Page 124 of Devil

I sweep my hands up the sides of her thighs to her waist and back down again. She is taut under my touch, nervous about privacy maybe, or the alabaster statue of Saint Thomas Aquinas, who is staring past us both with an expression of resignation. But when I drag her skirt up to her hips with the next sweep of her thighs, she lets out a helpless, shivering breath that I’m very familiar with. Ayeswrapped inbutI shouldn’t.

Once I get her skirt up to her hips, it’s my turn to exhale. I’ve put my little artist in all kinds of slutty things—lace and mesh and leather—but this is maybe the sluttiest thing I’ve ever seen: a demure, nude thong under sheer pantyhose, framed by white fabric rucked up over the swell of her ass.

I run the backs of my fingers down the seam of her pantyhose, from the dimples at the small of her back to the valley of her cunt, my heart beating fast. The nylon is so silky and her skin is so warm underneath it…

I get down to one knee and indulge the mindless urge to rub my face all over her. Against the nylon-covered cheeks, the insides of her thighs, seeking the lush heat of her pussy and unable to get it through the hose and her thong. My palms run ceaselessly over the outsides of her thighs and down her tight calves and to her heels. My mouth is dry and my dickhurts, and a restless orgasm gnaws somewhere deep in my belly, ready to be screwed free.

I stand up, nearly dizzy with the drive to fuck, breathing hard as I unbutton my suit jacket and then unclasp my trousers before unzipping. My eyes are stuck on the sight in front of me as I pull out the part of me that’s stiff for her. The low lights of the room, just enough for security to see their way as they walk through, make her heart-shaped curves and strong thighs gleam, shine almost, and when I carefully place myself along the center seam of her hose, the contrast in textures is obscene. And the silkiness I’m resting on… I rock my hips a few times to drag my dick against it.

Fuck, that feels good.

With laudable self-restraint, I stop long enough to twist my fingers in her hose and rip them down the middle. She startles at the noise, loud in the empty room, and I give her a reassuring “Shh, it’s okay. No one knows.” And then I seek out the tear in her pantyhose to find her thong, push it aside.

She’s soaking wet.

Her head drops between her shoulders, and a kind of moan escapes her—shame, I think, about what she wants—as I test the slickness in her pussy and then search out the sensitive place just in front of that. I croon a little when I find that place as greedy as ever, a blood-plumped ridge ending in a sweet pearl as turgid as I am. When I press a fingertip to it, she whimpers.

“Yes, pretty bird?”

“We should wait,” she mumbles, her hips chasing my touch, her fingers curling a little against the plinth. “We should wait until the hotel. It’s not right.”

“Funny, because I thought one of the things on offer wasyou. Whenever I wanted. However I wanted.” I rub her clit with more intention now, the firm, consistent strokes she likes. “Keeping my balls drained. Keeping your taste in my mouth. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” It’s a whimper, a plea, her feet going wider, her fingernails scratching against the wood.

This is a tiny bit of theater, since she does have a real safe word now and can pause things whenever she needs, but we learned in our kink-friendly therapist’s office that we like the theater too much to leave it behind. So with our renegotiated limits and with our new safe words—yes, one for me too—we play like we did before. With Birdie as the sole focus of my lust and attention, my unholy love, and me as everything I can be for her—orgasm giver and art consultant and waffle maker and heartbeat regulator and bringer of cats.

The play fits us, fits the way we’re formed, because I love her so much that the mass and gravity of it have ignited into an ever-burning star. And she’s been bereft of love for so long that she never stops crawling toward the light.

But most importantly, we both just…want it. Fucking her on her feet while I make her look at the fallen angel still beckoning from his corner in her studio, waking her up by inching my dick inside her, having her fuck my mouth in secluded spots along our favorite walking trails. Getting to make her come whenever I want, open her body with mine whenever I want, use her slick holes or her delicate mouth whenever I want—she aches for that, she told me during our first therapy session. It answers something in her, stirs it up and settles it again. Whatever we did to become a stronger couple, she wouldn’t give it up; she refused.

I keep her thong pulled to the side as I line myself up. She’s so slippery and soft, and when the tip presses in, I find her burning hot. It’s been days because of the wedding planning, and it literally takes my fucking breath away to work myself deeper. To split her open around me until I’m buried to the hilt. I can’t believe I fit, it’s that snug inside, and I can already feel her getting tighter, hotter, giving these marvelous micro flutters all along her channel.

One of her feet has kicked up behind her, and her high heel drops off her foot with a clatter. When she puts her foot back down, she has to stay up near her toes, her muscles quivering under the nylon when I withdraw and thrust back in.

“Ry,” she says in a ragged voice. “Please. Please. Please.”

The problem is I want too much right now. We’re in wedding clothes with three hundred people working their way through an open bar just a handful of rooms away, and we’re also in a gallery where Saint Thomas Aquinas and a security camera could ruin our fun at any moment, so I don’t have thetimeto do everything I want.

Just the essentials.

I pull out, ignoring her whimper of dismay and ignoring the cool air on my wet erection, and spin her around before dropping to one knee again and pulling the shoe off her other foot.

I push the skirt up even higher, take a hold of her hose in front, and rip the hole even bigger. “Oh, Birdie,” I murmur. “I wish you could see this.”

Right in front of my face, I have a sight that makes me want to marry her all over again: her pussy, flushed and wet, framed by the torn pantyhose. It’s a work of art, it’s chastity and depravity, and it’s all mine to enjoy.

I lean forward and start eating her, relishing how she nearly falls over, how she fumbles to brace a hand on the plinth behind her and digs her other hand into my hair.

I grunt in response, trying to get more of her taste, sweet and rich and all Birdie, my favorite taste in the whole world. My cock stretches out between my hips, eager and leaking, as I contemplate the accidental professor fantasy I’ve made for myself. The hose and the heels and the sensible skirt, but with the nylon ripped open and the heels tumbled on the floor and the skirt shoved up.

Her back is arching as she tries to ride my mouth while standing up. My shy little spinster completely unraveled by an intemperate tongue, never to be the same again.

I get one of her thighs over my shoulder, and it’s not long after that when she comes, whispering my name while the sleek nylon rubs against my cheek and makes my thoughts more and more demonic.

The moment she finishes, I’m back up and dragging her to the bench in the middle of the room. I sit and pull her on top of me, wasting no time feeding my tortured dick into her cunt.

“Ride it,” I tell her, my voice rough with lust. “Make me come.”