The Devil Wears Black

“Am I making pita bread out of you?” he asked sleepily.

“I never could resist carbs.”

He laughed. “Why is it,” he said to the nape of my neck, blowing my fine baby hair with his warm breath, “that you make me feel like a sixteen-year-old boy who just found out about pussy? What is it about you, Madison Goldbloom, that drives me goddamn wild?”

“Must be the patterned dresses,” I said into his pillow.

He kissed the back of my neck, laughing. “I mean, you mentioned your dad while I had my tongue inside you. My dick should’ve run away screaming. What makes you different from everyone else to me?”

The fact that he questioned it aloud was half-insulting, half-flattering.

“I’m me.” I shrugged, closing my eyes. “I’m myself, and everyone else tries to be someone else around you. To fit into your neat, all-Black universe. I live in color. I guess that’s a challenge for you.”

Suddenly, there was nothing I wanted more than to fall asleep.

So I did.

A fallen angel, dipped in the devil’s darkness, engulfed by his strong, deadly arms.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHASE

The rest of the weekend on the ranch did not suck, unlike Madison, who reminded me her mouth was the eighth wonder of the world. It was the best time I’d had in months. Fine, years. The weekend consisted of good food, pleasant conversation, and mind-blowing sex. I would have low-key suspected I’d died and gone to heaven if it weren’t for the fact I got an email from my accountant reminding me my quarterly tax payment was due.

If I thought I’d mythologized sex with Madison after we’d broken up to console myself for the subpar fucks I had to deal with, I was wrong. The real thing was even better than I remembered.

Longer, harder, and wetter too.

The only downside to the weekend was that Ethan Goddamn Goodman was still on the premises, horseback riding with us, sitting at our table, flirting with Katie (who looked less grossed out by the prospect of making out with my girlfriend’s ex than I’d expected). For the sake of full disclosure, I didn’t mind him dating my sister. He was not, I realized upon reflecting on the matter more closely, the fuckboy I’d thought he was. He seemed like the playing-it-safe, ankle-socked churchgoer my sister would be happy with. I just didn’t think he was a suitable match to my Madison. I mean, Madison. Not my Madison. She wasn’t mine. I knew that.

The night before the morning we were all heading back to the city, Ethan had to rush back to Manhattan for an emergency. He offered Katie a ride, glancing at Madison, who gave him the thumbs-up with a wide grin.

That left us free of Ethan and Katie at breakfast. Which meant I was able to do the one thing I’d been fantasizing about since I’d come up with the fake-engagement plan. During breakfast, very casually and very offhandedly, I leaned down and kissed Madison on the lips. It was nothing more than a peck. I thought people who PDA’d ought to be publicly executed in the town square. But it was enough to show everyone it was real.

The look on Amber’s face—like she’d swallowed a fly—paired with Julian’s appalled frown almost made me laugh.

Now that we were heading home, I was irritated with the idea of saying goodbye. My ex-slash-current-slash-temporary girlfriend was delectable, and she kept my mind off Dad’s illness, which was definitely a bonus.

“Where do you want to sleep tonight?” I asked, driving at a pace that would make senior citizens look like delinquent punks. The rural view passed like flicking pictures, turning gradually into more concrete, higher buildings, and narrower pavements the closer we got to New York.

“My bed.” She laughed. “Where else?”

“Mine,” I said flatly.

“Daisy,” she pointed out. “She probably misses me a lot.”

“You could bring her to mine.” What the heck am I saying? Seeing women’s stray hairs on my pillow made me want to refurnish the whole apartment. A ball of fur on my floor would likely make me burn the entire building down.

“I think she’d freak out.” Mad paused. “Actually, I think you would too. No thanks.”

I waited for an invitation while Mad flicked through a wedding magazine she’d brought along with her. For research, I reminded myself. She knew the score. When we entered Manhattan, I finally said, “Or I could sleep at yours.”

She closed the magazine, perching it over her crossed legs. “Don’t you want your own space? We just spent a weekend together.”

“Getting laid regularly beats personal space,” I replied wryly. “Any day of the week. It’s science.”

“Does that mean you are giving monogamy a chance while we’re temporarily together?” It was more a taunt than a question.

“Do you want me to?” I countered. I sounded like my mother and sister passive aggressively trying to convince each other to eat the last slice of the pie on Thanksgiving.