Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,88

again. He shifted some more and kissed a slow path up her inner thigh, then pushed her thighs slowly apart. And … looked.

She tried to close her legs. He said, his voice a little rough, “What did I say?”

“Ah …” She tried to get her thoughts together. It wasn’t easy. Her head was spinning.

He said, “I’m going to put a couple pillows under you. Leave your legs just like that. We’re not hurting that foot.”

She thought, confusedly, That’s good, I guess. Pillows. Even though the last thing she cared about right now was her head. Or her foot.

He was stretching over her, and she reached for him, ran her hands greedily over his chest, his flanks. His thighs. And, finally, closed her hand around him. He jerked against her and said, his voice strained, “I thought I told you not to do that. I’m going to lift your hips up. Use your good foot and help me out.”

One pillow under her hips. Another one. And then he got his palms on either side of her thighs and started in on her.

Too slow.

Too slow.

She had her hands in his hair, trying to get hold of it, but it was too short, and she couldn’t. She was so far past embarrassment now, except that she wasn’t, because when she started calling out, she tried to choke the sound back. She was trying to pull his head into her, trying to get him to go faster, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

She said, “Please. Please,” and tried to do it again, and this time, he lifted his head.

Did he promise her he’d hurry up? No, he didn’t. He said, “You’re kind of a slow learner, aren’t you?”

“Hurry. I can’t … I can’t wait any longer.”

He said, “Oh, yeah. You can. You only had one rule. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take care of that, baby.” He grabbed her hands in his and shoved them against her thighs. And then he pushed her legs farther apart, almost to the point of discomfort, and way past the point of helplessness. And he still had her hands. She tried to pull them away, and he tightened his grip.

“That’s better,” he told her. “But you just made it last longer. That’s what happens when you don’t mind.”

He worked her over until she was shaking. Until she was trembling. Until she was calling his name. Until she was begging. And then he got both her wrists in one hand, held them tight, slid a finger into her, and started to suck.

The circles inside her got tighter, then tighter still. All there was in the world was this. His mouth. His finger. He wound her up, and the closer she got, the more he slowed down. He got a second finger in there, and his hands were so big. She was keening, her hips rocking, her wrists held fast.

And he stopped.

He said, “Are you going to be good?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes.”

“How good?” he asked. His grip tightened on her wrists, and his fingers were still moving inside her. Finding the spot, the one she’d never believed in, and she was … she was …

“How good?” he said again.

She couldn’t answer. She was over the edge, her head starting to bang against the mattress. The waves took her, and they tossed her. Over and over and over, and when he set his mouth to her again …

She wailed.

She was shaking. She was trembling. She was trying to form words, and she couldn’t do it. And all he wanted in this world was to stand her up, bend her over, grab her wrists, and fuck her hard from behind.

She wanted exciting. She wanted wild. He wanted it, too. And he knew exactly how to do it.

But there was that foot.

He fumbled in the bedside table, found the box of condoms he’d thought he’d never get a chance to use, and got one on in a great big hurry. And then he got on his knees and sat over her, took her ankles in his hands, and spread her wide.

Flat on her back. Legs in the air.

She was squirming, saying, “Harlan.” He let her do it. He got up close, pulled her in by the ankles, and said, “You want another one of those?”

“Y-yes,” she said. “Yes.”

“Then take it,” he said. “Show me how you do it.” He had one hell of a view. There she was, spread as wide as a woman could get, and she couldn’t do