Page 98 of Whiskey Chase
My cock slid out of her regretfully.
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
“Right here.” She sank between my open knees and dragged the condom off of my shaft. “I want to see you come.”
And just like that, my orgasm was back, demanding me to find it. She used both hands on me, her breast still bare. And when she leaned forward to flick her tongue over my crown, I’d never seen anything like it. I was there, on the edge already.
She watched my crown in glee as clear liquid beaded at the tip. “You like this, don’t you Dev?” she whispered, pumping my cock harder.
I wanted to close my eyes, to give myself over to the climax she was milking out of me, but I didn’t want to miss a second of those hungry gray eyes, the way her rosy lips parted when she felt me pulse against her.
“You’re going to come for me, and I’m going to watch,” she said, licking her lips. She brushed her thumbs over my balls, and that was it. I was coming. We both watched, hypnotized as the first thick rope of my release wrenched itself free, landing across my stomach. I gritted my teeth together but couldn’t quite cover the grunt of satisfaction, of relief. The next one reached my chest and glistened in the dim light from inside.
Scarlett worked my dick with her small, strong hands, pumping me until every drop I’d been holding back lay patterned across my abs and chest. Only then did I drop my head back against the chair. Only then did I start to breathe again.
“That was fucking awesome,” Scarlett said with satisfaction, her head resting on my thigh. With the last of my energy, I stroked her hair and started planning the best way to convince her to give us a real shot.
38
Devlin
Idumped my contribution to dinner—one of those large bagged salad kits— into a mixing bowl on the island. I could smell the sizzle of steaks on the grill out on the deck, hear the murmur of conversation. We’d invited the Bodines over for a cookout. Even Gibson had reluctantly come. Scarlett wasn’t here yet. She’d been called in to help a plumber friend handle a drainage emergency at a rental property.
Gibson and Scarlett had yet to patch things up, and I hoped that a cookout on neutral ground would pave the way.
I heard a car in the driveway and felt my heart lift. Just the anticipation of seeing Scarlett made me happy. Ever since our trip to Annapolis, I’d been thinking seriously about the future, and I knew one thing. I wanted Scarlett in mine.
I heard the knock at the front door and frowned. Scarlett wasn’t a knocker. None of the Bodines were. They either pushed right through your unlocked doors or made themselves at home in your yard and on your deck. It was the Bootleg way.
Maybe it was Millie Waggle with another delectable baked good. The woman could perform miracles with flour and cocoa. I think she had a secret crush on Jonah, and I was happy to encourage it if it meant I got to enjoy homemade pies and sticky buns and cookies.
I wiped my hands on the dishtowel, shoved the salad into the fridge, and headed toward the front of the house.
It was not Millie Waggle standing on my doorstep. It was Johanna.
I blinked, not believing my eyes. It had been long enough since I’d seen her last. I’d already forgotten little details about her. The beauty mark at the side of her mouth. The pearly pink lipstick she was never without, even though I’d preferred to kiss her without it.
She was tall and slim, bordering on too thin, I realized. She exercised ruthlessly and managed her diet with the focus of a general at war. Her blonde hair was swept back into a low roll at the base of her neck. She wore a sleeveless sheath dress in dove gray and a string of pearls around her neck that matched the studs in her ears. It was her “casual” wardrobe.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, not quite trusting my voice. The woman before me had once shared my life, my bed, my goals. Now, she was a stranger.
“Devlin,” she said with a soft smile. “So good to see you. I’d like to come in.”
“I have company,” I told her. My brain was still shocked at seeing her on my doorstep and didn’t form the “get the hell out” that I felt she deserved.
She cocked her head to the side, still smiling wanly. “It’s important,” she insisted.
I should have slammed the damn door in her damn face and joined the party on the deck, but decades of etiquette training and social graces wouldn’t let me. I held the door open, and she walked inside.
“Such a quaint home,” she said brightly. I followed her back the hallway to the living room. The deck doors were open, and music and laughter spilled inside.
Johanna turned away from the view and the fun outside and faced me, lacing her fingers together in front of her. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she stated.
“I have.” I didn’t see a reason to lie or make her feel more comfortable with the situation. “Most men do that when it comes to their ex-wives.”
“The divorce isn’t final yet,” Johanna pointed out. “And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Believe me, if there were anything I could do to speed the process along, I would have,” I snapped.
