Page 52 of Shame the Devil
“Hmm.” His voice was a low, deep hum. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. So much better.”
“The boyfriend not much good there, then?”
She smiled, slow and lazy, that second glass of wine, the scent of him, the warmth making her boneless, and barely managed to turn her head to him. “Nope.”
“A little selfish?” he asked. His glass was on the table, not in his hand, and now, he took hers from her and set it down, too.
“A little. Though he said I didn’t communicate enough. That I didn’t tell him what I wanted, or do … enough myself to make it better. I’m not much good at … initiating. Or at saying. I never knew if … Anyway. Two sides to every story.” She was still relaxed, but she was also getting a little breathless.
“That can help,” he agreed. “Though his side isn’t convincing me. All a guy really has to do is slow down and pay attention. When she leans into your kiss. When she sighs and closes her eyes. Or later on, when her thighs start tensing up. Oh, yeah. Good times. Or a guy could just ask her …” He sent his hand out, stroked the back of it down her cheek. “To tell him when it feels good. Nothing he should like better than hearing you say, ‘Oh, yeah. Please. Do that some more.’ That’s music to a guy’s ears.”
“Then I’d be the one being … selfish, though.” She managed to get the words out, but barely, because his hand was moving down the side of her neck, over her softened, perfumed skin. His fingers were a little rough, the skin completely different from hers, but his touch was gentle.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s what he wants. Trust me.” His hand cupped the front of her throat now. Not scary, because there was no pressure. Dangerous, still. The thrill went through her like a shudder, and she made a little noise. It might have been a whimper.
“I … told you,” she said. “About that ‘trust me’ thing.”
“Mm. That’s right. You did. Something about losing your better judgment.” His hand moved slowly upward, and she was holding her breath until he was holding her face, his thumb under her chin, then leaning down and brushing his lips over hers.
Still soft. Still slow. And then her lips parted, and it wasn’t quite as soft anymore. It was still slow, though. He was halfway over her, still holding her head, kissing her like he didn’t want to stop, and she had her hand in his short hair, the other one around his shoulder, and if she’d been melting before—now, it had happened, because she was liquid.
She could sense that her robe was parting, but he wasn’t grabbing her. He was just kissing her. When his mouth left hers, she gave a little sound of protest, but when he started kissing his way down her neck, the sound turned to a moan.
He whispered in her ear, “You’ve got a line here. What’d I tell you to say?”
“Oh.” It was a gasp. “Do … do that some more. Please.”
She could feel his smile against her skin. “Yeah. That’s right.”
* * *
She was sosoft under him, she smelled so sweet, and her skin was so fine, he was almost scared to touch it. You could mark skin like that so easily.
He had his hand in those coppery curls, and they were soft, too. As soft as he’d imagined. He traced his tongue over that curvy upper lip, and she sucked in a breath. He bit down on her plump lower lip, and she moaned.
And then there was her neck. He could spend a long, long time kissing and biting that neck. So he did. He was halfway over her, and his hand was finally brushing its way down the vee of her robe. He wanted to know if she had anything on under it. He was guessing she didn’t, and the idea was heating him all the way up. He wanted to lay her down, pull that tie slowly open, and spread the two edges wide. He was going to do it, too. He was going to unwrap his birthday present. And then he was going to eat his cake.
He was going to do it slow, though. He wasn’t putting her on that bed until she couldn’t stand to be off of it one second longer, and once hedidput her on the bed …
He was going to do it slow.
A brush of a hand down the vee of her robe, and then his hand was slowly edging inside. Coming close, and then coming closer. Circling, teasing, while he kissed her neck and she shuddered, which was when he thumbed a nipple that was exactly as hard as anything a guy could want to feel.
One second, he had his thumb there, had added a finger to the party so he could squeeze a little, was listening to her make some more noise, and was wondering how long he could hold out, or more like how long he could makeherhold out, before he got his mouth there. The next, he was hearing the distinctive sound of a keycard swiping through a lock, theclickof it releasing. And Dyma’s voice.
22
Too Much Information
There were interruptions,and then there were embarrassing interruptions. Somewhere beyond that was the lady’s teenaged daughter walking in on you when you had her mom halfway undressed and you had the kind of erection that wasn’t going away in a hurry, because you’d been working on it for about three days.
He sat up faster than Jennifer did all the same. She was still stretched across the couch, in fact, when Dyma said, “Whoa. Awkward. So I guess youweren’thaving dinner.”
Jennifer gasped some more, and he pulled her up to sitting, straightened the top of her robe, and decided she’d better deal with the bottom, which was, yes, showing him that shedidn’thave anything on under there. Which would have been welcome news in other circumstances, but at this moment … not so much. He considered his hard-on and decided Dyma was just going to have to deal with it, because there wasn’t much he could do about it, and said, “Well, we were going to get to it eventually.”
“Sorry, man,” Owen said. He was trying not to laugh, clearly. “I did text you. Guess you weren’t paying attention.”
