The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

“No, I’m not.” The fact that my teeth chattered as I said it didn’t help my case. Goddammit. It was only Frank. I could take him down if I needed to, right?

Wrong. You need to stop being a pussy and go to the police. So what if his girlfriend is pregnant? You aren’t the one who knocked her up.

“Come. I’ll draw you a bath.” He walked over and offered me his hand. The easy laughter and polite manner that usually oozed from him was gone, though. Now that I thought about it, it had been gone the entire day, from the moment he answered the phone and then when he picked me up.

Horrifyingly, I realized Devon had stopped flirting with me.

He had given up on me. On us.

Well, good. That was exactly what I wanted. I was happy he was done making shit awkward.

When I remained planted on the couch, he scooped me up and carried me to my bathroom.

“I hate it when you’re being perfect,” I moaned.

“Ditto, darling. Especially when it’s wasted on you.”

He sat me on the closed toilet seat and drew me a hot bath, rolling his sleeves up to his elbow and exposing his Michelangelo’s Moses forearms.

Oof. I missed sex.

My insides twisted hotly, tension building inside me.

What was life without sex? Just work and taxes and a good dose of dish-washing.

It was so unfair that I didn’t want to have sex with anyone who wasn’t the father of my child for the duration of my pregnancy.

I couldn’t even rationalize this decision. Maybe I did have some leftover traditionalism in my body, residue from sharing a roof with Persy for most of my life.

My eyes followed every movement of his corded arms as he dropped a bath bomb into the tub.

“So, have you been sleeping with anyone interesting lately?” I shifted on the toilet seat, eyeing his strong, long fingers.

Was I … getting turned on right now? The friction from the surface beneath me made my nipples pucker. I removed my clothes, item by item, while Devon twisted his face like something smelled horrible in the room.

“I thought you were done torturing yourself.”

“Come on,” I laughed, boomeranging my blouse to the floor. Though I wasn’t showing yet, my breasts were already heavy and veiny. Much bigger than he remembered. “I know you’re still having sex with other people. Let me live vicariously through you. I forgot what it feels like.”

Dryly, he said, “You have enough experience for the entire East Coast, darling. Grab some gingko and use the power of your imagination.”

“Remind me, what do you do once the two of you are in bed? I forgot,” I purred, ignoring his annoyance.

He looked at me like I was crazy. And in that moment I was.

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” he asked worriedly.

I laughed. “No. I’m just … tender around the edges.”

“Sounds like code for unhinged.”

“Come on…” I smiled, “…I’m trying to be cordial.”

“I noticed. We’ve been in the same room for close to eight minutes and you still haven’t tried to stab me.”

He turned off the faucet and stood up, stepping aside. “Let me help you in.”

“You can join me too, if you feel so inclined.” I tried my hand at a half-hearted seduction, too horny to afford my pride.

He completely ignored me, ushering me by the small of my back to the bathtub.

I rolled my eyes. “Is that a no?”

“You told me specifically—and repeatedly—to stop trying with you,” he reminded me dryly.

“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind!”

Jesus, couldn’t a girl make a definitive statement then change her mind due to horniness? And they said America was the freest country in the world.

“Why don’t you get in and we’ll discuss it after you’ve calmed down?” Devon suggested.

“I am calmed down!” I protested with a screech, slapping my own thighs like a toddler.

“Evidently,” he deadpanned.

Finally, I stepped into the bath and lowered my body into it. Closing my eyes, I felt the warmth of the water and the tingling of the soap clinging to my body.

The scent of strawberry and citrus was heightened by the humidity in the room. Behind me, Devon took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and began massaging my shoulders.

“You’re aroused,” he stated. His fingers tickled the flyaways escaping from my high bun. They slid lower, toward my breasts, avoiding the sensitive territory but skating closer.

“Aroused,” I repeated with a chuckle. “You’re so old.”

“You’re so pregnant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have cravings. Needs,” Devon explained.

“Yeah,” I admitted with a sigh, momentarily disarmed by the massage and the bubble bath and the knowledge I was safe with him.

“What stops you from sleeping around?” he asked, lethally blasé.

“Uh, the fact that I’m knocked up?”

“It’s not going to hurt the baby. Doctor Bjorn told us that himself.”

Yeah, Doctor Bjorn, who was shipping Bellon (Belle + Devon), constantly reminded us we could and indeed should pork.