“I know it’s not ideal, but we can go to my car if you’d like.”

She nods. I take her hand and we walk quickly around the side of the house. I’ve parked my SUV away from everyone else—you never know when you’ll need a bit of privacy.

I click the button to unlock the doors, help her into the massive backseat, and step in behind her. We pick right up where we left off. Soon we are both in our comfort zones, naked. She suddenly hesitates.

This is where most blokes bung it up. Many girls experience a moment of moral hesitancy when their blasted angel’s whispers faintly break through, causing them to face the reality that they just met me and this might not be the best idea.

“I’ve only been with one guy,” she tells me, breathing hard. “We were together a long time. I don’t usually . . . you know . . . this is not like me.”

Most fellows push, pressure, guilt, whatever. But this is where I’m golden. I nod as if I respect what she’s divulged.

“We don’t have to, Brittany,” I say as I begin nuzzling against her, giving her a preview of my strong hips, my ability to move them. “We can stop.” I begin to pull away.

“No!” She nearly panics, clutching me close. “Don’t stop. I just . . . I need you to know.”

“I understand,” I whisper against her lips. “You’re a good girl.”

She kisses me with renewed passion, as if I have seen into her soul and understand her like no one else.

And so I keep going, and I make it worth her while. I give her plenty to tell her friends tomorrow, though it’ll likely be followed up days later with tears when she realizes I’m never going to call—that I won’t acknowledge her when she shows at my next gig. Because she’s not “the one.” I tried to warn her.

“The one” does not exist for Kaidan Rowe.

Only the right now. Only feeding the urges. Only my survival matters.

I’m surprised to see a limo in the driveway when I return home—I had thought Father was staying in New York for work. Being the vice president of Pristine Publications means nonstop parties with models, actors, and various supporters of the rich and famous porn industry. I wonder for the millionth time why he chose to live in Atlanta rather than New York City, and then with a twist of my gut I’m reminded.

Madame Marissa.

I hear her nauseating, lazy laughter when I push my hearing into the house. I want to turn my car around, but I know Father has heard me by now. He’s always listening. He’s the one who taught me to be constantly on the lookout. He’s the one who taught me everything I know.

He’s the Duke of Lust. Known to demons as Pharzuph. Known to humans as Richard Rowe. And he chose to make his home near the most sinister human bitch that ever lived—leader of the largest sex trafficking ring in the Southern states. The two of them go way back, having met in the U.K. Father even brought her and several of her older girls over to help with my carnal training when I first turned eleven.

I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate Marissa.

I grit my teeth and take my sweet-arse time getting out and trudging in through the giant doors.

I want to go straight down to my room in the basement, but I’d be smacked in the skull for slighting our “guest.” So I paste a polite expression on my face and enter the heated sun porch beside the indoor pool. The room is as lush with plants as a damn jungle and smells like chlorine and tropical flowers.

There are plenty of lounging chairs, but Marissa is sat on Father’s lap. Her guardian angel looks resolute, if not a bit worn, beside her. I actually feel bad for the spirit, especially since a peevish demon whisperer is circling it like a giant gnat.

Marissa’s black hair reaches her hips, and her giant breasts are about to tumble out of her black scoop-neck dress, a sight that does nothing for me. Bloodred lips match her creepily long nails, and she gasps when she sees me.

“Look at him, Richie . . . he looks more like you every time I see him.”

Father nods, looking me over and tipping his nose up, probably to check the air around me, to be sure I’d done my job for the night. His sense of smell is astounding.

I nod back. “Father. Marissa. I hope you’re well.”

“It’s only two in the morning,” Father says. “Early night for you. How many’d you get?”

Damn it. “One,” I admit. I would have stayed out if I’d known they’d be here.

“Not much of a birthday celebration,” Marissa says. Of course she would remember my “special” day.

Father looks from her to me. “Is it March thirty-first already?”

Marissa laughs and swats his shoulder before looking at me again. “Seventeen looks nice on you. And you’ll only get better as you age.”

I choose to ignore this. “Mates threw me a party last night since we had a gig tonight,” I lie.

Marissa stands and saunters toward me on high heels. She’s in her late thirties. She’s pale as porcelain. Avoiding the sun has been good for her skin. If she weren’t so evil I’d think she was hot.

She comes too close and looks up at me with a pout. I know what she wants. She fancies a kiss, which I never voluntarily give to her. I lean down to quickly peck her cheek, but she grabs the back of my neck with viper claws and takes my mouth with a satisfied sound. No tongue, thank God, but she takes my bottom lip between hers and suckles it. I’m certain her lipstick is all over me now.