I dig my hands into Devan’s hair. “More. Make me come.”
“When I’m ready.” He ignores me trying to tug him up to focus on my clit. Something about that only makes pleasure weave through me faster. I love that he’s so much stronger than me, that he can do anything he wants to me, that he won’t unless I want him to. My breathing becomes harsher the closer I get to coming, until I’m panting and whimpering and shaking beneath him.
He shifts up to suck my clit into his mouth—hard—and shoves two fingers into me. I orgasm instantly. Devan doesn’t linger this time. He crawls up my body and then he’s working his cock inside me in slow, short strokes. I’m still sore from yesterday, but that only makes the pleasure soar higher.
I always did like a little pain with my pleasure.
He doesn’t say a word. I don’t have the air to try. We simply fuck slowly until he brings me to orgasm again and follows me over the edge. It’s only when he drops down next to me that I have the mental capacity to wonder what the fuck just happened. This wasn’t a birthday, wasn’t any kind of fantasy. This was just us.
Devan looks like he wants to say something, and I’m suddenly certain that he’s about to let me down just as gently as the sex we just finished. I can’t deal with that. Not right now, when it feels like my heart resides outside my chest, beaten and bloody and far too vulnerable. I react on instinct, slipping out of the bed and fleeing to the bathroom.
Like a coward.
What am I supposed to do?
Tell him that no matter what I said at the beginning, this isn’t just sex for me? It might be truth, but the boundaries were very clear when we started this. Devan didn’t agree to more, and after everything he’s done for me, I’d be the most selfish of bitches to demand it of him. If I was any less selfish, I’d call the whole thing off right now instead of letting it go on and letting myself sink deeper into this murky emotional mess.
I’m not less selfish.
I’m not going to give Devan up a moment before I absolutely have to.
I brush my teeth and wash my face. Without my makeup, feel naked in a way I didn't even when I didn’t have a single item of clothing on. Even pulling on the hotel robe hanging on the back of the door doesn’t help. I’m still debating on taking a shower and putting a full face back on when Devan knocks on the bathroom door. “Just a minute,” I call. My voice sounds horrifyingly shaky.
“Open the door, Hazel.”
“I’m not decent.” Why the hell did I say that? It doesn’t even make sense.
“Hazel.” A pause. “Do you want to use red?”
“No.” It’s the truth, even if I’m not sure of anything else at the moment.
“Then open this fucking door and stop hiding from me.”
Damn him for forcing the issue. He’s not being unfair, and that’s the worst thing about this. If he was being an asshole I could throw a fit, provoke him into punishing me or something, and we’d be off to the races again. If he was anyone else, it would work. But Devan’s not going to be provoked; I know it as soon as I open the door to find him wearing his jeans and nothing else, his arms crossed over his chest and a forbidding expression on his handsome face.
He turns without a single word, but the command is clear enough. I follow him out of the bathroom and through the bedroom, into the main area of the suite. I silently sink into the chair he indicates. I watch with my foolish heart in my throat as he sets a cup of coffee in front of me. It only takes a glance to know it’s doctored exactly the way I like it—a drop of cream and too much sugar—but I take a sip to confirm anyway. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
“Amsterdam. I brought you coffee and breakfast that next morning before I drove you to the airport.”
I hold the cup between my hands, letting the warmth soak into my palms. “That was a single time, three years ago. It’s such an insignificant detail to remember.”
“Nothing about you is insignificant, Hazel.” He picks up a second cup and leans against the counter. “Now, tell me why you’re freaking out.”
“Who said I’m freaking out?” He lifts a brow, and I wilt a little. “I had a plan. It was a very good plan.”
Devan takes a drink of his coffee. “I’m not arguing the quality of the plan. Unless I’ve misread things, we’re both enjoying ourselves.”
“You haven’t misread things.” I say it too quickly. God, what is wrong with me? It’s been years since I fumbled an interaction this thoroughly. Usually I have no problem keeping my poise and calm, but right now, I feel like I’m about to vibrate right out of my skin and make a run for it. “You haven’t misread things,” I repeat, slower this time.