Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,89

anything about it.

“Only if … you do it, too.”

“Do what?”

She was trying to scowl. It was so cute. Tumbled red hair, white skin flushed with the force of that orgasm, her breasts heaving, that curvy mouth twisting. “You’ve just … teased,” she said. “Over and over.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I have.” He pushed her legs a little farther towards her face and moved in until he was straddling her. Almost there. So close. “All you’ve got to do is tell me. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“I want you … inside me.” It was a gasp, and she was trying her best to squirm closer.

“Not good enough,” he said. “Get your hand down there. Time to use that skill of yours. Time to show me what you’ve got.”

He was an idiot. He needed to be inside her more than he’d ever needed anything, she was begging him to do it, and he was still holding back.

He said, “Do what I tell you.”

Her face was flaming. He was willing to bet that she’d never masturbated in front of a man in her life. She sure as hell hadn’t done it when she was wet and slick and swollen, propped up on pillows, and displayed for him, when her ankles were in his hands.

She did it. And she was right. She was good at it. And when he couldn’t stand it a single second more, he slid inside her.

Hot. Tight. Wet.

He tried to keep it slow. He tried to drag it out a little more. But he was watching it all happen, and …

Oh, yeah. But he wasn’t ready yet. He still needed to make her say it.

She was getting closer. Her eyes closing, her mouth opening. He was moving faster, too, because despite his best intentions, despite his discipline, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Her keening breath. His hands tight around her thighs now, pulling her into him with every thrust. He said, “Tell me.” Barely able to get the words out.

He could see her back arching, her thighs tensing, one arm flung over her head, clutching at the sheet. The fabric twisting in her fist as she tried to hold on.

She opened her eyes. Gold in the firelight. Wide. Focused only on him.

He said, “Yeah. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Tell me what I want to hear.”

She said, “Harlan. Harlan. Fuck me. Please.”

Going so deep inside her, her inner walls squeezing him tight. Her eyes on him, watching him the same way he was watching her. Knowing that what she saw was exciting her more. Hearing her say things she’d never said, watching her do things she’d never done.

It felt so good, it hurt. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t …

He forgot to be slow. He forgot to be careful. He took her hard.

He made her come, and then she kept on doing it, and he was slamming into her like a wrecking ball, his arms wrapped tight around her thighs, his voice groaning out her name. And when he was finally there …

He honestly thought he was going to die.

28

Everybody’s Fine

She couldn’t catch her breath.

Harlan was still over her, but he’d slid up and lowered himself down to kiss her. Deep and hot and possessive, the same way he’d felt inside her. She tasted herself on him, and despite the two most mind-blowing orgasms of her life, just tasting that, and knowing he wanted her to, made her go even more warm and liquid inside.

And then he rolled off her and said, “Shit.” And not in a I-can’t-believe-how-good-that-was way. In an I-just-bounced-a-check way. Which was not what she’d been expecting.

“What?” she asked, and tried to joke, even though it didn’t feel one bit funny. “No good, even with all those rules?”

He said, “Condom broke.” And she realized that the liquid wasn’t just arousal. It was … liquid.

“Hang on,” he told her, and headed into the bathroom. When he came back, he was holding a hand towel, and she was struggling up to sit. Which wasn’t easy, because her foot hurt. A lot.

“Here,” he said, put an arm behind her shoulders, and helped her up. “Don’t move. I’ve got it.”

He wiped her down and cleaned her up, his touch gentle, something that should have embarrassed her, that would have embarrassed her, but how could she be embarrassed after all that? He asked, “How’s the foot?”

“Hurts,” she admitted.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m not surprised. Where are those pills the doctor gave you?”

“In my bathrobe pocket. I don’t think I should