Page 52 of Only the Devil
“Fuck you’re tight.”
It’s been a while for me. Like the kind of while where you wonder if your veejay’s going to close up the way an ear piercing does. But instead of oversharing, I cling to him, rocking my hips, my nails digging into the back of his neck and shoulder, one foot slapping his ass as he finally, finally sets about fucking me hard.
He’s almost right where I want him when he suddenly stops, his grip on my hips tightening.
“Not like this.” His voice is rougher now, more commanding. “I want you spread out for me.”
The authoritative tone might normally annoy me, but instead it sends heat spiraling through my core. He lifts me easily, and I have no choice but to wrap my legs around him as he moves us toward the living room. Each step presses him against me in a way that makes coherent thought impossible.
When he lowers me onto the sofa, there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks down at me. Then he’s kicking off his trousers that were somewhere down around his ankles, and that reverence shifts back to pure hunger.
“On your hands and knees.”
I scramble to comply, digging his command. If he tried that on any other day, I’d probably hand him a verbal lashing, but I’m too turned on to care. Strong, calloused hands grip my hips, and with one forceful thrust he fills me. The soft cushions are a world more comfortable than the counter, and I rock back, matching his pace. The scent of sex fills the room, as does the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. He reaches forward, tweaking a nipple, and my sex clenches. His breathing has changed—rougher, less controlled—and when I glance back, tightness rims his eyes, proof he’s fighting for control.
“That’s it.”
He reaches for me, but then the next thing I know he pulls out, and I’m lying on my side, him behind me. He lifts my leg, sliding in from behind. I’m a little unsure about this position until he releases my leg and heat covers my mound. As he slides in and out, he manipulates my clit, and I close my eyes. In this position, there’s little I can do other than lie here and let him fuck me. With his fingers working me, it doesn’t take long until white specks dot the back of my eyelids.
“That’s it, let it go, let me have it.”
He keeps going as I pant out his name like a prayer.
“Say it again. Say my name.”
I’m not sure anything intelligible exits my mouth, but his rhythm grows erratic as I feel him thicken and pulse deep within me. His head drops to the cushion behind me and he relaxes into the sofa. My ankle dangles off the edge, but the sofa is deep and surprisingly accommodating for both of us lying like this side by side. His hand wanders up my body until it cups a breast. He nips at my shoulder and lets out a “Hoo-wee. I needed that.”
He slips out of me, and I push up, needing a little space from his suddenly cuddly arms.
“I hope you’re game for a repeat,” he says.
“Did you know your eyes are green?”
“Sage,” he answers. “That’s what my—” He cuts himself off abruptly, his hand stilling on my hip. For a split second, his cocky facade cracks, revealing something raw underneath before he clears his throat and looks away.
“When we first met, I didn’t notice.”
“Didn’t really look then, did ya’?” He grins and pushes up, settling beside me, feet flat on the floor.
We’re both naked, sitting on the sofa…and it’s awkward. The air feels suddenly too warm, too intimate. I can’t quite meet his eyes, so I focus on a spot just past his shoulder. My skin’s hypersensitive, every nerve ending aware of his proximity. I hop up quickly, one arm covering my breasts, scanning the cushions for a stain—anything to avoid the weight of his gaze.
“You do not need to cover up. I love those tits.” He shuffles off, hand on the base of his dick, the condom still in place.
“Please. I know you love big ones.” And blondes, because he basically admitted it, but I’d never expose my insecurities by commenting on his type.
When he glances back over his shoulder, there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression—like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how so I set about finding my clothes.
“Baby, there’s absolutely nothing I would change about that body of yours.” And with that, he closes the bathroom door. Through the thin door, I hear him pause—no sound of running water yet. Just silence. When the faucet finally turns on, it’s followed by what sounds suspiciously like his palm smacking against the wall.
Baby. I’m not sure how I feel about that descriptor. Typically, a comment like that would land in ick territory. But as I set about getting dressed, there’s no trace of ick…only consternation. We need to lay some ground rules. Sex is fun and there’s no reason we can’t do more of this, but…but what?
Jake Ryder is going to want a relationship? Please. That’s not happening. There’s no need for ground rules. He’s not a relationship guy; the only reason he’s tossing that baby word around is because he’s a good ol’ Southern-boy Neanderthal. Which isn’t a bad thing in and of itself. Because it’ll eventually give me the ick—and that’s exactly what I want. The last thing I need is to be lovesick for a player. I’ve read about SEALs and how women fall at their feet. He might not be in the military anymore, but he’s still one of them.
But, said womanizer really knows his way around a woman’s body, so I can enjoy this little bit of play while it lasts. At least until he does something that lessens his appeal. Or until we figure out who killed Jocelyn and what laws Sterling has been breaking that warranted murder—and then Jake and I go our separate ways. Whichever happens first.
Chapter 17
Jake
