Page 56 of Devil

He laughs at my surprise. “God, you’re sweet,” he says. “It makes me want to come again. Fuck.” His grip closes around mine and he guides me in stroking him, tighter than can possibly feel good, except his eyes close and his head drops forward and he makes a noise that’s almost helpless.

The answering helplessness in my blood is a drug slowly filtering into my tissues, my organs. Everything in the center of me feels shimmering and molten, and my clitoris is as swollen as the flesh burning against the palm of my hand. My nipples are so erect that the spray of the shower is too much on the sensitive tips.

I don’t feel like I’ve only just had my virginity taken thirty minutes ago. I feel like a born hedonist, like I’ve spent all my adult life craving this. But it’s even worse than that, because it’s not as if I’m some voluptuary willingly crawling all over him. He’sforcingme to stroke him,insistingthat I jerk him off, his hand enveloping mine and refusing to let go as he works my grip over those thick, ruddy inches.

He’s making me do it, and instead of feeling repulsed or solely afraid, I am panting.

Timidly, maybe, and with plenty of terror still, but I am breathing in time with the pulse pounding between my thighs, restless and wondering if there’s more.

He opens his eyes to watch me, his pupils blown, the muscles in his arm and chest bunching as he uses my hand to masturbate, and then his free hand goes between my legs. I wince at the sudden touch, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes his fingers into my folds and drags them forward, checking to see if I’m slick with water or want.

“Filthy girl,” he exhales, satisfied with what he’s found. “Knew you were.”

The muscles in his abdomen ripple and tense, and then he’s abruptly pulling my hand off his body, stepping away from me with an unhappy grunt. His cock is so hard that it’s nearly pointing at the ceiling now.

He shuts off the water and then grabs one of the towels from the rack on the far end of the shower, wrapping me in it before getting another to wrap around his waist. He adjusts himself first, keeping his erection pinned against his stomach as he tucks the edge of the towel into itself, and the plump head is still visible above the terry cloth when he takes my elbow and guides me out of the shower.

I’m dried more attentively out by the sink, where he pats behind my knees and under the curves of my bottom, along the undersides of my breasts. And then I’m wrapped in a larger towel and bid to wait while he dries himself. I surreptitiously smell the inside of my wrist as he bends down to towel off his legs, but I’m not surreptitious enough because he catches me as he straightens up again.

“I can get you your own bodywash for next time,” he says. “If you’d like.”

“No,” I say, too quickly for the sake of my pride, but what place does my pride have here anyway? “I like…I like having your smell on me.”

His jaw pops once to the side, and then his eyes shut,squeezeshut almost, like someone trying to concentrate very hard. It’s a long time before he looks at me again.

“Hold still.” His voice is calm, but I’m beginning to recognize the times when that calm is a lie.

He pulls some jars and sprays I don’t recognize from the drawer under the sink, along with a microfiber towel and brush. The hair on my arms lifts as he faces me again, all easy charm but with eyes burning like the corona of a star.

“I can brush my own hair,” I tell him, attempting a smile.

He smiles back, but it’s anything but reassuring when paired with those eyes. “I want to do it, Birdie. I promise to be gentle.”

There’s not a question in there, not really. He’s not asking permission, and yet I find myself nodding anyway, like my permission materially changes things. It doesn’t.

After working something creamy and nice smelling through the strands and with the utmost care, he brushes my hair and then uses the microfiber towel to dry it with careful squishes and scrunches. When it’s no longer dripping, he rubs a light-looking oil between his hands and runs it through my curls. Another apple scent but crisp and layered, not the brash fragrance of my cheap shampoo.

Then he repeats the process on his own hair, the longish dark gold gradually turning into swirls and flourishes of scrolled platinum.

When he steps away to wash his hands, I glance at the mirror and I’m shocked. My hair looks…different. No flyaways, no frizz. Even still slightly damp, it looks more put-together than it ever has.

“I like it,” I say shyly, aware that he’s watching me look at myself in the mirror, and duck my head, embarrassed to be caught in a moment of such raw vanity.

He comes up to me and nuzzles behind my ear, taking my chin in his hands and making me look up at the mirror. “You’re always beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my temple, my jaw, my neck. “You should always like what you see.”

I’m not looking at myself right now but at him in the reflection. “Yes, Ry.”

His fingers tighten on my chin, and then he’s letting go, grabbing my wrist instead and pulling me to his bedroom. He takes hold of my waist and I’m lifted up, and before I can fully process what’s happening, why my feet have left the floor, I’mtossedonto his bed.

I land on my back, and he’s on me before I can brace myself up on my elbows, tearing off my towel and shoving my thighs apart. I think he’s going to penetrate me again, but instead he scoots back, lowers himself to his belly, and?—

“Oh,God.” It’s a cry, not a prayer, as his tongue makes a hot stripe up the seam of my body. He settles closer, hooking his arms around my thighs, and licks again, this time lingering over my clitoris and giving it several velvet laps. Pleasure whips through me, and my hips arch to meet his mouth at the same time as my hand goes reflexively to his hair, as if to make him stay, even though I have the distant idea that I should be worried right now, anxious about having his tongue there.

But it’s hard to hold on to the worry when it feels sogoodand when he’s making the noises he’s making right now. When his lashes rest so prettily on his cheeks while he gives my pussy a deep and lingering inspection, like he’s trying to commit the taste to memory.

It hits me then, that this is all wrong—that my job is to make him happy for the year and that this can’t possibly be what he had in mind when he told me what he wanted out of our free-use deal.

“Ry,” I say, trying to squirm and push his head away at the same time. “Ry, you don’t—we don’t have to do this?—”