A gasp escapes my lips as his eyes flick up to meet mine. The rest of the wild party fades away at once as our gazes lock. His bottomless eyes see right through me, stripping me down until I’m utterly naked beneath his gaze. A slow smile spreads across his smooth lips as he watches me melt before him. But entranced as I am by his singular brutish beauty, I won’t let him get to me that easy. From deep down, I gather my restraint, my composure, my cool. Straightening my spine, I plant a hand on my hip and smile right back at him.
Two can play at this game, I think to myself.
For the briefest of moments, I could swear that he’s taken aback. Clearly, this is not a man who’s accustomed to making the first move. My heart takes a running start and slams against my rib cage as he pockets his flask and takes a step toward me, circling the roaring bonfire. He approaches like a wild animal, circling his prey. I turn to face him as he steps up before me, craning my neck to take in his full, staggering form.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he growls, his voice rich and husky.
I swallow hard, steeling myself in the face of such an incredible, intimidating presence as his. With a miraculously steady hand, I reach into the pocket of his black leather cut, the sleeveless vests these guys wear like armor, and close my fingers around the cool steel flask. He raises a scarred eyebrow at me as I bring the flask to my scarlet lips—trying hard not to think about the fact that his mouth just rested where mine does now. I can tell that he’s intrigued, unused to being approached so brazenly. The smoky whiskey sears my throat as I gulp down a huge swig and hand the flask back to him with a mischievous grin.
“Thanks,” I say, flicking a tress of black hair over my bare shoulder.
“My pleasure,” he smirks, placing his firm hands on the points of my hips. “Now, what are you gonna give me in return?”
His pleasure is the first and only thing on his brain, I can tell that for certain. But I’ve made up my mind not to fold so easily. I step back from him, knocking his hands away.
“Sorry. I don’t think I happened to catch your name,” I say, fighting hard to keep the quiver from my voice.
“Huh,” he laughs, eyeing me up and down, “This isn’t usually a place where names are traded, babe.”
“Humor me,” I insist, all too aware of the fiery sensation his gaze leaves in its wake as it rakes along my body.
“I’m Devlin Vile,” he tells me, his voice full and sure.
Jackpot.
“Hi Devlin,” I purr, letting down my guard just an inch, “I’m Logan. Logan Farrah.”
“Well Logan,” Devlin goes on, closing the careful space I’ve put between us, “Welcome to The Club. I bet you’re ready for a taste of the action out here. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t go to bed hungry. Trust me, I know how to fill a girl up.”
“Oh, I bet you do,” I return.
Little does he know, of course, that my presence here is the furthest thing from a stumble. I’m a woman on a mission. A mission that has everything to do with him, as it turns out. But as I breathe in his intoxicating presence—the towering form, the searing gaze, the smoky, spicy scent of him—I decide that as long as I’m here, I may as well have a little bit of fun. All work and no play has never done anyone any good, right?
Is it possible that this Devlin Vile could be as dangerous as they say he is? Only one way to find out, I muse to myself, and take a step toward him.
Chapter Two
Boston, Massachusetts
One month earlier...
The sound of a sarcastic catcall tears my attention away from the full length mirror. I turn to see my roommate Emma leaning against the doorframe, grinning at my current getup.
“Hey, sexy mama,” she teases, “Can I get some of that?”
I frown at my reflection, all decked out in its unflattering cap and gown. I’ve been trying to convince myself that the whole costume isn’t really that terrible...but to no avail. I look like a giant green Easter Peep that someone’s run through the microwave.
“You’re so lucky you don’t have to sit through graduation,” I sigh, flicking my cap’s tattered tassel away from my face, “Maybe I can hire a body double to go for me or something? Surely there’s a section on Craigslist for that.”
“Or you could just skip the whole thing like a sensible human being,” Emma shrugs, tucking her short blonde hair behind her ears.
“I wish,” I grumble, sinking onto my narrow bed in the starchy, sweaty robe. “My parents would never speak to me again if I didn’t show up.”
“Last time I checked,” Emma says, raising a fair eyebrow, “They forfeited their right to this graduation nonsense when they reneged on paying for your education because your major didn’t suit them.”
She does have a point. By all rights, I should have no qualms about ditching graduation despite my parents’ desires. I’m the one who financed my degree through a half dozen scholarships (and about 50K in student loan debt, of course). My mom and dad always told me when I was growing up that they’d be more than happy to pay for my college education, provided that I studied something “practical” like medicine or law. But when I decided to major in marketing and communications instead, their offer of financial assistance was snatched away right quick.
“Why would we pay for a degree that’s just going to leave you jobless and living in our basement?” my mother had scoffed at the time.
And much to my chagrin, she seems to have had a valid argument. I’m graduating from college at the end of the week, and I’ve spent the better part of the past year sending out resume after resume to every media and publishing outlet in the country. In that time, I’ve had exactly four lackluster interviews and zero job offers. I’m about to step into the real world with a boatload of debt, no job, and a rather fatalistic attitude about my prospects. Just like my mother predicted way back when.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Emma sighs, sitting down next to me on the bed. I watch as she tucks her slender legs beneath her, nimble as a kitten. I’ve always been slightly covetous of my best friend’s tiny frame. I’m a relatively tall young woman, 5’ 9” to be exact, and was an early bloomer, as far as curves as concerned. I’ve come to love my fuller, voluptuous figure, but I never heard the end of it from my mom when I was growing up. She was born in Japan, and always boasted a super-slender figure. My older sister, Juliet, inherited her body type, but I took after my English-born father. You can’t pick your parents, and you certainly can’t pick what you get from them out of the genetic grab bag.