6. Enya #2
"You're fucking gorgeous," he says, and the reverence in his voice nearly undoes me.
"Tank—"
“Devin,” he corrects, and I stare at him in shock. It fits him. Devin fits him so much more than Tank does. This side of him is Devin, and I love it.
“Devin,” I repeat and watch as he kneels in front of me, hands resting on my thighs.
"Let me show you. Let me prove it."
He leans in and presses a kiss to my shoulder, then another, before trailing his lips across my collarbone and down to the hollow of my throat. Slow. Worshipful.
My breath catches. Hands tangle in his hair.
"Enya," he murmurs against my skin. "Say you want this."
"I want this."
"Say it again."
"I want this." Louder now. More certain.
His hands slide up to the waistband of my jeans, fingers hooking in. He looks up at me, asking permission with his eyes.
I nod.
He undoes the button. The zipper. Helps me shimmy out of the denim until I'm sitting there in just my bra and underwear, heart pounding, skin flushed with want and fear and something I can't name.
"Lie back," he says.
I do. The sheets are cool against my skin, smelling like detergent and him.
He stands, shedding the rest of his clothes, and I watch. Watch the way his body moves, the flex of muscle, the ink and scars that map a life I don't know yet.
Then he's beside me on the bed, propped on one elbow, just looking.
"I'm going to do this right," he says quietly. "The way I should've done it the first time. Slow. Careful. And I'm going to say your name until you believe you're the only person I'm thinking about. Yeah?"
My throat closes. I nod.
"I need to hear you say it."
"Yeah," I whisper. "Okay."
He leans down and kisses me again. It’s soft and sweet and devastating in its gentleness.
Then his mouth moves lower.
Time becomes meaningless.
There's only sensation. His mouth on my skin, his hands tracing patterns that make me gasp. His voice, rough and constant, saying my name like a prayer.
Enya.
Christ, Enya.
You're so fucking beautiful, Enya.
Every time he says it, something inside me loosens. Some knot of fear or doubt unraveling.
He takes his time. Kisses every inch of me—the ink on my arms, the scar on my hip I got from a childhood accident, the soft skin of my inner thighs. He worships me with his mouth and hands until I'm shaking, desperate, and begging him for more.
"Please," I gasp. "Devin, please—"
"Not yet." His breath is hot against my stomach. "Not until you believe it."
"Believe what?"
"That you're the only one I want. The only one I see."
"I believe you," I lie.
He lifts his head and looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much. "No, you don't. Not yet. But you will."
Then his mouth is on me again and my brain just shuts the fuck off. There’s no thinking. No breathing. Just sensation; his tongue, his teeth, the filthy, maddening way he drags his lips over my skin like he’s claiming every inch.
I’m soaked, throbbing, practically begging without words, and the bastard knows it.
He’s taking his time, dragging it out, like he gets off on watching me squirm.
His hands are everywhere, running along my thighs, pinning my hips when they buck, holding me open and wide like I’m something to feast on.
He groans against me, low and rough, and it shoots straight through me. I clutch at the sheets, panting, writhing. My legs are shaking, my whole body tight and strung out.
When he finally pulls away and moves up my body, the loss of his mouth hits me hard. I’m already wrecked, trembling, every nerve lit up and begging for more.
He slides between my legs like he owns the space. Like I’m his.
“Enya,” he rasps, voice thick with everything he’s feeling, and fuck, the way he says my name like it hurts. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I whisper. Then louder: “Yes. Fucking yes. Don’t make me wait.”
He doesn’t.
The first push has me gasping, clawing at his back. He sinks into me slow, deep, stretching me open until there’s no room for thought, only him. My body arches, greedy, desperate to take all of him.
“Christ—” he breathes, stilling once he’s fully inside, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths tangled. “You feel… fuck, Enya.”
Every inch of me is pulsing around him. Tight. Soaked. Needy.
“Move,” I whisper. “Please, just... fuck me.”
And then he does.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s a hard, filthy rhythm that has my breath catching with every slap of skin. His grip on my hips is bruising. His teeth find my neck, then my collarbone, biting down hard enough to make me cry out.
He fucks me like he’s starved for it, like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch me. And I take it, every deep, rough thrust, every groan and curse torn from his throat, every obscene sound echoing in the room as we lose ourselves in it.
He keeps saying my name, growling it, moaning it, breathing it like it’s sacred. And somehow that’s the filthiest part of all.
My climax builds fast, hot and brutal, coiling tight in my belly and snapping through me like a whip. I break around him, screaming his name, nails digging deep into his back, thighs trembling as I clamp down and come, again and again.
“Fuck… Enya,” he chokes out, losing rhythm as his hips stutter.
Then he’s coming, deep inside me, face buried in my neck, his entire body jerking, shaking, grinding against mine until there’s nothing left but the wreckage of us.
We collapse in a breathless tangle, soaked in sweat. My thighs are still trembling, and his hand is still in my hair.
We don’t speak for a long time. There’s just the sound of our breathing, raw and ragged and real.
Then his fingers find mine. Slow. Gentle. Threading them together like he doesn’t want to let go.
“Stay,” he says, voice quiet and rough. “Tonight. Just stay.”
I should say no. I should walk out, clean up, pretend this didn’t just detonate every boundary I thought I had.
But I don’t. I can’t. I’m fucked-out, blissed-out, and too gone to fight it.
“Okay,” I whisper, eyes closing. “Just tonight.”
He pulls me closer and wraps himself around me like I belong there.
“Just tonight,” he echoes, kissing the crown of my head.
We fall asleep tangled in sheets and each other. My body aches in the best ways. And for now… I don’t want to be anywhere else.
* * *
I wake with a start. I lie still for a moment, disoriented, then I remember.
Tank's room. Tank's bed.
Devin.
He's asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist, face relaxed in a way I haven't seen before. He looks younger like this. Softer. The hard edges smoothed away by sleep.
Beautiful.
My chest tightens.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
I care about him. I really care. Not just attraction or chemistry or want, actual feelings. The kind that could destroy me if I let them.
Panic hits fast and vicious. I can't breathe. Can't think. I just need to get out before he wakes up. Before I do something stupid like stay.
I ease out from under his arm, moving slowly so I don't wake him. He stirs but doesn't open his eyes, just mumbles something and rolls onto his side.
I dress quickly. Jeans, shirt, shoes. I don't look back. I can't look back.
My hand's on the door handle when I hear it.
"Enya?"
His voice, rough with sleep. Confused.
I freeze.
"Don't go," he says. "Please. We can talk. We can—"
"I can't." My voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I just… I can't."
Then I'm out the door and moving down the corridor, through the empty clubhouse, out into the cold Dublin morning.
I walk fast—not running but close—putting distance between me and whatever the fuck that was back there.
My phone buzzes. I wonder if it’s him. Could he have gotten my number from someone? I don't look. I can't look. Because if I look, if I read whatever he's saying, I'll go back. And I can't go back.
Warren needs me steady. Needs me whole.
And Devin... God, Devin could break me worse than Declan ever did.
Because Declan I never loved.
But Devin?
Devin I could love. Might already love. And that's the most dangerous thing of all.
So I walk. Away from the clubhouse. Away from him. Away from the possibility of something that feels too good to be real.
I don't let myself cry until I'm on the bus headed home.