“Take off your jacket,” I managed. “I’ll get you a beer.”
He didn’t move, but when I turned and walked into the kitchen I felt him behind me and heard his footsteps. I put my hand to the fridge door, but his hand moved past me in the dark, pushing the door closed again.
“Olivia,” he said.
I turned around, pressed back against the door by his body. He didn’t touch me, just framed me in his space, a dark shadow among the other dark shadows of the kitchen, looming over me, inescapable.
His free hand touched my face, his fingertips brushed my lips, and then he leaned in and kissed me.
He was soft and forceful, sliding my mouth open, his flavor heady with an edge of bitter. His tongue slid inside me and I moaned, which made him kiss me harder, pressing my head back against the fridge. I had never been kissed like this before—I had never felt anything like this before. In seconds I was drunk on it, pulling on him, letting him explore my mouth as I breathed him in. His stubble brushed the sensitized skin of my lip and I felt the sensation straight between my legs, as if he’d licked me there. When he broke off I was throbbing almost painfully, my underwear wet inside my jeans.
I looked at his face in the half-light from the window, trying to catch my breath. “Why me?” I asked him.
His fingertips brushed my lips again, but he didn’t hesitate. “Because I want to watch you come.”
My breath caught and I couldn’t speak.
“I wanted it the first time I saw you,” he said, low and rough, “right there in the parking lot. I wanted to watch you. Listen to the sounds you make. Feel you as I watch you. As you give in and let go.” He leaned in, brushed his mouth over the skin beneath my ear. “I swear to God, Olivia, before I have to go wherever I have to go, I’m going to make you come.”
Everything was burning—my skin, my blood. He moved his free hand to my throat, then trailed his fingertips down. He unzipped my sweatshirt and dragged his hand up beneath my t-shirt, cupping my breast in his warm palm. I heard the soft intake of his breath when he realized I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Jesus,” he said softly, and he leaned in and kissed me again as he dropped his other hand from the fridge door and moved it up beneath my shirt with the first one, cupping my other breast. His hands were big and strong and callused against my skin, and I squirmed against him, pressing against his thigh.
He broke the kiss and licked the corner of my mouth.
“I want you,” I managed.
“You’re going to have me,” he said, his hands cupping my breasts a little tighter, almost squeezing. He still hadn’t even removed his jacket. He bit me gently on the side of my neck, the pleasure of the sting making me squirm again. “Any way you can take me,” he said. “I want your sexy fucking mouth on me. Your cunt. Your ass. Does that scare you?”
“No,” I breathed.
“Good,” he replied softly. “That’s good. I want to do every dirty fucking thing to you, but I don’t have time.”
I slid my right hand up beneath my shirt, over his left arm, his left wrist, and rested my fingertips on the back of his hand as it squeezed my breast, where I knew his tattoo was. “Is that what this means?” I asked.
No Time. I didn’t have to see the tattoo again to know what it said. He paused for a second, and then beneath my fingers his hand moved, his thumb brushing hard over my nipple, making me gasp.
“It describes our situation,” he said.
He was right, completely right, and suddenly I couldn’t stand it anymore, having him so close to me with so many clothes on. I took my hand from his and unzipped his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He dropped his hands from my breasts—reluctantly, I thought—to shrug it off, then braced against the fridge again, boxing me in.
He would have done something, made the first move, but I didn’t let him. I had been watching him for two months—watching him move, watching how easy he was in his skin, watching the fascinating lines of his body and his face. Drawing them. I was on fire for him, and I trailed my hands down his shirt to his belt, pulling it from the buckle.
“Fuck,” he said softly.
The belt undone, I opened the buttons of his jeans and pushed them down over his hips, along with the black boxer briefs he wore. His hands were already moving to the back of my neck as I sank to my knees.
I took only the briefest of seconds to admire his cock—thick, hard, and ready for me—in the half-light before I put the head in my mouth and ran my tongue over it, tasting him. Salty and warm. His hands moved from the back of my neck up into my hair, twisting it, urging me. I slid my mouth further down him, then a little further again. I heard him give a sharp exhale.
“Suck me deeper,” he said. “All the way.”
I braced my palms on his jean-clad thighs and obeyed, relaxing my mouth, taking him in. His hands were harsh in my hair, guiding me, but he didn’t push me too fast. I felt the tautness of the restraint in his grip, his arms, his whole body. I ran my tongue over him and pressed harder, feeling him touch the back of my throat.
This was nothing like I had ever done before. I should not be here. I should not have let Devon Wilder, a criminal I barely knew, into my apartment after dark. I should not have hidden him from the cops and helped him break the law. And I definitely should not be on my knees in front of him, his cock in my mouth. But I was. And I loved it.
I took him deep again and again, his fingers tight in my hair, his hips rocking gently against me. He took everything I gave him, a man who had no shame in taking pleasure. I was almost shaking with arousal, the ache in my knees and my jaw only adding to it, to the pulse pounding inside me, the wild need. I wanted to touch myself, and I couldn’t. And part of me wanted him to touch me instead.
He groaned low and one hand left my hair to grip the fridge again, bracing himself. He was close. “Swallow when I come,” he commanded me, not breaking his rhythm.
And a second later he came, pressed deep inside me, his hips flexing, his body still. I obeyed him and swallowed, letting his come slide down my throat, and then I licked the rest off him as he hissed in a breath.
He pulled me up and pushed me back against the fridge, his body pressing fully against mine, his hips against me. He was breathing hard. I couldn’t help it; I leaned up and ran my tongue over the pulse in his throat, feeling it pound hotly beneath his skin. It was delicious. He was delicious.
He let me do it, still and silent, let me lick him. Then he grabbed my hips and stepped back, pulling me with him.
“All right,” he said. “Now the fun begins.”
Chapter 8
Olivia
Devon walked me to the bedroom, which wasn’t far in my tiny apartment, and pushed me gently back on the bed. I tore off my sweatshirt, my t-shirt, so I was topless in front of him, and then I stopped, because I was watching.
He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his shirt. His jeans were still undone, and in one smooth motion he pushed them off, leaving him naked. He was big, packed with muscle, and I had the urge to turn on my bedside lamp so I could see all of him—but when I saw how the shadows played over his skin, hiding and revealing and hiding again, I decided I wanted to explore him with touch instead.