Cards of Love: The Devil (Devil's Playground #1)(36)

His eyes darken.

I can’t tell if it’s a challenge, or if he’s offering me an out.

I draw in a lungful of air. Why am I so freaked out about this?

It’s not like it’s the other way around. A mouth is a mouth. And this mouth isn’t mine, so it doesn’t matter where it goes. If Damien wants to up the ante for himself, I’m not going to stand in his way. Besides, everyone in the room knows I’m only here for the pussy.

He tears his gaze away and I watch as he continues working over Mrs. Miller’s swollen bud. Blood rushes in my ears, the anticipation of what he’s about to do—or not going to do—has my dick throbbing so hard I feel like I could nut from that alone.

Which is strange as hell, because I enjoy having all the control. Yet here I am, wondering if Damien’s mouth is ever going to move that half a centimeter.

Shame slams into me, because it’s not something I should be thinking…but it’s washed away by white-hot pleasure when his tongue slides along my length for the briefest of moments before going back to licking her pussy.

Heat sears my skin and I stop breathing.

Damien’s lips curve into a smirk. “You like that?”

My retort stalls in my throat—and thank fuck—because I realize he’s talking to Mrs. Miller.

“Yes, I’m so close. Don’t stop.”

My throat bobs on a swallow and right when I’m about to start thrusting because I have to release all this pent-up tension, his tongue glides up and down my shaft again…slower this time.

My whole body vibrates in response.

“Fuck,” I groan. I’m suddenly thankful he had the good sense to blindfold Mrs. Miller because I grab the bedsheets, coming so hard the bed shakes.

And Damien—the fucker—continues licking her pussy filled with my cream, causing aftershocks that have my head spinning.

A few moments later, Mrs. Miller orgasms and Damien shoots his load all over her face before he unties her.

I, however, am lying on the bed, wondering what the hell just happened and how I got here. If someone told me three weeks ago that Damien King would play a part in the best sexual experience I’ve ever had, I’d kick them in the junk and tell them to get a psych evaluation.

“Crap,” Mrs. Miller says after she wipes off her face. “I’m late. Chad’s home already.”

Damien reaches across his nightstand for his cigarettes. “Tell him you stayed after the dance to clean up.”

“Good idea.” She gathers her things and blows us both a kiss. “Take care, boys. Be good.”

“And that,” Damien says after the door closes behind her. “Is why she’s my favorite.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette. “She doesn’t overstay her welcome.”

I start to get off the bed, but he shakes his head. “Relax, that wasn’t a dig. Bros over hoes, remember?”

Taking the cigarette from his hand, I bring it to my lips and inhale. Surprisingly, Damien doesn’t laugh or make fun of me when I start coughing. He just takes another one out of the pack and lights it.

And that’s how we stay for a while. Sitting in the dark, chain-smoking—while staring at his gigantic neon-lit fish tank.

“What kind of fish is that?”

The tank alone has to be at least two-hundred gallons, it’s strange he would opt to only have a single fish in it. Although the fish is kind of cool looking.

“Red-bellied piranha.”

I look for signs he’s joking, but there are none. “I don’t know if that makes you a bad-ass or a psychopath. Don’t they eat humans?”

He blows out a thick line of smoke. “Nah. Most species of piranhas are harmless. There are only two types that attack humans.”

“What are they?”

“Black piranhas.” A menacing smirk unfurls, and his eyes harden. “And red-bellied piranhas.”

I recoil, wondering if I should attack first and ask questions later.

His lips quirk. “Don’t worry, he was fed recently.” When I make a face, he laughs and says, “Fish. Not humans.”

“What made you choose a piranha in the first place?”

His expression goes slack and I swear the room drops a few degrees. “My mom. I lived with her before she kicked the bucket and I moved in with my dad.” His jaw sets. “Long story short, she was a dope head. Wasn’t much of a mother. Most of the time she forgot I existed.”

He reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels on the nightstand and takes a swig. “I went hungry more often than not. But my mom…” He laughs, but there’s not a drop of humor. “She was obsessed with these fucking fish. The only time she’d pay me any attention was to remind me to feed them before she shot up.”

He drags a hand over his scalp. “It was always, ‘feed my fish for me, Damien,’ and ‘Damien, don’t forget to feed my fish.’ The bitch was obsessed.” He shrugs. “But I did it. No matter how many days she was gone. No matter how hungry or lonely I became…I always made sure to feed her goddamn fish. Because it was her thing…the only thing she ever gave a shit about other than dope.” His expression turns solemn. “On my thirteenth birthday, my father sent me fifty bucks like he did every year. And as usual, she got to it before I could. She spent forty-five dollars on dope and five on fish food. Left none for her son.”