Downtown Devil: Book 2 in series (Sins in the City) (4 page)

“You’re a natural blonde, huh?”

She nodded. “My dad’s side is crazy Irish. Got my freckles from him. Curls are from my mom.”

“I like it. I like it all. Every mismatched thing about you.”

She glowed, bit her lip, feeling shy and flustered, pleased beyond measure to feel like he got her, like he found her differentness and the
features she’d taken nearly thirty years to truly love herself attractive. “Ditto.”

He replied with his body, gently rolling on top of her, bracing his forearms at her sides and his knees between her legs. She touched his shoulders and back as he kissed her, welcomed his hips as they lowered, forcing her skirt up high on her thighs. Her fingers slid low and found his hem, eased his shirt up his back until he stole his mouth away and sat back. She watched with open fascination as he peeled the cotton up and over his head, exposing all that golden brown skin, all those glorious shapes.

His hobby was chiseled down his arms—long, trim muscles flexed with every tiny movement. His half-sleeve tattoo stretched from his elbow up, hugging the swell of his strong shoulder. This body could have been carved from stone if not for the vital shifting of tendon and bone beneath his smooth skin. A little chest hair. Small, dark nipples, and moles scattered here and there from his throat to his hard belly. She watched each breath swell and contract his trunk, hypnotized. He grinned, seeming charmed by her scrutiny, and leaned over to grab her camera and pass it to her.

“That obvious?” she asked, feeling like a dork.

“I don’t mind. I like how you look at me.”

She took just a couple shots, not wanting to be greedy. But he’d been right—she wanted this proof; souvenirs of the man who’d knelt before her this way, smiling down with his perfect body looming. There were a hundred filthy promises scrawled all over him, and she didn’t want to forget a single one.

When she next put the camera aside, Mica took the reins. Their clothes began to disappear—her top, her skirt, his jeans and socks—until they were locked together in their underwear, hands feasting. She palmed his ribs and the muscles woven along his sides, then the
smooth, hard crest of his ass, the dent at his hip. He clasped her wrist and led her hand brazenly between his legs, closing it around his stiff cock, through his shorts.

The breath left her. The space between them was humid, as sweltering as an August heat wave. She molded her hand to him, finding him thick. Stroked up and down, finding him long. He pumped his hips, drawing every hard inch along her palm, slowly, showing off. She let him go to lock her leg over his thigh and pressed her sex to his. He turned her onto her back, above her once more.

“You like it?” he asked.

She nodded, the pillow mussing her wild hair. “Yeah, I do.” And just as much, she liked his tone: cocky. He deserved it, too—the boy was fucking gorgeous and he knew it.

Between her legs, she was wet. Ready and aching for him. Even if it all fizzled, even if he took his turn and left her panting and unsatisfied, it might just be worth it for the show.

Though Christ, she hoped he just might fuck as good as he looked.

His motions grew quicker, messier, excitement getting the better of him. Then all at once, with a grunt of dismay or perhaps determination, he pulled away. His eyes locked with hers, not letting them go as he moved down, down her body, settling on his belly, forearms between her legs.

She felt her mouth drop open and her lids grow heavy, mesmerized. His hands slid beneath her, cupping her ass, and he lowered his mouth. His nose grazed her clit through her panties. He had to be smelling her. Had to be just about tasting her when he pressed his mouth to the spot and ran his stiff, warm tongue along her seam. The pleasure landed like a slap, tensing her legs. He eased them wide with his arms, mouth feeling hungry now, tongue explicit through the damp cotton. Hot as sin, somehow even dirtier than if she’d been stripped bare.

She held his head, reeling. She’d been with men who enjoyed this, but never one that felt quite so ravenous as Mica. Like he could feel the same sensations she did, every lap stroking him as surely as it did her.

Beneath her she felt his fingers searching, hooking under the hems of her panties, pulling them forward. She tilted her hips and he slid them away, and she pined for his mouth every second it was gone.

“Fuck, you look good.” He put his nose to her, sucked a harsh breath, and moaned. Those hands squeezed her tighter, lifted her hips, drew her sex to his mouth as though she was a chalice and he was parched to the edge of sanity. His first taste was a long, light, slow tease of his tongue, just firm enough to part her lips. She gasped, overcome by his hunger as much as by the physical sensations. Another lick—deeper now, dirtier, and his chin and nose teased her as his tongue traced her labia. She’d thought this had felt good with her panties still between them, but she’d been so wrong. It was night and day, the slick, nasty tastes he took drawing her tight.

“That’s good.” She covered his hands with her own, feeling his rough knuckles and her own smooth flesh, dimpled where his fingers dug.

She’d never known exactly this, before—this much aggression, this much
push
coming from a man, even as he served her.

She fed her eyes on every scrap of him that she could get—his muscular shoulders and arms, bunched from the way he held her; his jutting shoulder blades; his eyebrows drawn together in concentration; and the matching lashes now hiding those penetrating eyes.

There was more she wanted to see. Every inch of him, bathed in this warm light. She wanted to lay him down, spread him out on these covers, explore him for an hour, study that wicked smile of his from above as she straddled him, sank down, claimed his body with hers.

So much energy,
she marveled,
and in this one simple act.
What on earth would he bring to the table when they actually
fucked
? She imagined such a thing. This vibrant body using hers, taking her in quick, taut pumps of those hips, his arms locked at her sides, abs flexing as he worked. The thoughts had an orgasm gathering, heating deep inside. Her hand gripped his shoulder hard.

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He gave her more. His tongue flicked a filthy rhythm against her clit, and he slid one hand up, fingertips finding her folds, then slipping inside.

“Fuck.” That was it, just what she needed. The penetration. She fisted his hair and he must’ve known he had her then. He made a shaft of three fingers, easing them in and out as that tongue wound her tighter. She closed the circuit herself, cupping her breast, pinching her nipple through the slick satin of her bra. Every nerve in her body locked into perfect harmony, thrumming, lighting up like a grid.

“God. Don’t stop.”

The pleasure was more than she’d felt in ages. A high sharper than any anger stirred inside her, deeper than any sadness. A clash of extremes that had her toes curling and thighs shaking, until finally, it cracked.

She came against his mouth and fingers, a mewling, grasping mess, and he slowed, drawing it out, out, out. For ages, it felt, until she once again registered the bed beneath her body, the air rushing in and out of her lungs. As her body stilled, he drew back, sat up on his heels.

She stared at him, obliteration no doubt written all over her face. “Holy shit.”

He broke into a smile, and wiped his lips and chin on the back of his hand. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“You are . . . You are
insanely
good at that. You must really like doing it.”

“I like sex,” he said simply. “I’ll do anything.”

I bet you will.
And maybe, just maybe she’d get to be with him again and get seconds at the smorgasbord known as “anything.”

She hugged her ankles to his waist, pulling. “Come here. You’ve more than earned whatever it is you want next.”

He escaped, standing from the bed to push his shorts to the floor.

Clare marveled at him, taking a hundred photos in her mind.

His cock was glorious—long, with a slight curve and a dark, flushed crown, a thick shaft framed at the base in brown hair. His narrow hips made him look all the bigger. He crawled up the bed to straddle her waist, erection hovering above her breasts.

“Touch me.” The words were a blade wrapped in velvet, both sharp and soft, bringing goose bumps to her skin. She wrapped him in her fist, shocked at his heat.

“How?” she asked.

“Slow. Real slow.”

She gave him that, stroking with a firm, steady grip, from the root to just below the head. His hips flexed, seeking the friction, bone flashing beneath burnished skin. He sighed out a long “Ahhh,” and tensed above her, luxuriating. He looked so goddamn good, if she got him off from this alone, she wouldn’t feel cheated.
This is what power feels like,
she thought, squeezing his pulsing flesh and watching his spine arch, his fingertips dig into his thighs.
This is how I want sex to be.
A thrilling exchange of power, one lover ordering, yet the other in control.

As he settled into the sensations, his gaze locked to her hand, lips parting. She’d never seen a man so overcome, so helpless. It was intoxicating.
This
she wanted a picture of. His face in this exact moment.

She watched him growing hotter and hotter above her, then suddenly he halted her hand, gently moved it from his dick. She waited, antsy, as he leaned over to rummage just under the bed. He settled back above her with a bottle of lube.

“Give me your hand.”

She offered it, and he squeezed a measure of the cool gel onto her palm. She went back to work, and same as that moment when he’d stripped her panties, everything was different. Dirtier. The slippery contact, the obscenity of it. His reaction, above all else. His head dropped back and his eyes shut, and his hips began to pump, gliding his length in and out of her fist. Goddamn, he looked good.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, eyes opening.

Clare clammed up, losing her rhythm. Shit, she always panicked when pressed for dirty talk.

He smiled at her hesitation, or at whatever expression she wore. “You too shy?”

“Not
too
shy. But a little.”

He moved, coming to lie beside her. “Talk
with
me, then,” he whispered, and kissed her. “You like my cock?”

“I love it.”

“Tell me about it.”

She glanced between them, watching as her hand worked his flesh. “You’re big.”

“And you like that?”

“Yes.”

“You want to feel me inside you?”

She swallowed. “Yeah, I would.”

“I know just how you’d feel,” he said. “How wet you are. You want to feel me in your mouth?”

“I’d like that.”

“Think you can handle me?”

“I can try.”

And he stilled her hand with his own, kissing her deep and dirty, finally breaking away with a smile. “Good. Try.”

She sat up as he lay back and spread his legs, welcoming her to kneel between them.

“Anything in particular you like?” she asked.

He shook his head, attention on her hands as they stroked his thighs. “Just enjoy it. Whatever that looks like.”

Good answer. If he’d had his heart set solely on deep throat, she doubted she could have delivered for long. Instead she’d remind herself that this might be the last time she got to enjoy his body and savor every second. With that in mind, she lowered to her elbows, breathing him in. His hand snaked low, fingers circling his base, as though he was presenting himself to her.

“Taste me.”

When she brought her mouth to him, Clare tasted the lube first and foremost—a homely, medicinal flavor, yet, in this context, so fucking hot. She thought of everything that’d been sexy about the way he gave head, wanting to mimic it. Wanting to blow his mind as surely as he had hers. One word came to mind.
Hunger.
He’d eaten her like he’d been starving for it, and she gave that right back, claiming him as deep as she comfortably could, drawing off slowly, with greedy suction. His hips bucked their approval.

“Like that,” he muttered, sounding pained.

She gave him exactly that, slow and dirty and tight, and his hips and her mouth found a shared rhythm, an angle that let her take him deeper, deeper, no gagging, until he moved his hand away and she was owning him right down to the base. She’d never known she could take a man so far, so smoothly. It lit a fire inside her, made her feel powerful.

“Now your hand, too,” he said at length.

She eased off, mouth pleasuring his first few inches, hand stroking the rest.

His own hands were antsy, rubbing her neck and shoulders, then his own belly, the creases where his thighs met his trunk. She could feel and see and taste his excitement mounting. The lube was gone, and behind it she found his own flavor, dark and musky, then a sharper burst as his cock primed.
I’ve got him.
She held his pleasure in her hands and in her mouth. No matter what bossy words might come next, no matter what orders he might issue, she had him. The power had her humming, all the calm of the orgasm burned away, leaving desire in its wake. She wanted this again—all of this, and a hundred other things besides.
Make this the dirtiest goddamn head he’s ever gotten, and maybe you’ll get that wish.

She showed him hunger with every bob of her head, worship with every stroke of her fist. She let the fingers of her other hand creep lower, cupping his balls, stroking the smooth flesh just behind them, and glancing more sensitive territory by mistake. She pulled back, just as his thighs parted wider, surprising her.

“Don’t be shy.” Though he whispered them, there was no shame in those words.

Clare shivered. It excited her when a guy messed around back there while he was going down on her, but she’d never had one ask for it in exchange. It had to feel good for men, too, she imagined. Nerves were nerves. And so she let her hand drift deeper, deeper, until her fingertips found that most private spot, stroking lightly. He made a fearful little noise, a sigh of surprise and pleasure. His hips flexed, wanting more. She gave it, and between her lips she felt his cock throbbing, rock hard and swollen.