The Devil's Obsession

The Moment She Bites Back

They both knew it was a lie.

Salome took a sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles dance on her tongue while Malachi watched her with that same predatory focus. His hand remained on her thigh, possessive and warm, and she didn't move it. Not yet.

"So tell me," she said, setting her glass down. "Do you always get what you want?"

"Always." No hesitation. No false modesty.

"That must be exhausting."

His lips curved. "Why would it be exhausting?"

"Because," Salome leaned back against the leather, studying him with open amusement, "it means you've never had to work for anything. Never had to earn it. People just... give you what you want because you're Malachi King."

"And that bothers you?"

"It doesn't bother me." She tilted her head. "It just makes you predictable."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or intrigue. "Predictable."

"Mmm." She took another sip of champagne. "You see something you want, you take it. You decide someone is yours, and you expect them to fall in line. It's very..." she waved her hand dismissively, "alpha male. Very 'I'm dangerous and powerful so everyone does what I say.'"

Malachi's expression darkened, but there was amusement there too. "You're mocking me."

"I'm observing." Salome smiled sweetly. "There's a difference."

"And what else do you observe?"

"That you're not used to being challenged." She met his eyes directly. "That you think intensity equals connection. That you've probably had a dozen women fall at your feet just because you looked at them the right way."

"And you're not going to be one of them."

"No," Salome said simply. "I'm not."

Malachi leaned closer, his hand sliding higher on her thigh. "What if I told you I don't want you to fall at my feet?"

"Then I'd say you're lying." She didn't pull away from his touch, but she didn't lean into it either. "Because men like you? You want worship. You want possession. You want someone who'll say yes to everything you demand."

"You don't know what I want."

"Don't I?" Salome's smile was sharp. "You've been telling me what you want since the moment you sat down. You want me. You want to own me. You want me to be yours before I've even decided if I want to be."

"And you don't want that."

"I didn't say that." She took another sip of champagne, watching him over the rim of her glass. "I said I'm not going to make it easy for you."

Malachi's eyes were dark, intense. "Good."

Salome set her glass down and leaned in close—close enough that her lips nearly brushed his. "You want to know what I think?"

"Tell me."

"I think you're used to women who surrender." Her hand moved to his chest, fingers splaying against the expensive fabric of his shirt. "I think you're used to taking control and having them melt for you."

"And you won't melt."

"Oh, I'll melt." Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "But not the way you expect."

She closed the distance between them, her mouth finding his in a kiss that was anything but submissive. Her tongue traced his lower lip, demanding entry, and when he opened for her, she took control immediately. Her hand slid up to tangle in his hair, holding him exactly where she wanted him.

Malachi groaned against her mouth, his hand tightening on her thigh. He tried to deepen the kiss, to take back control, but Salome pulled back just enough to deny him.

"Not yet," she whispered against his lips.

She kissed him again, slower this time, teasing. Her tongue swept into his mouth, exploring, tasting the champagne and something darker beneath it. When his hand moved to cup the back of her head, trying to hold her in place, she bit his lower lip—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her point.

"I said not yet."

Malachi's breathing was uneven, his eyes dark with desire and frustration. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"Am I?" Salome's hand slid down his chest, lower, until she could feel the evidence of his arousal straining against his pants. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're the one who's losing control."

She palmed him through the fabric, watching his jaw tighten, his breath catch. "That's not what you want, is it? To lose control?"

"Salome—"

"Shh." She kissed him again, swallowing whatever he was about to say. Her hand worked him through his pants, slow and deliberate, feeling him grow harder beneath her touch.

When she pulled back this time, his pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged.

"You want to know what I want?" she asked, her voice low and sultry.

"Yes."

"I want you to understand something." Her hand moved to his belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. "You don't get to decide what happens between us. We both do."

She slid off the booth seat, positioning herself between his legs. Malachi's eyes widened slightly as she ran her hands up his thighs.

"Salome—"

"Tell me to stop," she challenged, looking up at him through her lashes. "If you want me to stop, tell me now."

He didn't.

She freed him from his pants, wrapping her hand around his length. He was hard, thick, and the sound he made when she stroked him was deeply satisfying.

"You're so used to being in control," she murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hip. "So used to everyone doing exactly what you tell them to do."

Her tongue traced a path along his length, base to tip, and Malachi's hand fisted in her hair.

"But right now?" She took him into her mouth, just the tip, swirling her tongue around him. "Right now, I'm the one in control."

She worked him with her mouth and hand, taking him deeper, then pulling back to tease. Every time he tried to guide her movements with the hand in her hair, she pulled away completely, making him groan with frustration.

"Salome—f**k—"

She released him with a wet sound, looking up at him with a wicked smile. "What's wrong? Not used to someone making you wait?"

Before he could answer, she took him deep, and the curse that fell from his lips was the most satisfying sound she'd ever heard.

His other hand joined the first in her hair, and this time she let him guide her—but only because she wanted to. She set the pace, controlled the depth, and when she felt him getting close, she pulled back completely.

"Not yet," she said again, climbing back onto the booth seat beside him.

Malachi looked wrecked—his hair mussed from her fingers, his breathing uneven, his pants still undone. "You're going to kill me."

"Maybe." She kissed him again, deep and filthy, letting him taste himself on her tongue. "But what a way to go."

His hand slid under her dress, fingers finding her wet and ready. "My turn."

"Is it?" But she didn't stop him as he pushed her panties aside, as his fingers found her c**t and circled it with maddening precision.

"You're soaked," he growled against her mouth. "All that teasing, and you're just as desperate as I am."

"Maybe." She gasped as he pushed two fingers inside her. "Or maybe I just like watching you lose control."

"I haven't lost control yet."

"Haven't you?" She rocked against his hand, taking her pleasure from him. "You're sitting in your own VIP lounge with your pants undone, so hard you can barely think straight. That sounds like lost control to me."

Malachi's fingers curled inside her, hitting that perfect spot that made her gasp. "And you're riding my hand in a semi-public space, about to come all over my fingers. Who's really in control here?"

"I am." She grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand exactly where she wanted it. "Faster."

He obeyed, and the fact that he obeyed made her even wetter.

"Harder."

His thumb found her c**t, pressing and circling while his fingers worked inside her. Salome's head fell back against the leather, her breathing coming in short gasps.

"That's it," Malachi murmured against her neck. "Take what you need from me."

She was close—so close—when her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

"Salome—" Malachi's voice was strained, his own arousal still evident.

"Don't stop," she gasped, grinding against his hand.

But the phone buzzed a third time, and reality came crashing back.

Salome grabbed his wrist, stilling his movements even though her body screamed in protest. "Stop."

"What—"

"Stop." She pulled his hand away, her breathing ragged, her body trembling with unfulfilled need.

She reached for her clutch with shaking hands, pulling out her phone. The screen lit up with three texts from Demarcus.

Demarcus: Kai's been fussy all night. When are you getting back?

Demarcus: Never mind. I'm dropping him off at your place in 30 minutes. Be there.

Demarcus: I mean it, Salome. Be there or I'm calling the cops.

Salome's stomach dropped.

Thirty minutes. She was at least twenty minutes from home, and that was if she left right now.

"Everything okay?" Malachi's voice was closer now, concerned, though his breathing was still uneven.

"Fine." Salome set her phone down, her mind already calculating. She needed to leave. Now.

"You're lying."

"I'm not—" She stopped herself, took a breath. "I need to go."

Malachi's hand found her thigh again, possessive. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I just need to go home."

"Salome—"

"I need to go home," she repeated, more firmly this time. She moved his hand off her thigh—gently but deliberately—and reached for her clutch.

Malachi's expression shifted from concern to something harder. "Stay."

It wasn't a request.

Salome looked at him, really looked at him, and saw exactly what she'd suspected from the beginning. A man used to getting his way. A man who didn't understand the word no.

"No," she said simply.

His eyes widened slightly. "No?"

"No." She stood up, smoothing down her dress with trembling hands. Her body was still humming with unfulfilled arousal, but her mind was clear. "Thank you for the champagne. It was lovely."

Malachi stood too, quickly tucking himself back into his pants, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the small space. "You're not leaving."

"I am, actually." Salome slung her clutch over her shoulder, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I told you—I have responsibilities. I have a life outside of this club. And right now, I need to get home."

"Then I'll take you."

"No, thank you."

"Salome—"

"Malachi." She said his name with the same firmness he'd used on hers. "I appreciate the offer. But I'm perfectly capable of getting myself home."

He moved closer, crowding her space, his hand coming up to cup her jaw. "You feel this thing between us. Don't pretend you don't."

"I'm not pretending anything." She didn't pull away from his touch, but she didn't lean into it either. "I feel it. But that doesn't mean I'm going to drop everything and stay here just because you told me to."

"I'm not telling you to—"

"Yes, you are." Salome's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You're telling me to stay. You're assuming I will. Because you're Malachi King, and people do what you say."

His jaw tightened. "That's not—"

"It is." She reached up and gently removed his hand from her face. "And I'm sure it works on most people. But I'm not most people."

"I know that."

"Do you?" She tilted her head, studying him. "Because from where I'm standing, you're acting like every other man who's decided he wants something from me. You're intense, you're possessive, and you think that's enough. That I should just... surrender because you've decided I'm yours."

"That's not what I think."

"Isn't it?" Salome took a step back, creating space between them. "You told me I was already yours. You didn't ask if I wanted to be. You just decided."

Malachi was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes searching hers. "You're right."

The admission surprised her.

"I did decide," he continued, his voice low and rough. "The moment I saw you on that dance floor, I decided. And I don't apologize for that."

"I'm not asking you to apologize." Salome's voice softened slightly. "I'm asking you to understand that I get to decide too. And right now, I'm deciding to go home."

"Because of a text message."

"Because I have a son who needs me." The words came out sharper than she intended. "Because I have responsibilities that don't disappear just because a handsome man bought me champagne."

Malachi's expression shifted—something like respect flickering in his eyes. "Then let me take you home."

"No."

"Salome—"

"No." She was firm now, unyielding. "I don't know you, Malachi. I don't know what you do, who you are, what you're capable of. And I'm not bringing you to my home where my son is going to be."

"I would never—"

"I don't know that." She cut him off gently but firmly. "I don't know you. And until I do, you don't get access to that part of my life."

He stared at her for a long moment, and Salome could see the war playing out behind his eyes. The desire to push, to demand, to take what he wanted. And something else—something that looked like understanding.

"Okay," he said finally.

"Okay?"

"Okay." He stepped back, giving her space. "But I'm walking you to your car."

"That's not—"

"It's not negotiable." His voice was firm. "You can say no to staying. You can say no to me taking you home. But you're not walking through this club alone at midnight."

Salome studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fine."

They walked through the VIP lounge in silence, Malachi's hand resting lightly on the small of her back. People moved out of their way automatically, eyes averted, conversations pausing. Salome could feel the weight of his presence, the power he wielded without even trying.

When they reached the stairs leading down to the main floor, Malachi's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening.

"You should get that," Salome said. "It might be important."

"It can wait."

"Malachi—"

"It can wait." He looked at her, his expression intense. "You're more important."

Something in her chest tightened at the words, but she pushed it down. She couldn't afford to be swayed by pretty words and intense looks. Not when she had twenty-five minutes to get home.

They descended the stairs together, the music growing louder as they approached the dance floor. The crowd was thicker now, bodies pressed together, the air thick with heat and perfume and possibility.

Salome moved through it with practiced ease, Malachi close behind her. She could feel his eyes on her, could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

When they reached the exit, the cool night air hit her like a blessing. Salome took a deep breath, letting it clear her head.

"Where are you parked?" Malachi asked.

"Two blocks over." She gestured vaguely. "I'm fine from here."

"I'm walking you to your car."

"Malachi—"

"Salome." He said her name like a warning. "I'm walking you to your car. You can argue with me, or you can accept it. But either way, I'm not letting you walk two blocks alone at midnight."

She should have been annoyed. Should have pushed back against the presumption, the assumption that she needed his protection.

But the truth was, she was grateful. The streets were dark, and she was alone, and having him beside her made her feel safer than she wanted to admit.

"Fine," she said again.

They walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the buildings. Salome was hyperaware of him beside her—the heat of his body, the controlled power in his movements, the way he scanned their surroundings like he was expecting trouble.

When they reached her car—a beat-up Honda that had seen better days—Salome turned to face him.

"Thank you," she said. "For the champagne. For walking me out. For... tonight."

Malachi stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup her face. "This isn't over."

"I know." She didn't pull away. "But it's over for tonight."

"When can I see you again?"

"I don't know."

"Salome—"

"I don't know," she repeated, more firmly. "I need to think. I need to process. I need to figure out if this—" she gestured between them, "—is something I want to pursue."

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe." She smiled slightly. "But I'm not going to make it easy for you, remember?"

Malachi's thumb traced her lower lip, his eyes dark and intense. "You're going to drive me insane."

"Good." Salome pulled back, reaching for her car door. "You could use a little insanity in your life."

She slid into the driver's seat, but before she could close the door, Malachi leaned down, his hand braced on the roof of her car.

"I meant what I said," he told her, his voice low and rough. "You're already mine. You just don't know it yet."

Salome looked up at him, this dangerous, beautiful man who thought he could claim her with words and intensity.

"And I meant what I said," she replied, her voice steady. "If you think you're going to control me, you're in for a very rude awakening."

She closed the door before he could respond, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.

In her rearview mirror, she could see him standing there, watching her go. His hands were in his pockets, his expression unreadable in the darkness.

Salome's heart was racing, her hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel.

She'd just walked away from Malachi King.

She'd just said no to a man who clearly wasn't used to hearing it.

And judging by the way he'd looked at her—like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve—she had a feeling this was far from over.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She didn't need to check it to know it was him.

Salome smiled to herself as she drove through the dark streets, heading home to her son, to her responsibilities, to her real life.

Malachi King wanted her.

But he was going to have to work for it.

And something told her he was more than willing to try.