Page 63 of The Devil

My other hand goes to her waist, the curve of her hip as the kiss deepens. I pull her closer, lifting one of her knees onto the bed.

“Come here,” I tell her.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not so hurt I don’t want this.”

She sets her hands on my shoulders then brushes the fingers of one beneath my chin to lift it up. With the other she pushes my hair off my face and for the longest moment, she studies me, taking in all my bruises, maybe. All the cuts. All the damage, old and new. The ink layered over it.

I watch her watch me and there’s a part of me that wants her to ask. That wants to tell her my story. One day. Not now though. Now, we need this. Us. Together.

She kisses me, a soft, sensual kiss that leaves me breathless when she draws back to slide to her knees between my legs.

She drags her gaze down, fingers on my thighs as she peels away what’s left of my briefs and licks her lips. I watch her, cupping her head. She takes my cock into her hands, tentative at first, her inexperience showing, making me that much harder, and when she kisses the tip, I suck in a breath, the feel of her soft lips on me too much.

“I’ve never,” she starts, meeting my eyes, her cheeks flushed with arousal or embarrassment or both. “I’ve never done this.”

“You really can’t go wrong,” I encourage and she smiles, kisses my cock again before tilting her head and running her tongue from the base to the tip and back. “Fuuuuck. Do that again,” I groan, fingers weaving into her hair when she does, gaining confidence as she sees what it’s doing to me. But when I feel her warm, wet mouth close over my cock, my fingers tighten into her hair, tangling into her curls and it takes all I have to go slow, to let her do it her way.

It’s shallow at first, barely the tip and an inch, then two disappearing into her pretty little mouth. She kneels up higher, places one hand on my thigh as she brings the other to my balls and when she swallows more of me and looks up through those thick black lashes, I can’t help but moan, moving her deeper now, feeling the back of her throat, her panic when fingernails dig into my thighs just before I pull back. I do it again, slowly, watching her swallow my cock.

“I like you looking at me,” I tell her, my cock touching the back of her throat, pulling back only once she gags. “Relax your jaw. Your throat.”

She nods, her breathing coming in gasps as I move her faster over me, push deeper.

“Christ,” I groan out, forcing myself to pull her off. I draw her up to her feet and bring her face to mine, mouth to my mouth. I kiss her hard, tasting myself on her. “I’m going to finish down your throat one day, but right now, I need something else,” I tell her, lifting her to straddle me.

She kisses me, her tongue teasing mine, pussy hovering over my cock, dripping onto it.

“Fuck, Amal.” My fingers dig into her hips, but she resists, teasing me, her wet cunt playing over the tip of my cock.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she pants.

I chuckle. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea,” I tell her and thrust into her from below.

She cries out, fingernails digging into my shoulders.

I do it again, drawing her up then thrusting in as I pull her to me, the friction of her clit against my stomach making her pant, her kisses growing distracted. My fingers dig into the soft mounds of her ass as I drop back onto my elbows and she rides me hard, crying out when she comes, when her cunt pulses around my shaft and with one final thrust I hold her tight to me and call out her name as I empty into her, my cock throbbing in time with her pussy, the wound on my side opening a little, pain and pleasure mingling as I take her. Amal. My wife. The only person who has ever felt like home.

19

AMAL

We shower together to clean the blood off us. I know Jet’s wound hurts, but he acts like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to get stabbed and shot at. Normal to watch a man be murdered. To kill the killers.

After, he cleans every tiny cut on my face, my hands, smearing antibiotic ointment over each. Kissing every bruise like they cost more than his knife wound.

Is this just another day at the office for him? Is this his life? I don’t understand how this can ever normalize for anyone.

“Aren’t you scared?” I ask him when we finally lie down to try to sleep.

“Of what?”

“All of it. What just happened.”

“Being scared isn’t going to help and it’s not going to make the problem go away.”

“Well, I’m scared,” I say, looking into his chest rather than his eyes. I touch old scars beneath ink that doesn’t hide them. The opposite. Like this is Jet’s way of owning whatever it was that happened to him. Of choosing to no longer be a victim. “What happened to you, Jet?”