Page 69 of Devil's Iris
“No, I didn’t.” She sighs, resting her head against my chest, right below my chin. “I was just embarrassed. It was supposed to be just a kiss… then it escalated—and I was yelling in the car. I’m sure your driver heard.”
Fucking hell.
My cock goes steel-hard at the memory of that night. The sounds she made, the way she came apart in my arms, the?—
I clear my throat and start walking towards the exit. My brothers and their spouses are long gone by now. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I got a naval piercing last year for my birthday, you know?”
The subject change almost gives me whiplash. I look down at her quickly, and immediately my brain starts conjuring images of exactly what kind of jewelry she might have. Plain barbell? Something sparkly with gems? My mouth waters thinking about what it would taste like against my tongue.
“I wonder what it would be like if you kissed me down there. I’m sure you have a very talented tongue.”
Fuck.I stumble. Actually fuckingstumble, because it’s like she’s yanking the fantasy straight out of my skull and saying it out loud. I drag in a breath—focus, damn it. Adjusting her in my arms, I free one hand long enough to jab at the elevator button before I completely lose it.
“What do you think?” she asks as the elevator doors slide shut, trapping us in this small, mirrored space.
I think I want to spread you out and worship every inch of your body until you scream my name.
“I think you’re very, very drunk,” I say instead, hitting the button for the top floor—the presidential suite where they checked in.
“This is my first time being drunk, you know?” She blows a hot breath against the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I have to bite back a groan. “Turns out I get very horny when I’m drunk. When are we going to have sex? Can’t we do it tonight? I want you so bad, and I know you want me too.” Her hands start sliding down my chest, heading down south.
“Jesus Christ, Leni.” I grab her wandering hand before she can cup my cock, almost dropping her in the process.
“It’s so hot when you call me by my name. You don’t always use it, so when you do, it means I’m in trouble.” She’s gigglingagain, wrapping her arms and legs around me like a koala when she almost slips from my grip. “I love it.” Then she’s wriggling against me, rubbing her cunt on me like a cat in heat.
I’m the one in trouble here.
I’m hard as fuck with a horny woman in my arms, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. Because I know she’ll be mortified in the morning once the alcohol wears off and reality crashes back in.
The elevator doors open, and I tighten my grip on her so much it probably hurts. But I need her to stay still before I forget all the reasons why I can’t just carry her to the bed and fuck her senseless.
I swipe the key card Rafael gave me earlier—pressed into my palm with a knowing look and a gruff ‘Once we get our women, we’ll give you privacy.’ The suite is empty, just as promised.
I kick the door shut behind me, and it jams, locking automatically.
“Where’s your room?” I ask, looking at the four doors leading off the main living area.
A soft snore is my only answer. When I look down, she’s fast asleep.
That quickly?
Her head lolls heavily on my shoulder, eyes shut, lips parted on the tiniest snores. The fierce want in my chest transforms into something warm and stupidly tender, tugging a small smile out of me. “Exhausted after a long day of drinking and having fun?” I murmur, easing my steps towards the first door, careful not to jostle her as I try the handle.
Her bedroom ends up being the second door I open, and I only know it’s hers thanks to the gold robe spread out on the bed with the word ‘bride’ stitched across the back. The same damn robe I wanted to rip off her when Gianna sent me that picture earlier. A bouquet of white flowers sits beside it, apicture-perfect contrast that makes my chest tighten all over again.
I glance down at Leni as I enter, but she doesn’t even stir. Not a twitch either when I lay her down gently on one side of the bed and start unbuckling her heels. When I see the angry blisters on her feet, I wince. Poor baby. She probably hasn’t said a word about the pain.
I clear the flowers and robe off the other side of the bed, dropping them on the nearby couch. Then I grab a small face towel from the bathroom and wet it with cool water. Back at the bed, I sit at the foot, lift her leg onto my lap, and slowly run the damp cloth over her abused feet. Over and over, careful not to apply too much pressure so I don’t wake her.
She sleeps through it all.
When I’m satisfied that her feet are as comfortable as I can make them, I place them back on the bed, then stand back and study her bright red dress. The color is stunning against her skin, but she can’t be comfortable in that—it’s tight and restrictive and probably cutting off her circulation.
Should I…?
The internal debate is brief but fierce. On one hand, she’ll be more comfortable. On the other hand, taking it off would require a level of self-control I’m not sure I possess right now.I’m not a fucking masochist.
