A long hesitation. Finally, he sighs. “In a moment.”
“But—” My protest dies as he descends on my pussy. I quickly discover that he was merely teasing me before. There’s no teasing now. Devan spreads me wide and kisses me with a devastating thoroughness that has my toes curling. I don’t mean to reach down, but then my hands are in his hair and I’m rolling my hips, fucking his mouth even as he fucks me with his tongue.
I want it to last. Dear god, I want it to last.
I’ve been idling on the edge too long, though. My body takes over and then I’m coming, crying out his name as I orgasm all over his face. He curses against my skin and gentles his kiss almost reluctantly. Devan shoves away from me. “Get changed, birthday girl. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.”
Chapter 8
As I change in the bathroom, I have time to regret insisting on this right now. I should have let him keep charge of things, at least until we had sex. Now my nerves take hold again, and I half expect to step out and find Devan gone, my forbidden fantasies too taboo, even for him.
I check myself out in the mirror. The bikini is identical to the one I wore that birthday, tiny and as red as the dress I had on earlier. The back is cut narrow—not quite a thong, but leaving most of my ass exposed. The triangles of the top are laughably small, barely large enough to keep my breasts contained and cover my nipples.
I drag my hands through my hair a few times, messing up my careful curls and doing a damned good approximation of the beach waves I had going on at nineteen in Mallorca. A tiny bottle of tequila, a sliced lime, and a small container of salt complete the memory. Or they will. I hope.
I take a slow breath, straighten my spine, and leave the relative safety of the bathroom. Devan isn’t in the bedroom, but I don’t expect him to be. To do this properly, we need the dining room table.
It’s only as I’m walking through the hotel room that I realize I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. This might be my fantasy, but in no part of that fantasy am I in charge of anything. I forgot to tell Devan that, forgot to outline exactly what I want to happen. Then again, I don’t know what I want to happen. The timeline between body-shot and coming on his cock is blurry.
But as I walk into the main area of the suite, I realize I don’t have to worry about anything. Devan’s turned off the overhead lights, leaving the lamps on to create a dangerously intimate setting, and there’s a faint strain of music from somewhere. It sounds vaguely familiar, and I stop short as realization sets in. “You memorized what was playing that night?”
“Something like that.”
I jump a little. I hadn’t seen him leaning against the kitchenette counter. He’s put his T-shirt back on again, and disappointment courses through me. I hold up the tequila bottle. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Mmmm.” He motions and I walk over and hand them to him. Devan considers the objects, expression contemplative. “Do you know what I thought when I walked into that place and saw you laid out on the bar, practically naked?”
“No,” I breathe. “Tell me.”
“I thought…” He lifts his gaze to mine. “I’m dying to know what she tastes like.”
I back slowly to the table and lean against it. “Come find out.” I test the strength of the table, but of course it holds. Then I sit on it and stretch out. It’s a little too short, so my hair and legs drape off on either side, but the sound Devan makes has me fighting for breath.
This is happening.
He starts toward me slowly. I don’t know how he manages it, but it’s like he flips a switch and sexy menace rolls off him in waves. Just like it did that night. “What’s going on here?” I start to sit up, but he plants a hand in the center of my chest and easily pins me in place. “I asked you a question, birthday girl.”
“Just celebrating,” I breathe.
“Celebrating.” He repeats it slowly, as if he’s not familiar with the word. “This is how you celebrate? Letting these boys have their mouths all over you.”
I bite my bottom lip. “We’re doing body shots. You should try it sometime. It might loosen you up.”
He widens his hand the slightest bit, his fingers brushing against the curves of my breasts. It’s the smallest of movements, and I could almost convince myself it’s an accident. Or I could if this was anyone else. “You offering?”
“You see anyone else ready to go?” When he doesn’t move, I force out a laugh. Acting every inch the part of the wild nineteen-year-old I used to be. “Thought not, old man. Let me up or get out of the way for the next guy.”