He pulls my shirt and bra off and lets them fall to the floor. His fingers dig into my hair as he picks me up and kisses me again. I cling to him, my arms around his neck and my breasts against his chest, my nipples tingling from the contact with his hard muscles.
When he puts me down, I’m staring up at the ceiling fan in the dining room, my shoulders on the table, and my ass supported by Devlin’s strong hands. The towel around his waist is gone, and his penis is fully erect. He’s already completely sheathed in a condom.
“When did you put that on?” I ask in shock. Was I honestly so out of it that I didn’t notice?
He gives me a cockeyed smile. “Been wearing it since I came down.”
Holy shit. He’s been hard all along? That explains why he was unhappy that I was distracted earlier. I want him too, but I wasn’t wet the second he came down the stairs.
He strips me of my pants and underwear, then spreads my thighs and positions himself between my legs. His dick presses against me, thick, hard and pulsing. But instead of pressing inside, he just rocks his cock against my slick folds. The friction against my clit makes me gasp.
His gaze shifts to my left; I follow it and see the glass panes on the curio cabinet in the dining room. And us reflected in them, like a private porn flick.
It’s slightly embarrassing…and hot as hell.
He takes my nipple into his mouth, making me gasp at how hot and good it feels, as he moves faster against me. I’m totally wet now, aching with the need to be filled, to have him inside me. But he doesn’t seem interested as he maintains the rhythm of his pelvic movements and takes the other nipple into his mouth. I’m so close. But it isn’t enough.
“Dev… Dev, please,” I beg. More words pour out, but I have no idea what I’m saying. What’s driving me has no logic, no intelligence. Just sheer desire for more of him, more of what he’s giving me.
I know he can hear me. His breathing is rougher, and he’s making a sound deep in his throat almost like he’s in pain.
The tension inside me is too taut, too on the edge. I feel like a glass filled to the absolute limit, quivering with surface tension. Just one more drop to overflow. To let go…
He finally gives in, driving so hard and fast and deep into me that his balls slap my flesh. It’s the final dro—
Pleasure drenches me, drowns me, makes it impossible to breathe. I sob and twist and arch as an orgasm consumes me, as Devlin devours me, his mouth hard against mine.
But he doesn’t give me a chance to recover. He picks me up again, both hands on my ass. I manage to wrap limp arms and shaking legs around him. His dick’s still throbbing inside me, somehow—impossibly—even harder and thicker now.
He carries me up the stairs, every step sending another spasm of pleasure through me.
I realize the legal agreement for the marriage we signed has no real power between us. Devlin has the power to cross out every single one of the clauses and write his own rules. And I can’t decide if I should be thrilled or terrified that he has so much control.
Chapter Thirty
Devlin
Something’s up with Becca. I want her to be well and happy, and not just because it’s hard to have sex with a woman who’s distracted and sleep-deprived to the point of sporting dark circles the size of moon craters. But because I… Well… She’s my wife! So of course I care.
But for a week now she’s been more or less beside herself and won’t tell me why. I go to my drums and beat them steadily, like I’m accompanying Boléro in an orchestra. The repetitive motion sometimes helps me think better and more clearly, like how some people get their best ideas when they’re vacuuming or exercising. But no clarity is lighting my brain like the Burning Bush of Moses.
Is there anybody I can talk to about this…?
Killian! He’s been married for a while now. He might have some insight. So I call him.
“Hey, man,” Killian says, cool and relaxed as usual. “You calling to report? Coulda just texted…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I don’t want to waste time with chitchat. “Listen, why do women get distracted?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I am. Because I want to discuss women, not groupies.”
A beat of silence. “Are we talking Max’s baby sister?”
“That would be the inference.”
“You said ‘women.’”