Page 38 of Devoured By You
Me: And for the record, I didn’t choose Scarlett.
Me: Come to my suite. I’ll make it worth your while.
Tilly: Oh yeah? What does “worth my while” look like?
I palmed my dick. Even talking to her over text message turned me on.
Me: Multiple orgasms until you beg me to stop.
Tilly: You mean until Scarlett calls.
Me: You’re vicious.
Tilly: I don’t stroke egos.
Me: I’m fine with not having my ego stroked. My dick, on the other hand…
Tilly: It’s late, and I’ve hardly seen my friends. I’m not one of those women who dump their gal pals the second a sexy guy appears on the scene.
Me: You think I’m sexy?
Tilly: Now you’re fishing.
My cheeks hurt from grinning so much. I could do this all day. I mean, I’d rather have her here, beside me. Naked, writhing, pussy clenching around my dick, but as a backup, it wasn’t half bad.
Me: Have I caught anything?
Tilly: You did, but then you let it go. Such a shame.
Me: I’m never letting you go, Tilly.
We were only flirting, and I didn’t mean a word of it, but simply typing those words made my chest tighten, the feeling reminiscent of a noose that I knew would choke me, yet couldn’t help sticking my neck through. At the end of the cruise, I’d happily let her go, but for the next two weeks, I wanted her to be mine.
Hell, she was mine. She just didn’t know it yet.
Tilly: Good night, Blay. If you’re not too busy schmoozing up to Hollywood A-listers tomorrow, then come find me. Maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.
Disappointment mingled with awe. She was utterly magnificent. I hadn’t been turned down since… since… fuck, I couldn’t remember. It was true what they said about the male species. The chase spurred us on.
Me: Good night, Tilly. Sleep well. I’ll dream of you.
A crash, followed by a frustrated scream, came from the living room of my suite. I climbed off the bed. It could only be Aspen, and she sounded furious.
“What’s wrong with you?” I dashed forward, plucking an expensive vase from her clutches before she smashed it on the floor. She’d already smashed one. Jagged pieces of porcelain lay strewn across the silk rug.
“Asshole rock stars, that’s what’s wrong with me.” Red tinged her cheeks, and her eyes had that vengeful sparkle.
I groaned. “Not Joz Raynor.” The last thing I needed was an onboard political incident between my fiery cousin and one of the world’s most famous—or perhaps infamous—musicians.
“No. I haven’t caught up with him. Yet.”
“Then who’s pissed in your bed?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Ew, Blaize. If you’re going to use metaphors, please choose ones with less ick factor.”
A smirk tugged at my lips. I saluted. “Gotcha.” I poured her a brandy. “Here. Drink this. And calm down.”
She chugged half, wincing as it went down. “Why did my family put me in charge of this sector of the firm?”