Free Devoured by Emily Snow Page B

Toxic Sequel’s dirtier songs—and I hope he doesn’t answer. 
    Pray he refuses to acknowledge my call.
    At least then I’ll be able to say that I gave it my best shot.
    But then the song abruptly stops playing and Lucas comes on the line. “You changed your mind,” he says in a gentle voice.
    “Ten days?” I ask.
    “Yes.”
    “How soon do I start?”
    He takes a long pause before he answers me, and I almost think that he’s thought better of the whole offer and decided to take it off the table. I’m grinding my teeth together when he responds, “Kylie’s leaving first thing in the morning, so it would probably be best if you come tomorrow. I’ll have my attorney fix up the contract.”
    “So you don’t try to fuck me on the house.”
    He chuckles, a ferociously sexy sound that caresses my body with heat. I pace faster. “Of course. Bad for business to do it any other way.”
    “Right,” I hear myself say.
    “Message Kylie your email address so I can send you training instructions tonight—I’m guitar shopping. At Gibson right now.”
    As if to prove his location to me or to taunt me because he remembers just how he was able to drive my body, my senses, to a breaking point with only his guitar and voice two years ago, he strums out the opening of—and I kid you not—a Britney Spears song.
    It’s the same song that had been playing when I changed the radio in his car the night I went home with him. He’d humored me for a minute or two, and then rolled his eyes, jabbing a button on the steering wheel to switch the station back to rock.
    “You into pop?” he’d asked, giving me a sideways glance. When I nodded, he said, “Figures. Come on, I’ll play you all the bubblegum shit you could ever dream of.” And he had—my own private show as we sat on the granite countertops in his spacious kitchen. He only stopped playing every so often to pop a strawberry into my mouth or his or to trail his lips, his teeth, up my thighs.
    And then later . . . well, shortly after he was through playing for me, I found myself in the backseat of a taxi, furious and crying like a fool.
    “You’re sending me training?” I finally ask, thrusting the memory of the near-sex experience with Lucas out of my head. When he stops strumming the guitar abruptly, murmuring to someone with him in the Gibson store, it makes keeping my thoughts in the here and now that much simpler. I begin to ask him if Kylie’s job is really that intense to need specific instructions, but then I recall all the events and traveling that he’s got to do over the next 10 days. And how our deal is contingent upon one major aspect:
    Me being obedient, doing exactly as he says for the duration of the week and a half.
    “I am,” he confirms. There’s a smile in his voice. “So you’re mine?”
    Fighting back fear and pride and something else that causes my heart to beat erratically, I shiver and say, “Yes, I’m yours.” 

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Lucas doesn’t wait until the evening to get the list of training instructions to me. The email shows up in my inbox rapidly, less than a couple hours after I send Kylie a Facebook message with my email address. Lucas has personally sent it himself, along with a short note that makes my breasts tingles and my nipples harden with excitement.
    Miss Jensen,
    As promised, I’ve attached the training instructions. Look over them. Learn them. Don’t forget the deal you’re making.
    Can’t say I’m not looking forward to the next several days. I’ve already got this vivid idea of how you’ll taste after you’ve said the words. How you’ll feel when I’m inside of you. Have you imagined it yet?
    -Lucas
    Without thinking, I reply and ask him if workplace sexual harassment laws apply to being employed by a cocky rockstar.  He responds while I’m opening the training instruction attachment. 
    Why? Do you feel intimidated by me?
    No, not in the way he’s referring to. I feel drawn to Lucas. I know for