Page 1 of Devoted (Love and Burlesque #2)

CHAPTER ONE

KNIGHT

This is the fifth pair of pants I’ve ruined this week.

Present Day: Early October

O ne month ago, I was on my knees before her , my eyes unable to tear away from the beauty above me. At that moment, I embodied a knight in legends of yore, kneeling at the feet of his queen in unquestionable devotion.

In this moment, I am kneeling four inches deep in the mud outside her bedroom window.

Then: Early September - Gala at the Adler Estate

I should have known karma would come for me.

Fingering at the fresh tear in my dinner jacket, I stalk down the hall toward my bedroom in quiet annoyance.

The grandeur of my home with its dark wood, rich colors, and moody atmosphere might unnerve some, but the darkness has always been a sanctuary for my soul.

Not a minute after I sent my cousin Ezekiel on a phony mission to the kitchen, I ran into a bare hook meant to hold some decoration or another and tore a hole straight through the shoulder of my suit. I’m annoyed because the jacket is replaceable, but my time isn’t.

I wasn’t supposed to lead this gala. In fact, I was debating even attending the event this year.

But my mother, Harriett, the supposed head of the gala, had an incident .

If you can call a voluntary chemical face peel an incident, although I’m sure reddening her face to that extent wasn’t her intention.

And so, a few days’ notice was all I received to lead the event myself.

Only by the skin of my teeth was I able to transfer everything to my home rather than hers in time for today.

I am not so unaware that I haven’t noticed how curt I’ve been with people this past week.

This whole ordeal, on top of my normal responsibilities for my company, has left me feeling like a shell of a man, but I couldn’t have a cancellation when so many depended on the funds raised tonight.

And certainly not for an organization that hits so close to home.

My thoughts trail once I turn the corner leading to my private quarters. In the dim light of the hallway, honey-gold hair and deep red lipstick are still somehow illuminated on the person admiring the art by my bedroom entry.

Vivian.

The new costume designer at The Garden of Eden stands with her weight shifted on one leg, casually observing the nouveau collection that decorates my personal space.

I freeze in position as my observation of her becomes anything but casual.

My eyes first fell upon her a few days ago as she commanded a room of half-naked men, all at least twice her size, like she was guiding ducklings to a pond.

I didn’t know who she was then, but I was stunned by her beauty and prowess nonetheless.

On that fateful day, it had been months since I had last visited my burlesque club.

Evelyn, my general manager, along with my longtime friend and cofounder of The Garden of Eden, Alek, have had everything under control.

I only stopped by the establishment last week to seek Alek’s help with today’s gala.

A smirk pulls at my lips, thinking of my earlier prank on Alek. I’m sure he and Ezekiel are barking each other’s heads off in the kitchen at this very moment.

Refocusing, I note how Vivian sketches away in a small notebook as her eyes bounce from her drawing to the painting. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I step closer to see what she is drawing. I tower over the younger woman, hardly needing to change my vantage point to peer over her shoulder.

In her drawing, a floor-length gown sits on a faceless model, the pattern of the dress following the organic lines of the painting. There is minimal shading, letting the strong lines of the pattern speak for themselves.

“Do you gotta go around poking into people’s personal space all the time?” Vivian asks, tone indignant as she continues the long strokes of her pencil with such intense focus, not minding at all the person shadowing her.

“Ironic, seeing as you’re in my personal space, taking inspiration from my paintings.”

At the sound of my voice, she peers over her shoulder and cranes her neck to look at me. While there is still a respectable distance between us, my breath catches in my throat when her wide hazel eyes meet mine.

“Oh,” she begins, her tone softer now. “I’m sorry, I thought you were my brother.”

The curved corners of her lips still hold something wicked, even when she apologizes.

Turning on her heel, she faces me directly and continues, “ I didn’t mean to wander around your house, but I think”—Vivian pauses, raising an accusatory eyebrow—“ you were deliberately sneaking a look at my drawing.”

She goads me.

“It’s impossible to resist looking at such beauty,” I mutter without hesitation. Whether my statement was directed at her or her drawing, I wouldn’t be able to say, but it irks me how easily she pulls my thoughts from me.

Vivian tugs her notebook to her chest as she takes a slow step toward me. Her coy smile holds an edge of danger as she locks her stare with mine.

“Careful, Knight. Someone might walk by and think you’re flirting with me when you say stuff like that.” She licks her bottom lip, and I stare as the color stays perfectly intact. My fingers twitch from the urge to see if that lipstick stays on through my touch.

The intensity of my thoughts surprises me. I suspect the same color rouge might be crawling up my neck from how Vivian is making me feel.

This woman will be the end of me.

Before I have a chance to reply, her gaze shifts to the ripped fabric of my sleeve. Her hazel eyes narrow, and she almost looks offended by the tear.

“Your jacket looks like shit,” she comments, and now I’m the one narrowing my eyes at her.

“A bold statement for someone who is wearing a flannel.” I cross my arms and use my height to stare her down.

“Yeah, well, I was kind of dragged here last minute to help with your event, so I’m going to be comfy in my flannel , thank you,” she comments as she starts to dig around in her fanny pack.

“Here, let me patch you up.” Suddenly, there’s a sewing kit in her hands, and she is looking up at me with anticipation on her features.

“You’ve got an image to uphold and all that. ” She shrugs.

Should I tell her how I was about to change into a completely different jacket?

Part of me leans toward stopping her and ending this conversation now. Not only is she an employee, she’s also Alek’s little sister. A louder, unreasonable part of me screams no . My deviant mind has become obsessed with the thought of her hands on me and her curvaceous body so close to mine.

“I would appreciate that.” Propriety be damned. This might be the only instance I have to give in to the inexplicable pull I feel toward her. My curiosity beats all the other voices running in my mind.

I need to be near her.

“My bedroom’s right this way.” Clearing my throat, I brush past her and close the short distance to the door. My movements are choppy as I unlock the door and hold it open for her, hoping she doesn’t notice the twitching of my hands.

Vivian tucks her sewing kit into her open fanny pack and wears an easy smile as she strides in, her eyes hungrily taking in the decor of my bedroom as she crosses the threshold.

I must be losing my fucking mind.

How long has it been since someone other than myself or the staff entered the most intimate space in my house? And I didn’t second-guess inviting Vivian in here. Why?

My current affliction is walking around the small sitting area opposite the bed.

I watch as Vivian traces the delicate lines carved into the fireplace mantel.

Elegant fingers tipped with the most captivating combination of fiery red and pitch-black take in every inch of my design.

The intimate touch and the admiration of my work make my stomach flutter in a foreign way.

“This place is gorgeous,” Vivian whispers with a soft reverence in her tone. I watch as she retrieves her hand from the mantel and begins to make her way back toward me. “Shoot, sorry. I got carried away. I shouldn’t be touching your stuff like that.”

“Art should be admired,” I reply, but it feels like I’m speaking to myself. All my art has been hidden away from anyone’s eyes but mine for so long.

“Agreed. Now, let me admire that jacket of yours.” Her bright smile is back on her face just as she stands in front of me, wedging me between her body and the entry. Her fingers travel to her oversize flannel, and she begins unbuttoning the eyesore.

“On your knees.”

My body freezes, but my blood heats. Surely, I misheard her. And surely, my guttural reaction to follow her order without question was a fluke.

She raises an eyebrow at me, as if she has any right to be the confused one here.

“You’re too tall. I can’t reach the tear when you’re up there, Knight,” she explains as she strips off her flannel, revealing a black tank top underneath. My eyes can’t decide whether they want to look at the tanned skin of her shoulders or the floor where she is commanding me to go.

“Here,” Vivian sighs, setting down her shirt on the floor space between us. “So you won’t get those designer pants dirty.”

She has got to be fucking with me.

My mind has got to be fucking with me.

Why do I feel so desperate to obey her?

“Knight, on your knees.” Vivian gestures to the floor with an open palm, but this time, her tone is more assertive.

Taking in a quick breath, I sink to my knees before I can think better of it. The change in view is as sudden as it is alarming. Vivian stands in front of me, my face naturally in line with her chest, but my eyes strain upward to meet her gaze.

She digs around for her sewing supplies, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room.

Perhaps I’m the only one feeling it, and I’m erupting with frustration.

How dare she take over my every thought this way?

Here I am, imagining all the ways I can draw pleasure from her in this position, and she seems completely unaffected.

Even with the feelings of displeasure simmering within me, I find that my skin crawls with the anticipation of her next order.

And not even the silly fanny pack she wears around her waist is deterring enough to override my arousal in the moment.

I thank whatever deity is listening for the rip being on my jacket and not my trousers.

I’m not sure even draping her oversize flannel on my lap would be enough to hide the strain building in my pants.

“I can stitch it up for the gala, but you’ll want to get it to a tailor for a full repair. I can fix it up at the club if you want to hop by sometime.” Her eyes are nearly crossed from the strain of threading her needle, and it evokes a smirk from me. She’s cute.

But it only lasts a moment.

There’s nothing cute about the way Vivian prowls toward me, needle and thread in hand, with a gaze so intensely focused on her target—me. I feel trapped beneath her, and she hasn’t touched me yet.

“I’m going to need to slide my hand under the shoulder of your jacket. You okay with that?” she asks.

God, please touch me , I think and, thankfully, do not mutter.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I reply instead, trying to keep my voice level.

As cliché as it might sound, a literal spark of something hits me when her fingers skim over the base of my neck before sliding along my clothed shoulder to the ripped seam of my jacket.

She hums a tune as she sews, one I’m not able to place, since my mind is warring between wanting to feel the flesh of her thighs underneath my fingertips and keeping my hands to myself.

Her black skirt—flowy and beautiful—sits midthigh on her legs, making my imagination all too close to reality.

The temptation of having her body so close to me is making me sweat.

Clasping my hands together behind my back is the only way I can ensure I’m not doing something tremendously stupid.

I’m well aware I could either accidentally, or rightfully so, be stabbed with her needle if I were to give in to my craving.

Not to mention, Vivian is my employee and at least fifteen years younger than me.

I cannot be thinking of her like this.

“All right, I’ve put you back together,” she comments. “Just gotta get this cut off.”

I flinch, surprised as she bends at the waist, carefully setting the thread between her lips, and proceeds to bite the extra material off me.

While I’m not proud of it, I take advantage of her proximity and breathe in her alluring scent. My eyes flutter closed, and my moan is only barely suppressed as I take in the deep, velvety florals of her perfume. I want her scent to spread around me, on me, in me at all times.

“Done!” Vivian cheers, pulling me from my depravity.

My eyes are trained on my mended jacket, as I’m too much of a coward to meet her gaze when I was just having indecent thoughts about her.

“It looks wonderful. I’m sure it will hold up fine. Thank you, Vivian.” I speak the words into my shoulder, my eyes only daring to take her in from my periphery.

“Yeah, no problem, Knight,” Vivian comments and brushes her golden hair from where it fell across her forehead. I wonder how she would have reacted if it were my fingers brushing her beautiful hair back.

“Well, I’ve gotta help Alek expedite the food,” Vivian continues. A friendly smile lights her face, a complete contrast to the rather unfriendly thoughts I’ve been having about her.

Finally finding the courage to meet her gaze, I watch her put away her sewing supplies and zip up her fanny pack. When she finishes, she looks down at me as she runs her finger along my shoulder in one final inspection. Her little content hum tells me she’s pleased with her work.

I want that noise for myself. I want her to be pleased with me and to look at me that way, not some fucking jacket.

“Looking good, handsome,” are Vivian’s words of goodbye.

The two pats of her delicate hand against my cheek are how she marks me.

And the flannel she left beneath my knees is how she claims me.