The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(58)

His mouth moves to my neck as his hand slides inside my panties at last. I can’t hold in the moan that escapes me.

“Jesus,” he whispers, his strong fingers slipping in me and over me and making conscious thought difficult. He tugs the panties down my thighs and I kick them off as I reach for him. The button on his shorts releases easily, and I slide his boxers down just enough to see that tattoo I once glimpsed—a snake climbing a pole, inside this weird star.

“I wondered what was here,” I tell him, my voice throaty with desire.

He glances down at my fingers, pressing against it. His nostrils flare as if even this much contact is too much. “It’s the Star of Life,” he says. “Symbol of emergency medicine. I lost a bet and that’s what my friends picked.”

They chose well. “What will I find if I keep exploring?” I ask, and my hand ventures further into his boxers until I grip him, hot and firm in my hand.

He stills for a moment, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Fuck,” he groans as my hand wraps around him. “Drew…it’s been a really long time.” He sounds like he’s choking.

“Good,” I whisper. “Then you’ll be able to go more than once.”

He gives a pained laugh as my palm slides over him. He’s thick in my hand, long and smooth as I stroke him from base to tip. His hand wraps around my wrist to stop me. “I don’t think that’s anything you’ll have to worry about.”

I lose my grip on him as he moves back and climbs off the mattress. He kicks off his shorts and boxers, then removes a condom from his wallet. The bed sinks beneath me as he kneels between my legs to roll it on. I’m feverish, slightly dazed, by the sight of him between my thighs. He is perfect everywhere.

And as exposed as I am right now with my legs wide, the way he looks at me—hungry, fierce—makes me feel sexy and powerful rather than vulnerable.

He leans over and places a kiss on my stomach, then between my breasts, and braces himself above me, pressing between my legs, watching my face earnestly, as if this matters. It feels almost too intimate. When he starts to thrust inside me, I close my eyes.

“Don’t,” he says. “I want you to see exactly who you’re with.”

“I do,” I whisper, and he pushes in. Slowly. I feel every inch of him as he continues until he’s fully inside me—so thick and perfect that the pleasure overwhelms me. My eyes want to shut, but I’m glad they don’t, because it means I get to see his reaction too: his long lashes dipping for a moment, the soft, inaudible “god” he murmurs as he slides in the rest of the way.

I get to watch him suck in air between his teeth as he pulls back, and, finally, his own eyes shutting when he fills me again. His mouth dips to my neck then, presses to my skin. “Now you’re the one who isn’t looking,” I say breathlessly as he pulls out.

“There was never a moment’s doubt who I was with,” he replies.

Ah. I love that. I love that I know it’s true, I love that it sounds like something he’d rather not have admitted in the first place, that he isn’t saying it in some attempt to charm me but simply because he doesn’t want to lie.

It’s a tight fit, the two of us. If I wasn’t so wet, it would be too tight, but instead it’s delicious, that friction.

There’s an exquisite ache in my center and it’s growing. I want to do this all night, moving as slowly as possible toward the moment when it all breaks open, but I’m already too far gone.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling myself closer, and it’s as if that ache in my center has taken on a life of its own. “Faster,” I beg.

He winces. “Jesus, I’m gonna come so hard.”

But he complies, drawing back and slamming into me. I see stars. Again and again he does it, faster and deeper with every stroke. I cling to him, desperately holding on. And then I can no longer keep my eyes open and light explodes behind my eyelids. I come, gasping his name, my head falling backward, only vaguely aware of him thrusting hard and then holding there, shuddering above me, seconds later.

He falls by my side, wincing as he pulls out and ties off the condom. And then he tugs me against him.

“I’ve wanted that for so long that if you’d asked me an hour ago, I’d have told you it couldn’t possibly live up to my expectations,” he says. “Yet it was better.”

I peer up at him. “I have to assume you didn’t want it for that long,” I reply. “You’re still the guy whose primary concern a few weeks ago was where I would vomit.”

He laughs. “I’ve wanted you since the first night I saw you,” he says. “Last summer, at the party.”

“You acted like you hated me at that party.”

His mouth curves up just a hint. An almost smile that is rueful and apologetic at the same time. “Sometimes,” he says, pulling the sheets over us both, “it’s easier to hate something than admit you’re just pissed off you’ll never have it.”

And with that said, we’re both remembering why he thought he could never have it. Does he feel guilty? Because I do, even if Six did pretty much everything wrong.

“Where do your parents think you are?” I ask.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I said I was out with friends,” he says. “I hate keeping secrets but my mom can never know about this. She still has it in her head that Joel and I will be close one day. I think, mostly, she wants him to have someone to lean on when they’re gone. She’d be devastated if she knew.”