Page 4 of Devour (Blood and Roses #1)

Ariel

I can feel his piercing gaze on me, like sharp knives grazing my skin before digging in. My heart is pounding so fast it feels like it’s going to jump right out of my chest at any moment. He’s not going to let me go until—

I swallow my pride and slowly slip off my blazer, fingers trembling. One by one, I undo the buttons of my shirt. This is for Noah, I remind myself. I don’t have to enjoy it. I just have to survive it. I slide the fabric off my shoulders, exposing more of myself than I ever intended.

Once he’s done with me, I’ll Walk out of here none the wiser and he’ll never see me again. My skirt follows, pooling around my heels as I step out of it. Shame clings to my skin like sweat, heavy and inescapable. But I see it just for a second before he masks it. That look.

A starving man at a feast. His eyes rake over me, hungry, possessive, and far too knowing. It makes my body heat in ways I hate, every nerve buzzing with awareness I never asked for.

My traitorous skin betrays me, flushing under his gaze, a slow burn crawling up my neck and spreading across my chest. I want to disappear. I probably look like an overripe cherry by now.

I stand before him in my matching pink bra and panties—lacy, delicate, hopeful. I bought the set last month, thinking I’d wear it on my first day at a real job.

Something to make me feel strong. Confident. But the job never came. So, I wore it today, my lucky charm. For this interview. Some luck. Who was I kidding?

“Do you need me to tear that off you?” he asks, harsh sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“I’d be happy to.”

Shame floods my face as I reach behind me, hands unsteady as they fumble with the clasp of my bra. I unhook it, sliding one strap off my shoulder, then the other, and let it fall. My nipples harden instantly, reacting to the cool air and to the intense weight of his gaze.

I tell myself it’s just the air conditioning. Just stress. Just… everything but him. I fight the instinct to cover myself, to protect the parts of me I’ve grown more self-conscious about.

Motherhood changed me. I breastfed Noah for a year. My body tells that story whether I want it to or not.

For a moment, shame creeps in… but then I lift my chin. If he doesn’t like what he sees, he can send me away. I slide my thumbs beneath the waistband of my underwear and step out of them, slow and mechanical.

My last defense falls to the floor like a final surrender. I bend to take off my heels, but his voice stops me. “Leave them on.”

The command is quiet. Absolute. The room falls into silence as his blue eyes sweep over me with slow, clinical precision. My skin feels heated, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

“Come here, kitten.”

I hesitate. For a second, I can’t move. My feet feel rooted, not just from fear but from the memory of who he used to be. Because the man standing in front of me now is nothing like the sweet boy I once knew. I take a step forward.

“Crawl.”

I freeze.

“What? Crawl? Not walk?”

His lips curl darkly at the corners as heat floods my face.

“Why?”

His voice drops.

“Because I fucking said so. And because you would look better on your knees.”

My face ignites, a thousand shades of humiliation prickling my skin. But I drop to the floor.

Each movement forward feels like I’m tearing myself apart, one fragile piece at a time. And yet, there’s a pulse between my legs, a traitorous heat that builds with every drag of my knees across the hardwood floor.

Every second I’m like this—naked, obedient—I hate how my body responds. I crawl until I’m a few feet in front of him.

“Up.”

His voice is low. Commanding.

I stand slowly to my feet. I can’t read his expression and that makes it worse. Cold mask. Blank eyes. Unforgiving. I whisper a silent prayer: Please let him be gentle. Please let him be gentle.

Even leaning on the desk, he towers over me, the top of my head barely reaches his chest. He’s nothing like the tall, skinny boy I once tutored.

He’s all power now. And I stand before him—naked, stripped down to nothing, while he still hasn’t removed a single piece of clothing. His eyes just roam over my body with that detached look, and I start to feel self-conscious again.

I’m not small by any standard, and I know I lost the baby weight long ago, one of the perks of juggling several jobs, always working, and barely eating. I guess that helped too. As if sensing my inner rambling.

He suddenly grabs my waist not gently and yanks me between his parted legs. I feel the hard press of his arousal against me, the only sign that he’s just as affected as I am.

My bare chest slams against the unforgiving planes of his suit, the sharp contact steals the air from my lungs. His hand slides up, wrapping around my neck, not choking, not tender. Just claiming.

Then he kisses me. Not a kiss. A punishment. Rough lips. Demanding. His mouth crashes onto mine like he’s angry I still haunt him. He tries to pry my lips apart. I refuse. So he bites. The sting makes me gasp, and he seizes the chance—tongue sliding deep, stealing every protest I never got to say.

The kiss is messy, dominant, unrelenting, and somewhere in the chaos, something inside me sparks. A heat coils low in my belly, shameful and sharp.

I shouldn’t want this. I hate that I do. My body trembles with every pull of his mouth, every flick of his tongue, every press of his fingers against my skin. I’m spiraling, drowning, caught between memory and reality.