Page 15 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The journey upstairs is both endless and too quick.

I can feel his heart racing where I'm pressed against him, the rapid thrum matching my own.

His cologne mingles with raw arousal, an intoxicating mix that makes my head spin.

My hands map his shoulders, his neck, tangle desperately in his hair even as my mind screams that I'm about to seal this devil's bargain with my body.

He shoulders open his bedroom door, and the space is dimmer than I remember. Evening light filters through heavy curtains, painting everything in shades of molten gold and shadow. The bed dominates the room—massive, four-posted, made for sin.

Made for deals sealed in flesh , my mind supplies helpfully. Made for women who trade their bodies for safety.

He sets me on my feet beside it but doesn't let go. His hands stay on my waist, thumbs tracing maddening circles through silk that make heat pool low in my belly. Each small movement sends sparks through the fabric, straight to my core.

"Last chance," he says, but it's different now. Less noble, more predatory. The wolf has finally decided to devour the lamb. His voice has gone rough, gravelly with want. "Sure about our deal?"

Instead of answering, I reach for the zipper of my dress. His hand catches mine, fingers wrapping around my wrist with controlled strength.

"My job," he says roughly, the possessiveness in his voice making me shiver. “Save that eagerness for what comes next.”

The zipper slides down with agonizing slowness.

The dress loosens, cool air kissing newly exposed skin like a lover's breath.

His knuckles brush my spine as he works, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Each vertebra he traces makes me arch slightly, seeking more contact.

The dress pools at my feet in a whisper of silk, and I stand before him in lingerie carefully chosen for this moment.

Black lace. Delicate. Expensive.

His intake of breath is sharp, almost pained. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide with desire as they rake over me with tangible heat.

"Fuck me," he breathes, reverent and wrecked. "You're..."

"What?" I step out of the dress, moving closer with deliberate slowness. His hands flex like he's fighting not to grab, not to take, not to claim. "What am I, Dante?"

"Perfect." The word comes out rough, torn from somewhere deep. "Exactly what I've been dreaming about. Every fucking night since I won you."

"All yours now," I whisper. "As agreed."

Then his hands are on me, and coherent thought fractures into sensation.

He maps my body like he's claiming new territory, palms sliding over lace and skin with a possessive hunger that makes me gasp.

His hands are hot, almost burning, leaving invisible marks of ownership everywhere they touch.

I work at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers, desperate to feel skin against skin, needing to lose myself in passion before reality crushes me.

When his shirt finally falls away, I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. His torso is chiselled to perfection—perfection scarred by a lifetime of violence survived. Tattoos undercut by scars, muscles marked with a beastly strength. The sight evokes a primal hunger within me.

"You’re evil," I murmur, meaning it. How could he be so cruel, to make me crave him so badly after all he’s done, after all I’ve been through?

My fingers trace a particularly vicious scar across his ribs, feeling the raised tissue, the history of pain. He shudders under my touch, muscles jumping.

“I’ll show you how good evil can feel.”

He kisses me then, deep and claiming, like he's trying to devour me whole.

His tongue slides against mine with practiced skill that makes my knees weak.

His hands tangle in my hair, tilt my head to the angle he wants, controlling even this.

I let him take what our deal has given him, while I take what I've bought with my submission.

This is what you are now , that voice in my head reminds me. Trading pleasure for protection . But why does it feel so good?

When he lays me back on the bed, I go willingly, eagerly even.

The sheets are cool against my overheated skin, soft as sin, and expensive enough to leave me wondering how many women have been here before me.

He follows me down, covering me with his weight, and the sensation of being surrounded, claimed, and owned makes me arch beneath him with shameless need.

His mouth traces a burning path down my throat, teeth scraping hard enough to leave marks that will purple by morning. His tongue soothes each bite, tasting my pulse, my surrender. Tomorrow I'll wear his claim on my skin, visible proof of our arrangement, of what I've become for him.

"You taste incredible," he growls against my throat. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."

My hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift and flex as he moves lower with torturous slowness.

When he finds that spot where my neck meets my shoulder—that secret place that makes me lose my mind—he bites down gently.

The edge of pain mixed with pleasure makes everything sharper, brighter.

I forget for a moment that this is a transaction.

You're enjoying being his whore , my mind supplies traitorously. Loving every second of selling yourself.

And God help me, I am. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist to feel him pressed against me through the remaining barriers.

Sal was never this eager to please me. Not in this way or any.

"Please," I beg, and I don't even know what I'm pleading for. More? Less? Redemption for how much I want this?

His hands slide under me, unhooking black lace with practiced ease that speaks of experience I don't want to think about. When his mouth follows the path of removal, I can't hold back the noises that escape—desperate, needy things that would embarrass me if I could think past the pleasure.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin, breath hot and teasing. "So perfect. Listen to those sounds you make."

His tongue traces patterns on newly exposed skin, and I'm liquid fire beneath him. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him close, wordlessly begging for more even as my mind catalogs this as another step in my transaction. Another piece of myself traded away.

The rest of our clothes disappear in a fumble of desperate hands and broken breathing. When skin finally meets skin fully, we both pause, overwhelmed. He's fever-hot against me, all hard planes and controlled power that makes me feel small, claimed, protected.

"Remember our deal," he murmurs against my throat, lips brushing the marks he's already left. "You're mine now. Every inch of you."

"I know what I agreed to." I arch up, seeking more, and he groans—a broken, desperate sound that makes me feel powerful even in my submission.

When he finally joins with me, it's with complete control. Slow, careful, watching my face like he's memorizing every micro-expression, every flutter of my lashes, every parted-lip gasp. There's no discomfort—just the feeling of being filled and completed. Claimed in exactly the way I agreed to.

"Fuck," he breathes, and his control cracks slightly. "You feel... Christ, you feel incredible."

My nails dig into his shoulders as he starts to move, leaving crescent marks in his skin.

The rhythm he sets is deliberate, designed to drive me insane with slow, deep movements that hit places inside me I didn't know existed.

Each thrust is calculated to build pleasure gradually, steadily, until I'm gasping his name like a prayer.

"Mine," he growls against my neck, and I shudder at the possessiveness, at how much I want to be owned by him.

"Yours," I agree, the word torn from me by sensation and something deeper. "All yours."

His pace increases slightly, and the new angle makes me see stars.

The sounds filling the room are primal—skin against skin, ragged breathing, my name falling from his lips in worship.

His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, angle me just right, and the coil of pleasure winds tighter, tighter?—

"Let go," he commands against my ear. "Let me see you fall apart. Show me what I paid for."

The crude reminder of our transaction should offend me. Instead, it sends me over the edge. When I shatter, it's with his name on my lips and the knowledge that I've never felt anything like this. He follows me over, face buried in my neck as he marks me from the inside out.

And then it’s over. Sealed. His broken promise fulfilled.

After, we lie tangled and wrecked, both breathing hard. His arm bands around my waist possessively, like I might try to escape now that the deal is consummated. My head rests on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow while my mind processes what just happened.

"Fuck, you really are perfect," he says, voice rough. His arousal stirs against me again, wanting more.

The satisfaction in his voice sparks a dark need within me. "There's something else I want."

"Already negotiating?" His hand is traces patterns on my skin, fingertips raising goosebumps, clearly interested in whatever I might offer next.

"I want you to destroy him." The words come out fierce, passionate, driven by something primal. "Sal. I want him ruined. Not just hurt—destroyed. His business, his reputation, everything."

His hand stills on my skin. "That's quite a request."

"It's not a request." I shift to look at him, let him see the fire burning in my eyes, the rage that our coupling hasn't extinguished. "It's part of our deal. You protect me from threats. He's the biggest one."

"Killing him would be simpler."

"Death is too easy. I want him to suffer like I suffered. I want him to lose everything, piece by piece, until he's nothing. Until he knows how it feels to be powerless."

A dark appreciation flashes in his eyes, making them gleam like a predator's. "My vicious little thing."

"Your protected investment," I correct, though his words make heat pool in my belly again. "Who wants her ex-husband destroyed. Will you do it?"

"Yes." No hesitation. The certainty in his voice makes me shiver. "I'll tear him apart for you. Piece by fucking piece."

"Good." I settle back against his chest, satisfied, feeling his heart beat strongly beneath my ear.

We lie in comfortable silence for a while, bodies cooling, breathing syncing. The room smells like sex, promises, and danger. Then he shifts and pulls me closer, his hand sliding down my spine with intent.

"It would be simpler to kill him," he says again, his touch reigniting the fire in my blood.

"Since when do you do simple?"

He laughs, dark and knowing. "Fair point."

This time when he rolls me beneath him, it's slower, more thorough.

He takes his time relearning my body with devastating precision, finding every spot that makes me gasp, arch, beg.

His mouth follows his hands, tasting every inch of skin like he's memorizing me.

I give as good as I get, caressing his scars with lips and teeth and tongue until he's the one gasping, the control finally cracking.

When he's inside me again, I set the pace, rolling my hips in a rhythm that makes us both groan. I take over in ways I never could before, never thought I'd want. He lets me, watching me with dark eyes full of hunger and something deeper, more dangerous than lust.

His hands slide up my torso, claiming, possessing. His thumbs brush the sensitive peaks, and I cry out. I falter, rhythm stuttering. He sits up suddenly and pulls me closer, until we're chest to chest, sharing breath, sharing heat. The new angle makes me see stars, makes me sob his name.

"That's it," he murmurs against my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. "Take what you need. Take everything."

What I need is to survive. What I'm taking is pleasure in a deal that ensures my safety. The two aren't mutually exclusive. If I'm going to be a whore, I'll be the best one he's ever had.

This time, when we collapse, neither of us can move. We lie in the gathering darkness, sweat cooling on our skin. Our bodies hum with aftershocks that make us both shiver when we shift against each other.

"No regrets?" he asks eventually, pressing kisses to my temple that feel too tender for what we are.

"About our deal?" I ask, considering his words and noting how I’m pleasantly sore in all the right places. "Ask me when you've destroyed Sal."

"Already thinking about payment."

"And I honor my deals," I murmur, already drifting toward sleep, exhausted from pleasure.

"Don't blame me if you catch feelings," he says suddenly with a vulnerability I can't quite read. "These arrangements have a way of getting... complicated."

"I won't." The promise comes out steady, certain, even as my heart flutters in my chest. "This is business. Protection for submission. Nothing more."

"If you say so."

But even as I make the promise, I know it's a lie. I know it in the way my body responds to his. How it craves his touch. How I felt when he agreed to destroy Sal without hesitation. How I'm already imagining tomorrow night, and the night after—none of that is just business.

Maybe the "deal" is what I need to tell myself. A framework to make this toxic dynamic between us feel like a choice instead of Stockholm syndrome. A way to pretend I'm in control when, in reality, I'm falling for my captor, exactly as his romance novels predicted.

You're a whore who's falling for her client , my mind whispers. The oldest story in the world.

But I don't want to think about that. Don't want to examine why I feel safer in his arms than I ever did with Sal. Don't want to admit that maybe I'm developing feelings for a man who won me in a game of poker.

Tomorrow I'll think about it. Tomorrow I'll figure out what this really is.

Tonight, I'll just pretend it's simple. A deal. Protection for submission. Nothing more, nothing less.

And when I wake in the small hours to find him watching me with hungry eyes, when his hands start moving again with intent that makes me instantly wet, when he rolls me beneath him and I gasp with shameless want?—

Don't stop.

Because deals with devils are binding, even when they're built on lies we tell ourselves. And God help me, I never want him to stop.