She sighed in pleasure. “Kiss me first,” she said.
I stepped forward and put my mouth to the junction of her neck and her shoulder, biting softly, and then sucking. She tasted sweet and soft, like cream. She gave a moan, the sound vibrating against my mouth, and then she pulled away and turned toward me.
I kissed her, deep and hard, taking her mouth. The kiss yesterday, at her work, had been a conversation; this was nothing of the kind. In seconds it turned wild as she opened her mouth and sucked my tongue, her arms coming around my neck. I scraped my teeth over her bottom lip as her fingers felt their way into my hair.
I walked her backward to the low dresser. I could have tossed her on the bed, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t ready for a bed yet. I wanted to fuck her, take her hard somewhere that would make it clear to her who I was, how dirty I was. As if she didn’t already know.
We were walking so fast, so unheeding, that we hit the dresser hard, her ass knocking it back against the wall. She made a muffled sound of surprise in my mouth and dropped her hands to the skirt of her dress, pulling it up. A few quick motions and I looked down to see her black panties drop to the floor.
“Fuck,” I murmured as she pulled my shirt from my pants, her fingers quick on the buttons. Two years of pent-up lust roared over me, and I put my hands on her shoulders, pulling the sides of her dress down her arms. I dragged the straps of her bra along with it, and in one quick motion her shoulders and the tops of her breasts were bare, spilling out of the tops of the cups of her bra.
She had my shirt open and was working my belt when I spun her back around. She braced her hands on the dresser, her fingers white, as I pulled up the back of her skirt and showed the perfect bare ass I’d been picturing all through two hard fucking years in prison.
I cupped her, watching my rough, dark skin against her perfect whiteness, and then I dug my fingers in. “Spread your legs,” I said.
She pushed her legs wider. “Hard,” she said. “Do it hard.”
Oh, yes. This was every wet fantasy I’d had in my cell: Olivia, bent over, wet and willing, telling me to fuck her. I undid my pants and pushed them down while I stroked her with the other hand, letting my fingers slide into her pussy as she pressed back against me.
“Jesus, Olivia,” I managed, my last attempt to give her an out. “You’d better be sure. I can’t be gentle.”
“Then don’t,” she panted. “Please don’t.”
I slid my cock into her hard, nearly slamming her hips into the dresser. She moaned and braced her arms. “Yes,” she said.
I was wild, burning, all of me focused on the perfect pleasure of her wet heat. I gripped her hips and fucked into her again, making a low sound in my throat as she nearly shouted.
I didn’t bother with a condom. She’d told me she hadn’t fucked anyone else; neither had I. We’d done it raw last time, trusting each other. I’d risked everything, and so had she. And we’d been right.
She pressed back against me, arching her back and pressing her perfect ass against my hips, and my cock took over, chasing pleasure, chasing release. I worked her into a rhythm, fucking her so hard my belt clanged against the wood and the dresser banged against the wall—it didn’t matter because there was no one to hear. There were just me and her and the things we wanted to do to each other.
I looked up and realized that in the reflection in the window on the other wall I could see her face at an angle, could see her tits bouncing over the top of her bra, her bare shoulders. I could see her face, and in that split second I knew exactly what I was seeing in the way she bit her lip, in her half-closed eyes. It was pain and pleasure mixed together. I was hurting her. And she liked it.
The sight made me crazy. I braced one hand on the dresser—it had been buried in the soft flesh of her hip, just like my other hand, gripping hard enough to leave bruises—and fucked her harder as I felt sweat trickle down my back. I didn’t want to stop. I never wanted to stop. I wanted to do this forever.
She came, her body going supple and liquid under my hand, her back arching even more, a cry coming from her throat. I pressed myself into her deep, pushing her hips painfully against the edge of the dresser, and came, the release hitting me like a hammer blow, fast and violent. Maybe I made a s
ound, or said something; I couldn’t hear it over the roaring in my ears. I emptied all of me into her, every worthless part of me, just as I had two years ago. I’d come down her throat, in her pussy, and she’d taken it. She took it again now. And just like then, she had no idea she was getting more of me than she’d bargained for.
Sixteen
Olivia
Twenty minutes later we were in the huge bathtub in the master bathroom, ensconced in hot water. Devon was sprawled against the porcelain, and I was between his legs, my back to his chest, my arms propped on his bent knees. I was so relaxed I was almost liquid.
I liked having his big body around me. I liked feeling the wet hair of his chest against my back, the sound of the steady rhythm of his breathing. I liked the feeling of his muscled arms cradling me, his legs bracing me. It felt, for the moment, like all of that leashed power was mine.
And Devon Wilder was all leashed power. I’d felt it.
He was also a puzzle, a paradox. An ex-con and a getaway driver, a man who lived life every day expecting to die. A man who now owned this beautiful house and God knew how much money. I’d grown up in Hollywood long enough to know that money changed people, and almost never for the better.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice a rumble against my back.
“I’m wondering if you’re going to turn into that Fifty Shades guy now,” I said.
He snorted. “That guy needed a therapist, not a girlfriend.”
I blinked. “You read it?”