The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(76)

In seconds, he has me going off like a bomb.

“God, I love that,” he hisses and then his thrusts come fast and sharp, and he lets go, too, throwing his head back, his eyes squeezed tight.

When they finally open again, I reach up to his throat. “You have my favorite thyroid cartilage in the entire world.”

He laughs. “That’s probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“All the blood may have rushed from my brain. I’m not thinking all that clearly right now.”

His mouth curls into a hint of a smile—a smug, smug smile—and then he lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me.

“What are you doing?”

He walks into his room and deposits me carefully on the bed. “Making sure you keep not thinking clearly. Traditionally, that’s worked out really well for me.”

The second time is long and luxurious, and he refuses to do it hard, the way I ask, but goes down on me instead, and I guess I really have no complaints about this in the end.

When it’s over, though, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. If he’s flying out in the morning, he might want the room to himself. Maybe he’s got to repack. Maybe he wants to do laundry.

“Well,” I begin, sliding away.

“Keeley,” he says. “Don’t.”

I’m not sure what he’s telling me not to do, at first, but then he pulls the blankets over us both and his hand lands on my hip.

Ah, I think, smiling. Don’t leave.

He tugs my back to his chest, his knees sliding into the curve of mine, his arms around me so that I am covered in him, as close as we can possibly be. And like that we remain for the entire night.

It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.





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40





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KEELEY





When I wake, the bed is empty.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find that disappointing, that there wasn’t a part of me hoping maybe we’d pick right back up where we left off, or that maybe he’d even just…stay. I don’t know what any of this means for when he gets home on Wednesday.

I walk to the kitchen, glancing at my clothes strewn around the room and walking past them to his discarded t-shirt, balled on the floor. He’ll never notice it’s gone, and even if he does, he wouldn’t accuse me of taking it. He’d sound crazy.

I bring it to my nose and breathe him in as I slip it over my head. He was so…him last night. So feral and restrained and hungry and unleashed all at the same time. Like a delicious package I only got to partially unwrap.

I’m taking another sniff of his shirt when the door swings open and he enters, carrying two cups and a white paper bag.

He didn’t fly back to New York…He went to get us breakfast. What a ridiculous thing to make my heart swell ten sizes.

And then his gaze lands on me, on the t-shirt I’m wearing, and I feel heat climbing up my neck. Fuck.

He crosses the room to me and pulls a cup from the tray. “It’s decaf,” he says and I hold the mocha latte to my nose, letting the steam rise in a delicious waft of fresh roasted beans and chocolate before I take a sip. He holds the bag aloft. “And I got your disgusting muffin.”

He bought the muffin he doesn’t approve of. For me. Instead of forcing me to eat some gross concoction of protein powder and eggs and peanut butter like he does.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I assume you snuck quinoa into it, but that was sweet of you.”

“It’s quinoa-free.” His eyes lower now to his t-shirt.

Fuck. Again.

“I, uh…” I begin, and my mind suddenly is empty of all plausible excuses for stealing his shirt when I had to step over my own clothes to reach it.

His gaze raises to my face, and there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes. “I like it.” He steps closer and, removing the coffee from my hand, kisses me.

“You can’t kiss me,” I argue, though I’m making no effort to back away from him. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“You taste like coffee, which happens to be one of my favorite things.”

His hand lands on my hip and I’m suddenly breathless. “I didn’t know that.”

He pulls me close then, close enough to feel the bulge in his gym shorts—which is pretty much all the foreplay I need. “Would you like to know some of my other favorites, Keeley?” His lips graze the shell of my ear, and before I’ve even begun to nod, his hand is sliding beneath the t-shirt and over my skin.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“You’re not going to tell me this is a terrible idea?” His hand runs along my rib cage, his wrist brushing the underside of my breast.

“I’m going to think it but keep it to myself.”

He laughs then picks me up like I’m feather-light and carries me back to bed.





There should have been a whole chapter in What to Expect When You’re Expecting on the dangerous combination of pregnancy hormones and Graham Tate. Because I’m pretty sure that if one of us wasn’t a vaguely responsible adult—hint: it’s not me, but it’s barely him either—we would fuck until we died from lack of sleep or starvation.