meant any of the things he’d said.

Obviously, it had all been for the sake of the bet.

But if the bulge he’d been sporting downstairs was any indication, he wasn’t as unaffected by the experience as he wanted me to believe. And that little sliver was all I needed.

He wanted to play this game with me? Fine.

He wanted to push all my buttons and get me all riled up? Fine.

He wanted me to wear the clothes his mother bought? Fine.

Be careful who you fuck with, Lucifer.

* * *

The Autumn Honeymoon Collection Luke had suggested consisted of fourteen full sets of silk and lace lingerie, each of which included a bra, a thong, and matching slips. (Some of them even included a garter).

The collection was incredibly beautiful—full of elegant autumn colors and intricate designs, and the material melted against my skin like butter. Too bad I was too bloodthirsty to actually appreciate any of it.

I plucked a dark green slip off the perfectly organized shelf and slid it on. It was a flimsy, delicate little thing that barely covered my ass.

It was also the most conservative piece in the collection.

I paired it with the matching lace thong and finally sauntered out of the closet. Adrien had been smart enough to leave me alone while I took my rage out on the clothes, hangers, and shelves.

The room was darker now, the space illuminated by the soft glow of a single bedside lamp, and Adrien was in the process of laying a blanket out on the floor like a makeshift mattress.

“Okay. Listen,” he started. “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken things—”

He cut himself off when he saw me, his jaw falling open. It took him ten full seconds to recover enough to ask, “What the… what is that?”

I glanced down at myself, feigning innocence. My nipples were poking right through the buttery silk.

“Pajamas,” I answered simply. Wasn’t it obvious?

“What.” He was talking to my breasts. His eyes were glued to them.

“These are the pajamas the personal shopper picked out for me. Cute, no?”

I watched with fluttery satisfaction as his demeanor changed—darkened. His gaze traveled all over me, shamelessly drinking in every inch of my body.

I crossed my arms, effectively shoving my breasts together without covering my nipples.

“You’re drooling, Cloutier.”

His eyes snapped to mine, blazing. The tips of his ears were crimson. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed.” Again, wasn’t it obvious?

“This is because of the bet? Downstairs?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifted on his feet, tension worming through his jaw. “You need to change. Right now.”

I cocked my head and pushed my lips into a little pout. “No can do. I wouldn’t want to hurt your poor mother’s feelings.”

“I’m not fucking around, Sanchez.”

“Neither am I,” I said. “You’re the one who insisted I wear the clothes your mom got me, and this is what my private shopper selected for my sleepwear. I don’t understand why you’re complaining.”

This was already so fucking gratifying.

“You really don’t want to start this game with me,” he promised. The muscles in his shoulders and neck were tensing, the veins in his forearms popping as his fists clenched, unclenched.

Still, a little smirk kept pulling at the corner of his lips; like he was somehow also enjoying this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I purred sweetly.

“Last chance to call that truce,” he practically growled. “Stop being a brat and go put on some fucking clothes. We’ll call it even and move on.”

Fuck his truce. And fuck him.

“No.”

His whole face twitched.

I floated to the bed and crawled onto the covers, allowing the slip to ride up my thighs and hips as I twisted to my side, facing him.

He didn’t even try to pretend like he wasn’t staring.

He let his eyes roam over me slowly, head to toe. Heat licked at the trail his gaze left behind, and I squirmed, my knees inching up to my stomach.

Adrien shut his eyes with a breathy curse and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re blushing,” I teased sweetly.

“Last chance, Sanchez. Take the truce.” Tension snapped through his jaw, and the heated glare he cut me then could have melted glass.

I licked my lips. “No.”

Our gazes locked, our chests rising and falling with effort. There was no oxygen left in the room. The air felt too charged, too thick to breathe in.

Adrien’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but he seemed to think better of it.

“What’s wrong?” I teased bitterly. “My pretty, plush lips got your tongue? Or do you just wish they did?”

Just because he hadn’t meant the words didn’t mean I couldn’t shove them in his face.

Though that one may have pushed it a tiny bit too far, judging by the dangerous flash of… whatever evil had just crossed his eyes. Color crawled up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. And before I could see where else it would reach, he snapped off the bedside lamp with an angry jerk of his wrist.

An onslaught of rustles and thumps followed as Adrien kicked and punched his makeshift bed into place before his body practically slammed down on it.

I smiled into the darkness and closed my eyes to the sweet, soothing sounds of Satan restlessly tossing and turning in the grave he’d dug himself.

It wasn’t until I was on the cusp of sleep that the little voice appeared, claiming that Adrien had lost the bet on purpose. That he’d waited until the timer ran out to pull out the big guns. But I slipped into sleep before it could tell my why.