Page 86 of Bedeviled

“Now,” Memnon says, lifting me up, “I’m not entirely convinced that this desk is as solid as I was promised.” He carries me over to the edge of it.

The phone begins ringing again, and it’s right there, beckoning to me.

So I reach out and answer it. “Memnon’s office, how can I help you?” I flash my soul mate a shit-eating grin as I press the receiver to my ear.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. Then⁠—

“Mrs. Uvagukis⁠—”

My grip tightens on the phone, my breath catching. I’ve never heard someone address me like that. Selene Uvagukis. My birth name is largely engraved into my mind thanks to all those instances where I had to remind myself due to my memory loss.

But this new name…I like it too.

“Is your husband there?”

I eye Memnon, who has fitted himself between my thighs and is now running his hands up the sides of my torso.

“He’s indisposed at the moment, but I can take a message.”

Another hesitation, then, “Please let him know that his guest just arrived.”

Memnon takes the phone from me. “Send him up in twenty minutes.”

I hear Matt’s tinny voice from the other side of the receiver. “But, sir⁠—”

Memnon hangs up the phone. “Where were we?”

His hand slides up my chest, between my breasts and wraps around my neck like a collar. The sorcerer leans me back until I’m flush against the table, and paperweights and piles of documents get pushed aside.

The phone begins ringing again right as a knock sounds on the door.

My eyes widen. Despite all my fun plans to sully this desk, I don’t actually want to be caught fucking the sorcerer by one of his clients or someone who works here.

Memnon must hear my thoughts because he releases my neck and helps me sit up, finger combing the cinnamon strands of my hair back into place.

Another knock on the door, this one more insistent, has me jolting.

Memnon’s eyes flash as he pulls away from me. “This won’t take long.”

I don’t know what precisely he’s referring to, but then as he stares at me, his magic opens the door.

On the other side of it is a well-built man in his mid-forties with sharply cut graying hair, a spray tan, and a suit that screams money.

Next to me, Memnon stiffens, and across our bond, his playful mood vanishes.

The phone is still ringing, and the visitor is taking full appraisal of the both of us when Memnon moves out from between my thighs—so fucking incriminating—and leans back against his desk, folding his arms.

Curious about what could possibly extinguish the sorcerer’s good mood so swiftly, my gaze returns to the stranger as the man steps into the room. On any other day and in any other situation, a man like this would come across as domineering.

Today, however, when he stands in the same room as towering, muscled Memnon, with his ink and his scars, the man’s presence seems diminished.

The phone is still ringing. Without taking his eyes off the approaching man, Memnon answers the phone.

“We’ll be speaking about this later, Matt,” Memnon says ominously, then hangs up.

If I were Matt, I’d be pissing myself right about now.

Refocusing his attention on the newcomer, Memnon says, “Bold of you to come right up.”