There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(8)

“What the hell!” I gasp.

I whirl around, finding Cole with his hands in his pockets and an artfully constructed expression of innocence on his face.

“Mosquito bite?” he says.

My face is burning and my knees are going wobbly beneath me. The buzzing has dialed down to a low thrum, steady and insistent. I see Cole’s hand shifting within his pocket as he manipulates the controls. The buzzing ramps up again, almost loud enough for the perfume counter lady to hear. I take several steps away from her, trying to squeeze my legs together, then quickly separate them again because that only makes it worse.

“Are you alright?” she asks me, her botoxed brow unable to wrinkle in concern.

“Could I … have some water?” I squeak.

I’m trying to get rid of her so I can yell at Cole.

Wheeling on him, I bark, “Turn that off!”

Instead, he turns it up.

I have to lean against the glass counter, cheeks burning and hands sweating.

“Stop,” I beg him.

He turns it off, giving me a moment of blessed relief to recover myself.

The perfume lady returns with a small bottle of water.

“Feeling better?” she says, handing it to me.

“Yes, thank you,” I pant. “I think the perfume was making me dizzy.”

“Try this,” she says, passing me an open canister of coffee beans. “It can help clear your head.”

I lean over to inhale their scent.

Right as I do, Cole activates the vibrator again.

“Oh my god!” I gasp, clutching at the countertop with both hands.

I’m helpless as the sensation thrums up and down my legs, churning in my lower stomach.

Cole has discovered a fatal weakness, one I didn’t even know I possessed. Vibration is my kryptonite, and Cole is employing it with Lex Luther levels of evil genius.

How the fuck did he even find one this small? He probably made it himself, that crafty bastard.

He’s ramping it up again, while I desperately try not to moan in front of the confused blonde.

“Do you need a doctor?” she says.

“She’ll be fine,” Cole assures her. “This happens all the time.”

That makes no goddamned sense, but Cole is so convincing that the blonde simply smiles and says, “We have a powder room if you need to sit down.”

Cole puts his arm around my shoulders, leading me away from the perfume counter, but not shutting off the vibrator.

I turn into his chest, holding him for support, hiding my face against his body as I start to cum. My legs shake like an earthquake, my arms wrapped tight around his waist. I’m making a muffled groaning sound.

When it finally passes, I gasp, “Turn that damn thing off!”

Cole complies, though I can feel him shaking too—from laughter.

I look up at him.

Cole is illuminated with the purest, brightest amusement I’ve ever seen. It lights up his whole face, making him beautiful on a level that awes me.

I can only stare.

Then I start to giggle as well.

Maybe it’s the rush of dopamine, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time, Cole and I are laughing together, at a secret that only we share.

“Why are you so awful?” I snort.

“I don’t know,” he says, with real wonder. “I only want what I’m not supposed to have.”

Me too.

Nobody wanted me to be an artist.

Nobody wanted me to achieve anything.

Until I met Cole.

He turns the vibrator on several more times while we’re shopping. It becomes a game between us, him trying to do it at the most inopportune times, and me fighting my hardest not to show any sign of it on my face, to keep talking and picking out mascara while my knees tremble and my skin flushes as pink as a baby pig.

Soon I’m giddy and over-stimulated, hanging off his arm because I can barely stand up. Cole carries all the bags for me, laden down like a Sherpa.

I’ve never felt so spoiled.

I’ve never had so much fun.





2





Cole





When we return from shopping, Mara pounces on me, shoving me down on the nearest chaise, saying, “Now it’s my turn,” in that husky voice of hers.

If I could describe the attraction I feel for her, and the way it eclipses what I’ve ever felt before, I’d have to say that Mara is just … gritty. She has an edge of roughness, wildness, neglect.

Even though I should dislike certain aspects of her person—the way she bites her nails ragged, for instance—it all becomes the spice that I crave more than any bland and perfect beauty.

The artist in me desires what is truly unique. The slope of Mara’s upturned nose, her wild fling of freckles, the fox-tilt of her eyes, the lower lip’s ratio to the top … these proportions are so exaggerated that they ought to be wrong. Instead, they could never be more right.

She looks up at me, a wild creature. No captive pet … I’ve lured her here but not yet tamed her to my will.

I lean back against the cushions, arms spread across the scrolled woodwork, looking down at her. Watching her work.

She unzips my pants, looking up into my face, her sleet-gray eyes flirting with mine. She’s smiling, licking her lips with anticipation, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.