Page 115 of Handsome Devil

Thrust.

“So mine.”

Thrust.

Heat eddied behind my navel. I twisted and writhed, my lips chasing the sharp planes of his face. I kissed him everywhere. His nose. His cheeks. His throat. And before I knew it, words fell out of my mouth, surprising to my own ears.

“I’ve always wanted you.” I bowed, my full, sensitive breasts pressing against his muscular pecs. “I’ve wanted you since I walked into Baron Spencer’s office for an interview and saw you, terrifying and gorgeous, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. And when you reached out…”

Thrust.

Grunt.

Moan.

“Tell me,” he urged.

“When you hired me, I thought I’d combust on the spot. I’d never planned to stay in America for this long. A part of me had always foolishly hoped I could get you to like me. That if I wassmart enough and brilliant enough and reliable enough, I’d…I don’t know, win you over.”

“There was no game for you to win.” He hit my G-spot, brow furrowed in concentration, his sweat dripping from the tip of his hair into my face. “I took one look at you and knew I was going to bond my destiny with yours, even if it was the last thing I did in this life.”

We both came at the same time, holding each other anchored as the storm ripped through our bodies. Panting hard, sweaty, naked, and petrifyingly close. When he tried to pry himself out of my arms, I clung to him harder, refusing to let him leave.

“Stay,” I yelped. He was still inside me. “Spend the night.”

I wasn’t so silly as to hope he’d let me sleep in his bed. But surely, we could share mine?

We went to sleep wrapped in each other that night.

And in the arms of the most dangerous man in the world, I finally felt safe.

I woke up some hours later with a full bladder and a dull ache between my legs.

My bed was empty, my sheets cold in the pitch-black room. I daftly patted my surroundings, hoping to find my husband splayed next to mine, to no avail.

I was alone.

Padding barefoot to the toilet, I peed, washed my hands, then returned to my bed. The clock showed three thirty, but I knew sleep wouldn’t come.

After slipping my nightie back on, I wormed out of my room, deciding to explore the flat I now called my own.

I weaved through unlit rooms, taking note of everything. I noticed the room at the end of the vast hallway—Tate’s bedroom—had its door open and the lights off. I peered inside. It was empty.

Where did he go?

My pulse pitter-pattered against my breastbone. I moved across the hallway, feeling like an intruder, until I reached his office door. It was slightly ajar, with light pouring from the tiny crack. Fear coated my bones like tar. Sticky and dark. I wasn’t even sure why.

I peered through the gap, and what I saw behind it made my breath hitch.

Tate paced around the room like a captive animal, onyx hair tousled, wearing only his joggers. Everything—textbooks, furniture, bookshelves,walls—was covered in mathematical equations scribbled in Sharpie. Barely an inch of wall remained not yet covered in numbers.

Tate stopped in the middle of the room. I swallowed a yelp of surprise, wondering if he’d noticed me. Turning his back to me, he hurried to a tiny, blank spot on the wall and jotted another equation, muttering agitatedly to himself.

You did this, a voice inside me accused.You pushed him over the edge. Made him do something he feared—making love to a woman, staring into her eyes, when he can barely stare at his own reflection in the mirror.

This wasn’t just OCD. I’d met people with the disorder. Many highly functioning individuals I came in contact with were somewhere on the spectrum. No. Something else was going on here, something more. Something bigger—that needed urgent attention.

My husband needed help, and I desperately wanted to support him.