Consumed (Devoured, #2)(20)

I don’t want to lose this moment, to lose him, but when I start to repeat, he stops me by tugging roughly on my red hair. “Put your hands down flat.” His tone is dangerously low. “No hands. Just that beautiful mouth of yours.”

His words send a shiver through me, but I nod, my mouth bobbing against his cock in the process. I splay my palms flat on the bottom step, my movements slow and a little exaggerated, earning a slow smile from Lucas.

“You beautiful, intoxicating woman.” He guides my head as far as it will go and he’s pressing against the back of my throat. We both release a broken moan, seconds apart. “What are you doing to me? It’s so good. You’re so f*cking good.”

Whatever it is that I’m doing to him, he’s done to me times two. Because as I use my tongue and mouth to drive him to the point of breaking—and as he stares down at me with one of those looks that twists the pit of my stomach into a million and one knots—I feel like I’m the first woman he’s ever stared at. The first woman to do this to him. The first woman for him, period.

“You were f*cking made for me, Si.” This time, after my tongue traces a path up his cock, he draws all the way back, releasing his hold on my hair. “I’m going to f*ck you.” His breath is coming out in uneven bursts but so is mine.

“Upstairs?” I ask, but he moves his head from side to side.

I barely have time to react before he guides me to my feet. I’m shaking as he hooks his hands behind my knees, urging me to him. I nearly lose my breath when he guides my legs on either side of his body. And as he pulls me down, his thumb gliding beneath my panties to shove the damp scrap of fabric at the juncture of my thighs to the side, I cry out. Because I’m not sure what to do with my hands—my brain is putty right now—I dig my fingers into his taut shoulders while his thick erection presses against me.

“I’m not going to come in you unless it’s safe,” he promises against the crook of my neck. He strokes my clit once, twice. Without warning, he lifts his hips, easing his cock into the warmth of my body bit by bit, slowly filling me. It’s agonizing. And it’s bliss. Dragging my fingernails across his shoulders, I pull him all the way in, clenching myself around him. He shudders and mutters a curse. “I’ll pull out if you say the word.”

His hands are gripping my ass now, moving my body back and forth, up and down. The sensation is so dizzying that it takes me a moment to clear my head enough to realize what he’s asking.

“The shot,” I gasp as he buries himself deep inside of me. “Last time was a month ago. I never skip.”

“Fuck, that’s good to hear,” he growls.

He leans back against the steps, and I follow suit, pressing my face against the tattoos on his chest as I rock my hips against him.

“Look at me,” he says. When I don’t, shaking my head because the feeling of him has officially f*cked with my head, he gives my ass a hard smack. “Look at me, Sienna.”

I lift my head and stare him in the eye. “Happy? Do you see what you do—” My breath catches, and his lips move into a grin. He understands. He knows exactly what he does to me.

He circles his thumb urgently around my clit, causing my whole body to throb, and I cry out. “I want to watch you when you come. I want you to look at me when I come in you,” he says.

“Please,” I whisper, though I’m not sure what I’m begging for. He’s giving me everything that I want right now, everything my body craves. “God, Lucas . . .”

He moves faster, harder, his free hand making rough contact with my ass once more when I squeeze my eyes together. “Let me see you,” he repeats, and I nod, sweat-dampened strands of my red hair falling into his face.

“I want to—” I begin, but then the orgasm comes. It doesn’t build slowly so that I have enough time to warn him. It rips through me, making me clench my teeth as my body tightens around his. I keep my eyes trained on his as the waves of pleasure send a painful shudder through my body. He releases a low growl, and I feel him let go. It’s a first for me, but I’m sure he already knows that, too.

Afterward, as we lay against each other at the bottom of his staircase, breathing heavily with the sweat from our bodies intermingling, he finally says that we’re going upstairs.





After he reintroduces me to his vivid black and red bedroom upstairs, and as promised, to his kitchen where he actually cooks for me, Lucas takes me to his music room. Just like the “piano room” from the house in Nashville, this room is on the bottom level of the house. But with its butter-yellow walls and light hardwood floors, it’s a complete 180 from the sexy, dark décor in the rest of the house.

While he sits strumming his guitar on the couch, I pace around the room, studying the collection of guitars—acoustic and electric—hanging on the walls.

“Kylie’s idea,” he says as I run my fingertips along the smooth surface of a Fender. It boasts a signature across its sleek body that I can’t quite make out, not even when I trace my fingertip along the sloppy scrawl. He changes the key of the song he’s playing. “I would have just left the damn walls bare. And I would’ve left them painted black, but I’ve got to let her win sometimes.”

“I like her ideas. Do the brighter colors help you write?”