Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,167

her. And to let her know. “Thought I said to touch yourself.”

She was embarrassed. She was. But she did it. Touching your own breasts didn’t do that much for you, she’d always thought. She’d been wrong, because it was doing something for her now. He smiled, slow and wicked, and said, “Yeah. Keep doing that.” He let go of the ring, pinched her labia together with one big hand, and started to squeeze. In a rhythm. He did it until she was moaning. Until she was rocking back and forth, as much as she could in her constrained position. And then he drew both thumbs up her, around her, until they met at the ring again.

“You’re going to come before I even put my mouth on you,” he told her. “And once I do, you’re going to come over and over again. After that? I’m going to spank your ass pink and fuck you hard. You played with me. Now it’s my turn to play with you. By the time I’m done with you tonight, you’re going to remember I’ve been there.”

The first wave of her climax spiked into her before she knew it was coming, and then the rest did. He was swearing, dropping to his knees, and setting his mouth to her, and she came again. And again. She was no sooner falling than she was going up again. And she was wailing.

She could come just from him talking to her. And once he started in to please her in earnest, she came so hard, he got worried. He stopped, once, and asked, “Doing OK?”

In answer, she gasped, “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare.” So he didn’t. He went fast and hard, and then he went slow and teasing, and she loved it all. She couldn’t even grab his hair, not all the way down there on the couch. She couldn’t grab him at all. She was helpless, and he was enjoying the hell out of that.

He’d have said, after that episode in the bathroom, that he was a wrecked man. It hadn’t lasted, because when a woman needed it this bad, you pretty much had to give it to her. Which was why he got to his feet, finally, and took a good look at her. Lush, pink-tipped breasts outlined by black triangles. Swell of belly. Strawberry-blonde curls in wild disarray, her eyes closed and her mouth open, panting. That orgasmic flush on her chest that a woman couldn’t fake, especially not one with skin this pale. And hands that had forgotten to do anything at all, because they were over her head, clutching the fabric of the couch cushion.

She made him feel too many things. Aching need. Fierce tenderness. And the primal urge to put his stamp on her in every way there was. He said, “I’m going to do some things here. If any of it doesn’t feel good, if you need a break … tell me.”

He couldn’t even tell if she’d heard. He said, “Baby. Open your eyes.”

She did, and that about sent him to his knees right there. Shining gold, nearly blind with desire. He said, “Still OK?”

“I thought you were going to … spank me,” she said. “Some … talker.”

She still thought he wouldn’t. He could tell. When he rolled her hips to one side and shoved her legs up so her knees were bent, she tensed. And when he slowly pushed his way inside, one hand around her ankle, holding her leg up, the other hand on her hip, and just about lost it right there from the heat and tightness of her, she relaxed. But when he thrust hard and slapped that gorgeous ass at the same time? She jumped, and she cried out.

He stopped. “Too hard?”

“N-no. Do it. Please, Harlan. Do it.” She had that blind-eyes look again. Her breasts were rising and falling, and he had the perfect view. Of more than that, because he could look down and watch himself sliding in and out of that glorious pinkness, and there was no view in the world better than that.

She wanted it, so he did it. He spanked her some as he fucked her, holding her calves up against her thighs the whole time, keeping her tight for him. Keeping her held for him. He took it slow, and he drew it out. He told her she was a dirty girl, that he knew her secrets, and he was going to make her pay. He told her