The Devil You Know (The Grumpy Devils, #3)

by Elizabeth O'Roark

I won’t play the game—I don’t bake cupcakes and make cooing noises over pictures of everyone’s kids. If a man doesn’t bake cupcakes and make cooing noises, you know what they call him? Senior Partner. Ben hasn’t made cupcakes once. But men expect you to be more thoughtful than they are—softer, more accommodating. And when you are paid less than your peers, or assaulted on a date, or lose a promotion, they’ll tell you it was your fault—you were too soft, too accommodating.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, why I want him in a way I’ve never wanted anyone else.

“I’ve wanted to watch your face when you come for so fucking long,” he says,

“I think I sold my soul to the devil last night.” “You’re a lawyer. You did that a long time ago.” She may have a point. “Fine. So, I sold him my soul and then I had sex with him on his desk.”

“I want to be someone you trust enough to invite home, Gemma. And I’m willing to wait for it.”