Free The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection) by Alice Gaines, Tara Maya, Rayne Hall, Jonathan Broughton, Siewleng Torossian, John Hoddy, John Blackport, Douglas Kolacki, April Grey

a chaise in the same red velvet, a low table with a bowl of succulent fruit and two crystal wine flutes. A tripod held a wine bucket with a bottle of champagne.
    “Is this more agreeable?” He stood next to the fireplace, lounging with one elbow on the mantle. He wore formal attire – a cutaway jacket and tails, which made him look even more devilish. And more delicious. “More romantic?”
    “In an early bordello sort of way.”
    “One more thing.” He made another gesture, and the light in the room dimmed until the fire filled the room with a warm glow. It cast his form into shadow and him look even taller and more imposing than he had before.
    Just a moment ago, he’d offered to fix her sex life. Her knees wobbled.
    “You look ravishing.” With widening eyes, he studied her, from the top of her head to her feet and back to her – ohmigod – breasts. They responded as if he were stroking them with his fingers. They felt achy and heavy, and the nipples hardened against the flimsy material.
    Flimsy material?
    She glanced down at herself. Somehow he’d replaced her business suit with a long, flowing negligee of sheer black gauze. It revealed every bit of her flab and cellulite.
    She ran behind the chaise and crouched low to hide herself. This was truly hell. She’d come here to a den of iniquity with a man who looked good enough to eat, but she had to expose herself to his ridicule. She’d spend the rest of eternity horny beyond human endurance, and he’d keep telling her she turned him off.
    “Why are you hiding, Cynthia?”
    “If you have any mercy in your soul, don’t do this.” She really ought to laugh at that one. Mercy from the devil.
    “Do what?” He strode the chaise.
    She crouched lower. “Make fun of me.”
    He stopped where he was, with a look of puzzlement on his face. “Telling you you look ravishing is making fun of you?”
    “It is if you don’t mean it.”
    “You think I’m not attracted to you,” he said.
    She glared at him from her safe spot behind the chaise. “Well, duh. Bingo.”
    He held out his hand toward her. “Show yourself.”
    “I don’t get naked on the first date. I’m old-fashioned that way.”
    “I’m going to give you one more chance. Come out from behind that chaise.”
    Her heart pounded again. This was the devil. If she refused his direct order, what would happen? The torture of the damned? Pillars of fire? Locusts? But he hadn’t kept up his part of the bargain, so how could he say he owned her soul?
    That fire came back to his eyes. “Three. Two. One.”
    Pffft. The chaise vanished. Without the support, Cyn collapsed onto the floor.
    “I was thinking more of the couch,” he said. “But if you prefer the carpet…”
    She scrambled to her feet and raced to the side of the room to hide behind a drape. But no matter how hard she tugged on it, the drape refused to budge. So, there she stood in a black gauze negligee, yanking on velvet.
    She heard his steps, a slow, firm swish on the carpet. She spun and saw him walking toward her, slowly, with a determined gleam in his eyes. She flattened herself against the wall.
    “I’m not going to hurt you, Cynthia,” he said softly as if coaxing a frightened animal to trust him.
    “Isn’t that your job, tormenting people?”
    “Why would you think a thing like that?” He stopped right in front of her, so close, the fabric of his suit almost rubbed against her breasts. They started aching again. Traitors.
    His smell reminded her of moss and musk.
    He placed his hands on either side of her face and leaned toward her. Heat radiated off him like from a furnace. In the dim light, his eyes glowed like blue glaciers. He was sin incarnate, but then, he was the devil, built for sin... and oh, was he built.
    “Don’t be afraid of me, Cynthia.” His voice sounded like warm chocolate. His breath was as sweet as honey. The man was a walking, talking, breathing dessert. Yum.
    “I’m not,” she said. Or croaked,