Page 67 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
“Christ.” Kit cast his head back, and a tendon in his neck went taut. His jaw clenched, and he hissed through the gnash of his teeth, “Say you’re all right.”
An odd little laugh rolled up Phoebe’s throat. It should have been a question. But she didn’t think it had been. Instead it had been a command, terse and insistent. “I’m all right,” she said, and she was—for the most part.
It was difficult to be entirely all right when she had come to the realization that just as the dim glow of the candle had revealed things to her, it had also revealed things to him. And now his avid gaze had fallen upon her breasts, and she didn’t know if she was meant to cover them, or—
“Phoebe. I can practically seeyou thinking. Now isnotthe time.” He slid one arm beneath her leg, hooked it around her knee, and moved. Phoebe forgot about her bared breasts, her fingers scraping across the mattress as that slow withdrawal teased delicate inner muscles.
“Oh,” she said on a shaky sigh as her toes curled.
His free hand landed upon her stomach, over muscles that quivered at the touch. A gentle pressure, sliding up the cage of her ribs to land upon her breast, kneading the tender flesh. The crest of her nipple beaded beneath the stimulation of his palm. Another slow plunge inward, and another. He touched some part of her that sent her senses scrambling, lit every last nerve on fire, contracted every muscle—
“Fuck, yes. Keep doing that.” A shiver slid from his body to hers. Panting with exertion, his hand abandoned her breast to plant itself beside her head as he bent over her. A forceful lunge that compelled a cry from her lungs. His lips touched her jaw, slid toward her mouth, coasted over her dry lips.
He was the only stable thing in a chaotic world. Phoebe priedone hand free of the covers in which they had fisted and wrapped her arm about his neck. Tried to kiss him, but missed. His skin was hot and salty, misted with sweat.
His hips canted, found a new angle, and everything went hazy and tingly.
“Kit,” she wailed, her fingers tangling in the damp locks of his hair. The tension that had drawn her tight and taut broke at last in long, shuddering waves of release. She clutched him with every part of her; arms, legs, and even within, those delicate inner muscles embraced him, welcomed him, tried not to let him go.
A raw, ragged sound sheared past her ear, and the intensity of his thrusts redoubled in a helpless drive for the same fulfillment she enjoyed. And she felt it when he reached his own culmination, felt the same splintering rigidity overtake him, heard the relief of it in the gasp he gave, felt the strange pulse of him deep inside her.
He collapsed slowly, burying her beneath the expanse of his chest, and for a moment she fancied they shared shaky breaths and frantic heartbeats. She couldn’t seem to make her fingers withdraw from the silky tangle of his hair, and he rubbed his cheek against hers, like an affectionate cat.
She didn’t know what she was meant to say, what she was meant to do.
Kit solved the problem for her. “Every day,” he said, tucking a kiss into the place where her neck met her shoulder. “And twice on Sundays.”
Phoebe smiled and yawned, because it really was tiring work. “I’m open to renegotiation,” she said.
∞∞∞
Phoebe looked different.
It wasn’t so much that her appearance had changed—other than the tangled hair that spilled over Chris’ pillow, of course, but that was just a consequence of having snarled his fingers in it so many times. There was nothing unusual about the shape of her lips, or the color, except perhaps that the hue had deepened just slightly owing to the pressure of his. There was nothing out of place in the feather of her lashes across her cheeks, and Chris suspected that if he were to pry one peacefully-closed eyelid up, he would note nothing changed in the color of her eyes.
Her nose was the same as it had ever been, long and straight and just the tiniest bit tilted upward there at the very tip; an accoutrement she wore well and which gave her an edge whenever she wished to appear haughty and condescending. Her cheeks were still gently rounded, with just the hint of a dimple there in the right one. Probably in left, too, but it was obscured within the plush stuffing of the pillow beneath her head. Nothing about her had changed. She was the same as she ever was, as she always had been.
But she lookeddifferent.
Or perhaps she merely looked different to him.
An odd turn of events to be sure. Chris folded his arms beneath his head and stared at her. The slope of her shoulder emerged from beneath the rumpled covers, which neither of them had gone to any effort to straighten. The candle, burning low, tossed distressed flickers of light across her skin, little glints of gold rippling across milky white flesh, lending her a faintly glowing appearance.
The subtle scent of roses, warmed by the heat of her skin, came and went in brief bursts, and he found himself searching for lingering hints of it. It was in her soap, in her perfume—even if he’d never much cared for it before, he liked it on her.
Sliding his fingers out from beneath his head, he gathered up a handful of disheveled curls to bring them to his nose.
Phoebe stirred, slapped at his hand. “Stop that,” she muttered irritably. “I’m trying to sleep.” Still half-asleep, her back arched in a trembling stretch, and at last she settled with sigh, her cheek nestling into the pillow beneath her head.
He could give her a nudge and send her on her way. Her room was just down the hall, and the candle would burn at least long enough to see her back to it safely. It had never been his habit to share his bed with any of his partners only tosleep. But it seemed a shame to disturb her.
He supposed he could accustom himself to sharing his bed. Just this once.
Chapter Nineteen
Well?”
Chris scowled over his brandy, which was less fine than he would have expected of a gentleman’s club. “I could get finer elsewhere,” he said.
