Satan Read Free

sheepskin rug and helped her to sit. He poured two glasses of wine, offered her one, and sat on the floor, his back against a solid club chair. Her hips grazed his, and he longed to pull her onto his lap. Instead, he raised his goblet. “To beginnings.”
    “A toast? I didn’t think you were that kind of man. Okay. To beginnings.” She clinked her goblet to his.
    They both sipped their wine. A scarlet drop slipped from one corner of her mouth, and before she swiped at the wine with her finger, Satan pounced and lapped the bead of fermented grapes. He pried her wine glass out of her hand, put both crystal tumblers on the table, and pulled her to sit sideways over his thighs.
    She ran her delicate pink tongue across the seam of her lips.
    “Nervous?”
 

Chapter Two
    “A tich.”
    He chuckled and crooked a brow. “A tich? Is that an actual word?”
    Angel did a delicate shoulder roll. “It could be a Trini word. I grew up in Trinidad, and we tend to make up words. Kind of a national hobby.”
    What a weird conversation.
    Had she finally lost any semblance of sanity?
    Why else was she still here? In a house in the wilds of Long Island with no neighbors in sight? About to have a hook-up with a total stranger?
    Okay, maybe not an absolute stranger because Jess Blaine, who had become a friend over the last four months, not only knew Lorcan—who went by the moniker Satan—but deeply respected him. Angel had heard enough tall tales about the vaunted Satan to know he was a man of strong convictions and ethics.
    A wave of guilt warmed her cheeks. She hadn’t lied to him, for her given name was Angelica. He hadn’t told her his nickname, so why should she share hers? Still, was it wise to spend the night with someone she’d never met before?
    Jess had mentioned Satan epitomized the image of a medieval warrior of yore. Dark, brooding, and menacing, in the sexiest way. Jess wasn’t wrong. The man oozed sensuality. Those inky shoulder-length curls, the black-as-sin eyes fringed with thick sooty lashes, his stubble-shadowed square jaw, and that wicked, wicked mouth, which hovered on a hint of a smile.
    God, she hadn’t felt any attraction to a man in ages, far less this overwhelming urge to jump his bones. Now she understood his nickname—Satan. The man was devilish temptation incarnate. She’d never had a one night stand. Was she totally off her rocker?
    Did it matter? If everything went the way she figured it would tomorrow, this might be the last time she ever had sex. That decided the matter. Go for it.
    “We? Are you visiting the U.S.?” His hand traced the length of her shin. “You’re cold. No stockings?”
    She wrinkled her nose. “Always put my fingernails through the damned things, so I gave up on them a long time ago. No, I live here as of four months ago. And it’s not we, just me. The ‘we’ referred to Trinis collectively.”
    The man had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. But he wasn’t built like a wrestler. No—he was whipcord lean, lanky, and he moved with the grace of a stalking panther. He reached back for a throw slung over the back of the chair, smoothed the material over her legs, and tapped her knee.
    She frowned not understanding what he wanted. “Sorry?”
    “These shoes, while sexy as hell, could get dicey in a few minutes.”
    Surprised and taken aback, that a man who looked like danger personified would perform the mundane task of removing her shoes, Angel couldn’t drag her gaze from his tanned hands on her white skin. His movements were confident and unhurried. He unbuckled first one shoe, then the other, and rearranged her so she straddled his thighs.
    He plucked a large cushion from the couch and set it against the coffee table. “Lie back.”
    “What?” Not for the first time since meeting Satan, Angel wondered if she’d fallen into a rabbit hole.
    “Cushion. Lie back on it.”
    “I don’t get it.”
    “You will.” He reached over and gave her a gentle