Chapter 20
His hand moves upward and his thumb brushes lightly over my breast. It’s a subtle, almost innocent touch, but it sends a violent jolt through me, making me moan into his mouth.
I hear the low sound of his laughter against my lips. And even though I know it’s because the arrogant bastard knows I’m completely defenseless in his arms, I want to bottle that sound. Witnessing Lucifer laugh—or even smile—is rare.
I should stop him when his hand slides between my thighs, but I don’t want to. There’s no shame in me right now. No restraint. I’ve longed for this touch far too long.
He deepens the kiss, his skilled tongue assaulting mine, giving me no chance to escape.
Lucifer’s kiss is filthy, rough, perfect.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—just like they did when I used to feel him watching me in the dark.
Lucifer has always had the power to ignite a visceral need in me for his touch.
He grabs my hair, hard. It blurs the line between pain and pleasure, and I’ve just discovered that I’m really, really into that.
My body’s on fire, and when he pushes my dress up, I want to beg him to tear it off me.
It’s not a gentle motion. It’s rough. Impatient. Like he’s desperate to see me naked. To touch me everywhere.
Then, without warning, he turns me to face the wall, flattening my hands against it.
He pulls my hips back, forcing my ass to arch toward him.
“Don’t move,” he commands, and I realize he’s stepped back.
God, is he looking at me?
I’m so flustered I try to remember which panties I’m wearing instead of focusing on the fact that my teenage crush is staring at my ass. Oh, right. Black lingerie.
His finger glides down my spine and stops at the waistband of my thong. I throw my head back and moan, aching for his touch.
“You want to come,” he whispers, biting my earlobe.
It’s not a question, so I stay quiet, trying to hold on to some shred of dignity.
He slaps my ass hard, and I shiver with pleasure.
“Fuck, Jackie.”
He crouches behind me, and I close my eyes when I feel his fingers sliding my panties down to mid-thigh. He doesn’t take them off completely, and somehow that makes it even hotter.
Lucifer
Losing control isn’t something I do often.
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve let myself give in to emotion—and never when it came to sex, but Jackie’s taste is addictive. And now I won’t stop until I feel her come on my tongue.
I grab both cheeks of her ass in my hands and spread them open. Her pussy is dripping, begging for my mouth.
I stroke her clit and bite her slick folds.
She trembles when my tongue slides into her, grinding on my face and moaning my name.
I want to keep her like this forever, spread open and ready for me to drink from whenever I want, making her pussy my fucking meal.
I part her folds with two fingers and suck her clit from behind, mercilessly. Her trembling grows frantic, and I stop. I need to see her face when she comes.
Still on my knees, I turn her around and lift her thighs onto my shoulders, only a sliver of her back touching the wall. She’s unsteady. Surrendered.
And fuck, I love it.
I bury my face in her wet heat, sucking her clit and slipping a finger inside her tight little cunt.
She pushes forward, offering herself to me, begging with every whimper.
“Oh!” she cries out.
I flick her clit and devour her with my tongue, plunging it deep into her sweet pussy.
“Grind on my face, Jackie.”
She does, and that sends her over the edge. She screams, coming hard and moaning my name.
Fuck, she’s so sensitive. A total dream.
I lick up every drop until the shaking stops. Only then do I lower her carefully, pull her panties back up, and fix her dress.
She’s still moaning, clinging to my shoulders. I kiss her hungrily, and she gives me everything, melting in my arms.
“You’re fucking irresistible, Jackie.”
She buries her face in my chest, suddenly shy, and that little gesture hits me hard.
I step back just an inch and murmur in her ear:
“Food?”
It takes her a few seconds to realize I mean actual food and I see the embarrassment on her face as her dirty thoughts catch up.
“I gave in too easily to you,” she says.
She tries to push me away, but I don’t budge.
I meet her gaze, and then finally, I take a slow step back, just to show her this isn’t a game.
“I want to leave,” she says, though I’m certain she doesn’t mean it.
“Why?”
“Where do I even start? Maybe with the fact that you walked out of my house two months ago—after making me feel exactly like this—and didn’t give me a single call in all the weeks that followed?”
Time to raise the stakes.
“I couldn’t,” I say. “I was in a coma.”