The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(69)

He grasps himself, staying on his knees as he lines up with my entrance. If he hadn’t just made me come, I think the fit would be too tight. But he slides in slowly, inch by inch, bracing himself over me with his eyes squeezed shut.

It’s exquisite.

It’s too much.

I want more.

“You don’t have to go slow for me,” I whisper breathlessly. “I’m okay. I’m not going to come again.”

His laugh sounds pained. “Keeley, you’re definitely coming again, but I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this so I don’t lose it way too fast. I just want it to last.”

I hold his gaze as he pushes in again, more quickly. And again. I clench around him as my muscles tighten.

“Fuck,” he gasps. His eyes fall closed. “I’m going to come so fucking hard, Keeley.”

Oh God.

There is nothing more thrilling to me than watching Graham fight for control. His thrusts take on a rhythm now, faster, as if involuntary. And he was right; I am going to come again. Like a car without brakes, there’s only one outcome left for us both. I become distantly aware of my own voice whispering to him, urging him on. Breathy, desperate. Yes, God, just like that. Oh, God, don’t stop, Graham I’m close and—

I fall apart with a sharp, sudden cry, and he gasps again, grunting as he lets go at last.

He’s still inside me when my eyes open, his eyes studying my face as if I’m a favorite photograph he’s saying goodbye to. As if he can’t stand to look away.

My heart squeezes tight. Were it up to Graham, we might happily stay like this for the foreseeable future. And oh my God, I can picture that, all too easily: the two of us continuing on the way we have, making dinner, watching TV, and taking care of a baby while having endless, increasingly athletic sex. It’s more delicious, more compelling, than any dream I’ve ever had. But that would just make it all harder in the end; if we break up or if I succumb to the O’Keefe curse, it’ll just make it all harder.

“You need to stop thinking,” he says, his hand pressing to my cheek, commanding me to look at him. “Which is something I never thought I’d have to ask of you.”

I laugh, biting down on the words I want to say: “Do you promise not to hate me now that this has happened? Can we make things go back to normal?”

He pulls out at last and falls to the other side of me, his palm on my stomach. The baby kicks, right beneath his hand, a tiny fluttering like a butterfly edging along the sides of a hedge.

“Was that her?” he asks. He’s felt this before, but never just…spontaneously. And not when I’m this far along. He pulls himself up onto his elbow, staring at my stomach.

“Little Kalamity does not like being woken from her slumber, I guess.”

He laughs. “You’re not naming her that.”

I wish I could stay here and suggest increasingly outlandish names, names—I’ve been keeping a list on my phone for just such a moment. I wish I could doze off with his hand on my stomach and wake to find him still asleep, face sweet in repose. I’d just stare at him, the way I did the night I climbed into his bed with Lola, and marvel at the perfection of his nose, how boyish a face as angular as his can look at rest.

I’d like to wake in the morning to find us tucked together like two spoons so I could rub up against him until he couldn’t stand not to slide back inside me. Afterward, he’d want me to eat something gross, and I’d whine until he went to the bakery and got me a muffin.

But that’s the life of a different kind of girl—the kind who stays around—and it would hurt one or both of us so fucking much when I couldn’t do it.

I fake a yawn and stretch before I slide away from him and start gathering my clothes. He watches me and doesn’t argue. Which is good. I don’t want him to turn into the tedious guy who argues.

“I’m gonna go,” I tell him.

His eyes drift over my face, a half-second of indecision. I guess I wouldn’t mind if he argued a little bit.

“Sleep well,” he replies.

I go to my own room and climb into bed, wishing I could have stayed. And suddenly a memory hits me out of nowhere: sometime, during our first night together, he’d pulled me against him and asked if I was thinking about how to sneak away.

“Actually,” I’d said, “I’m thinking you should marry me, and we should have a billion kids.”

It was me. This whole fucking thing was my idea. Possibly even the kid.





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36





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KEELEY





I wake, worried sick over what I’m in for this morning. Yes, there’s the question of whether or not I’m about to get fired—especially once they hear I went onto Mindy and Mills—but my most pressing concern is Graham.

I’ve been in this position before and I know how it unfolds: men laud you for being “laid back” about sex at first. “Yeah, I’m not looking for serious either,” the guy says, but then he randomly shows up where you work, or texts you forty times in a row while liking every one of your Instagram posts, and has his publicist or assistant call for him when you haven’t replied. Eventually, when you realize he’s not getting the hint, you politely explain to him that you’re just really busy right now—that’s when he freaks out and calls you a fucking whore.