Page 70 of Devil

No one would believe it, the infamous Ryan Bell laid low by such amateur attention, but if they were here right now, they’d fucking understand. That diligent tongue, licking and swirling, those diffident eyes flitting up to my face. The deep breath of courage before she leans forward and puts the entire tip into her mouth and the way the tops of her cheeks are still so round and rosy while the sides of them go concave and she sucks.

It’s tentative and timid and also so sweetly determined, and she’s so good, so perfect, everything I’ve been dreaming of since I first learned about her and knew I needed to have her.

My sick, obsessive mind hungrily catalogs every detail of this, every little thing about her on her knees between my planted feet, every sensation of her experimenting with suction and stimulation.

Everything abouther—the burnished copper curls spilling over my fingers, the deep rose-pink of her lips, the lithe lines of muscle in her arms and shoulders. And in the brighter, harsher light of my office, I can see those rare threads of silver at the top of her head. I can see the faint creases at the corners of her closed eyes.

I know it’s barbaric and disgusting, but I love that her first blow job is me. That everything, after all her years of waiting: her first kiss, her first orgasm, first time giving herself an orgasm—me, me,me.

She’s so beautiful and she’s so perfect, and I’m going to take such good care of her.

“Birdie, I’m going to push your head down now. Breathe through your nose.”

My hand is trembling slightly with the restraint it takes to push slowly, to only push a little, and then I’m about halfway in her mouth. Halfway and I can feel every cord in my neck stiffening, every muscle in my stomach tensing as she moves her mouth up to the tip and then back to where she was. Pleasure bolts through me, an arc of lightning catching fire at the base of my spine, and I start chasing her mouth, holding her head with the hand still in her curls, working myself in and out in short, careful thrusts.

“Bad girls take it in the mouth,” I breathe, using the thumb of my free hand to trace her lips where they’re stretched around me. “Bad girls swallow it all. Every drop. Every drop and you’ll be forgiven.”

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, which I take to be assent, and then it doesn’t matter because I’m coming, the orgasm churning its way out of me with enough force that I’m grunting through it, panting through it, unloading into her hot mouth like I haven’t ejaculated in years and I’ve been saving it all for this very moment.

She does amazing, my meek little genius, swallowing like I told her to, letting me use her mouth through the very last wave and then licking me clean. I let go of her hair and lean forward to drag her up in my lap.

She squeaks in surprise but there’s a small dimple in her cheek and a soft happiness to her mouth when she gets settled.

And then, with my dick still out refusing to soften, I tell her everything I wanted to tell her in the studio. That I’m grateful she’s persevered enough to do the things I’ve asked her to do, that she pleases me so much, that it gets me so fucking hot when she lets me bully her into such obscenities.

I reach behind her and grab my pocket watch. And then I laugh.

“What is it?” she asks.

I smile at her. “I’ve only been sitting in this chair for about six minutes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” I say, kissing her clavicle, “when it comes to Birdie Cooper and blow jobs, I’ll need practice too. If I want to last longer than a sailor on shore leave.”

“Well, you have eleven and a half months for all the practice you want.” She has one hand pressed to my chest and her other toying with my hair. Her eyes are fond and her voice is fond too… I don’t think she’s trying to hurt me or protect herself with the reminder of our time-limited arrangement. More like she assumes I see the end of our deal as such a natural, nonnegotiable fact that it’s utterly emotionless for me.

And why wouldn’t she? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.

Fuck.

“Come to family dinner with me tomorrow.” It comes out like a demand, not really at all how an invitation should sound, but I don’t care. I need…I need her to come. I need to see her surrounded by my family, being fussed over and fed and climbed on by nieces and nephews and given useless advice from my dad. I need to forget for a night that this could all fall apart when summer comes again.

She looks away. “Bell…”

I tense underneath her, and she corrects herself.

“Ry. That’s your family time, and I don’t want to intrude.”

“You won’t be intruding.”

A weak smile. “I’m your…what? Mistress? Escort? I’m not meant to be at family dinners.”

“Can you be my girlfriend?” I don’t know why my heart is pounding like this. She can’t really be my girlfriend, not until this deal is over and she’s with me because she wants to be, but I’m desperate to know the answer to the question, to see if she blanches at the idea of being something real and lasting and loved.

She doesn’t blanch. But something sad moves into her face when she says, “Of course I can pretend to be your girlfriend.”

“It’s not pretend to me,” I tell her. “Just…part of.”