Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Devon
This Uber is absurd. If I lay flat in the backseat, I’d barely be able to touch the far side of the car with my arms outstretched overhead.
It’s a bear den. I know my echo will bounce around the interior, but I decide not to test it as I count the steps it takes for Jeff to slip between the bucket seats and sit beside me in the third row.
“Is this an XXXL?” I whisper.
He shrugs as the sliding door shuts behind him and the lights go off.
“Figured you’d want privacy,” he tells me in my ear. “Since you promised an ‘epic make-out sesh’.”
I giggle. It sounds ridiculous when he says it. When I say it, it sounds amazing, mature, and sexy.
“You have like four minutes until we arr—”
I cut him off with my mouth and am immediately rewarded with a light growl from the back of his throat.
I try to undo my seatbelt so I can straddle him, but he grabs my wrist and makes it clear he will make no such allowance as he continues to kiss me senseless.
The car might as well be on autopilot. No driver exists.
My entire world is the pressure of his lips, the light caress of his tongue, and the need to have him closer. So much closer.
“You’re fulfilling like eight of my ultimate teenage fantasies right now,” he says after breaking the kiss.
His voice is in my ear, which obviously leads straight down south because the sound of those words makes everything below clench tight.
Then his teeth graze my ear lobe and I know my anatomy teacher knew nothing.
He moves lower, his lips barely touching my neck and softly landing beside my clavicle, his tongue finds the bare skin there.
I wrap my fingers in his hair and stifle a moan.
“I want to hear them—the fantasies—but I need your mouth to keep doing that,” I say. I’m breathless and I need to feel more of him. I trail my free hand down his chest, toward his waist, but he catches my wrist again before I can reach what I want.
His mouth is back hovering over mine, our breath mingling between us and I’m aching. I’m in actual pain. That's how bad I want this—him.
“You stopped,” I whisper, watching the light from the passing bars and restaurants reflect off his pupils.
“Devon, when we get back to my place, there isn’t going to be an inch of your body that my mouth won’t cover.”
Holy.
Shit.
I swallow.
“Promise?”
He laughs. Kisses me softly this time. And the car stops.
The Uber driver clears his throat. Four blocks have sadly come and gone.
Part of me never wants to leave this backseat—but with his promise still freshly bouncing off the headrest of the bucket seat in front of me, I let go of his hair.
Jeff seems to be in about as much pain as me when the interior light comes on and I catch his lower lip between my teeth before he pulls away to commence our exit.
The Uber driver grins at me and I keep my eyes on Jeff’s ass.
Which does nothing to ease my desperate need.
“How fast can you get us upstairs?” I ask from behind him as he twists the key in the thousandth lock.
He pushes the door open and turns sideways so I can pass. I step up into his foyer and flick on the switch.
“I can get upstairs fast. But you need to take it slow. Last thing we need is for you to stumble and reinjure yourself—end up in the imaging center at Jefferson again.”
“I’m not sure if I find this offensive or endearing,” I tell him, holding onto the handrail with caution. I really don’t want to go to the imaging center right now.
“You can decide after,” he says from behind me.
“After what?”
“After we do all the things I’ve been thinking about since I met you.”
His hands are on my hips now, guiding me forward. As I reach the top of his steps, his fingers dip under my sweatshirt and push firmly into my lower back.
“All the things.” I nod. “Since we met? Like at the bar? Or when I was stoned in recovery. Because I’m pretty sure that violates all sorts of patient/doctor rules—”
I forget how to make words when we reach the side of the couch and he pulls me backward so that every inch of my backside is pressed against his front. He’s warm and hard—everywhere—and the thought of feeling him inside of me makes my legs go all wobbly.
He tilts my head to the side and breaths against my neck. I can feel his smile. I love his smile.
“Both. You aren’t my patient. I’m allowed to picture you bent over this couch.” His lips press against the skin behind my ear and I let out a soft helpless sound. I push my ass into him and the sound he makes is just as desperate.
“Jeff?”
He’s still pressing kisses along the side of my neck, sucking and nibbling as he goes.
“Hmmm?”
The vibration of the sound tightens my skin like a guitar string.
“I need you to take your clothes off,” I tell him.
And I really do. I need to feel every inch of what’s pressed against me through our jeans. Wrap my hands around it and drive him as crazy as he’s driving me.
“I’m going to turn you around now, Devon. This sweatshirt—” he slides his fingers under the hem and lifts the soft grey cotton, “while I love it immensely—it needs to go. Then I’m going to kiss you into the bedroom. Lay you down, pull off your jeans, and make you cum in my mouth. Okay?”
Jesus H. Christ. Okay? What is the superlative of okay?
“Can you explain the plan again?”
I’m not joking—I really want to hear the plan again, especially that last part—but he grants me a throaty chuckle then turns me slowly.
Every second that he looks down at me feels like hours—the most glorious and infuriating torture.
Then my hoodie is being lifted up, up and away and I’m momentarily blind, but I can hear the appreciative sound he makes at the sight of me topless.
I took more time with my undergarments than I did with my outfit, and when I see the way he’s looking at my bra, the hard line of his jaw so tense it might snap, it makes the effort I made so worthwhile.
“You’re insanely beautiful,” he whispers.
“Half of that might be right,” I tell him. I want his hands back on me. But he’s still admiring me like I’m hanging on the wall of the Louvre. I loop my arms around his neck, tangle my fingers in his soft, thick hair, pull him down so his lips are just over mine.
He throws the balled-up hoodie across the room and it knocks over one of the gold-plated cat statues that line the top shelf of the built-ins.
“Your landlady, Betsy Ross, is going to be pissed if you break her antiques,” I tell him while he runs a slow trail along the black lace at the top of my bra.
He ignores me, too focused on his fingers circling and teasing around my nipple that’s pushing out at him, screaming to be touched.
When he finally gives in, the feel of his fingertips through the lace makes my head go back.
I gasp and barely have time to recover before his mouth crashes down onto mine.
And this—this out of control but perfect colliding of his lips and tongue and mine—this single moment is filled with more want and desire than the entirety of my womanhood.
A distant voice in the back of my mind wonders what the hell I was doing all that time following dumbass rules while I could have been doing this, but Jeff’s hands beneath my lace bra silence even that.
I only realize that he’s moved me to the bedroom when the feel of the cool comforter pushes against my back. He’s still kissing me, softer now, as he deftly unbuttons my jeans. Oh, the benefits of bedding a surgeon.
“What?” he asks.
Shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Nothing. It’s your hands. Good hands. I like hands.”
That’s all I can manage to get from my brain to my mouth right now, because he’s slowly making his way over my breasts, pulling the lace down beneath them, proving that his lips and tongue are just as likeable and skilled as his hands.
When the trail leads down below my navel, I squirm, and he stops.
He smiles up at me and I want to grab hold of his shirt and pull him down against me and take over, wipe that smile off his face, but he’s got one hand still keeping me down, fingers splayed across my abdomen while he slides the denim off of me.
He keeps his eyes on mine until he can’t.
Then all of his attention goes to the lace between my legs.
I nearly wore my “Don’t open ’til Christmas” undies, but I’m eternally grateful for my choice because of the look he’s giving them.
That focus—the way his chest stops rising and falling as he drinks me in—it sends so much heat down over me that five alarms sound in my fuzzy brain.
His fingers trail from my knee upward and stop just before the lace.
I suddenly hate the lace. I hate every scrap of it, every inch that keeps his fingers from where I need them to be.
“Jeff, please.”
He looks up into my eyes, lifts his brows. Pretends not to know what I want. I was right. He’s Satan.
He lowers his head.
“Jeff, please what?” he asks, his lips whisper over the inside of my knee. He kisses my inner thigh.
“I’m going to make you pay for—”
His finger dips beneath the lace and there’s nothing left on the planet besides that feeling—the pooling warmth—the demanding pressure building beneath his touch. He slides a finger into me and his smile melts away.
“Fuck, Devon. You are so wet.”
I arch up against his touch, my body screaming for more. I say his name again. And when I meet his gaze, I can tell he’s done playing with me. He wants what I want.