Page 9 of Devil Wears Nada
There was something intoxicating about reducing this supernatural being to a quivering mess. Van, who was always so composed, so arrogant, coming undone beneath my hands and mouth. It was more addictive than I cared to admit.
Just as he was getting close—I could tell from the increasing frequency of mirror cracks and the way his thighs tensed—I pulled away.
“Why did you stop?” he demanded, his voice a needy whine I’d grown to adore.
“Turn over,” I instructed, already reaching for the drawer where we now kept supplies strategically placed throughout the apartment.
His eyes widened with understanding and eagerness. In one fluid motion, he flipped onto his stomach, then raised himself on his hands and knees. The sight of him positioned like that on my cutting table, pajamas pushed down to his thighs, was enough to make me painfully hard.
“Are you just going to stare,” he asked, looking over his shoulder with a mischievous smile, “or are you going to fuck me on top of this very expensive silk you just got in from Japan?”
“How did you know where it’s from?” I asked, even as I was slicking my fingers.
“I read the invoice while you were in the shower this morning. Very premium. Very appropriate for the occasion.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I pressed a finger against him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m magnificent,” he corrected, then moaned as my finger slid inside. “And you’re teasing me.”
“Patience is a virtue,” I reminded him, working him open with deliberate slowness.
“I’m a demon,” he shot back. “Virtue is literally antithetical to my nature. More, Lucas. Now.”
Who was I to argue with infernal royalty? I added a second finger, then a third, watching as he pushed back against my hand with increasing urgency. When I curled my fingers to hit that spot that made him see stars, he cried out so loudly I was sure the neighbors would hear.
“Inside me,” he demanded breathlessly. “I want to feel you.”
I quickly shed my remaining clothes and positioned myself behind him. “Like this? On your hands and knees?”
“Yes,” he hissed, arching his back in invitation. “I want to feel owned by you.”
The words sent a shock of heat through me. I gripped his hips and pressed slowly inside, watching as he took every inch with shameless pleasure.
“Yes,” he sighed once I was fully seated. “Nothing in all the circles of Hell compares to this.”
“High praise,” I managed, trying to maintain some semblance of control as his body gripped me like a vise.
“Earned,” he replied, then wiggled his hips impatiently. “Now move, designer boy. Show me what those artistic hands can really do.”
I started with a measured pace, but Van wasn’t having it. He pushed back against each thrust, demanding more, harder, faster. I obliged, gripping his hips hard enough to leave marks as I drove into him with increasing force.
The cutting table creaked beneath us, pattern pieces and measuring tools scattering to the floor. Van braced himself on his forearms, head hanging down as pleasure overwhelmed him.
“Touch me,” he gasped, and I reached around to stroke him in time with my thrusts.
The combination was too much for him. With a cry that was almost a sob, Van came hard, his body clenching around me as he spilled over my hand and onto the expensive silk below. The force of his climax sent a shockwave through the room—literally. Every piece of glass shattered simultaneously, and for a split second, I swear time itself paused, stretching the moment of ecstasy into something almost unbearable.
When time resumed its normal flow, I was coming too, buried deep inside him as pleasure crashed through me in waves. I collapsed forward, pressing kisses between his shoulder blades as we both struggled to breathe normally.
“That was…” I began, but words failed me.
“Indeed,” Van agreed, somehow making the single word sound both satisfied and smug.
We stayed like that for a moment, connected and breathless, before I carefully pulled out and helped him turn over. His face was flushed, his supernatural eyes glassy with pleasure, his perfect hair a disheveled mess. He’d never looked more beautiful.
“I hope you weren’t planning to use that silk for Mrs. Hemsworth’s gown,” he said with a lazy grin, nodding at the now-thoroughly-defiled fabric beneath him.
I groaned, looking at the destruction. “That was three hundred dollars a yard.”
