Page 63 of Devil's Thirst

“Aren’t we all.” His growled response is a statement spoken with certainty and an end to the conversation. He brings my lips within a breath of his, his hand still at my throat. “I need to taste you, pet.”

I need to taste him, too.

I lean forward to finally bring our lips together, but his hand tightens a fraction in warning.

He slowly shakes his head, wicked mischief teasing the corners of his lips. “I had something even …sweeterin mind.”

In a flash, he lifts me in his arms and deposits me on the kitchen island. I’m only seated for a second when he whisks my shirt off, leaving me in a sports bra and leggings.

“Lie back.” His seductive command licks across my skin.

I do as he says. The granite countertop is just big enough to fit my upper body. I have to plant my heels by my butt with my knees bent in the air. The stone is cool, but the heat of Sante’s stare keeps me plenty warm.

He hooks his fingers in my leggings and panties, coaxing me to lift my hips so he can slide them both off. Once I’m bare, the nerves amp up a notch.

I’ve never been a fan of oral because it’s work for my partner, which puts even more pressure on me. Whenever I’ve encouraged a guy to keep going or a partner insisted he could get me to orgasm, it’s always ended in frustration and disappointment. So far, Sante has proven himself different fromthe others, but I’m still hesitant. I desperately want to please him.

My thoughts scatter when I see Sante lift my panties to his nose and take a languid sniff.

“Mmm… smells so fucking good.” He drops them on the floor but keeps my leggings in his hand as he prowls around to the other side of the island. Once he’s standing by my head, he stretches one leg of the leggings to its full length, then brings it down over my eyes like a blindfold.

I suck in a breath, unsure if I’m comfortable with the loss of control.

Sante must sense my reluctance. “Shhh, pet. It’s going to help you feel good. Help you lose yourself in the sensations.” After tying the legs at the side of my head and placing the extra fabric under my head as a sort of pillow, he trails a steady hand down the center of my chest. “No other thoughts, just pleasure.”

My brain is so wired, I’m pretty sure a lobotomy is the only thing that would quiet my thoughts right now, especially when Sante’s hand disappears and he walks away from the island. I strain to figure out what he’s doing. My ears focus on every tiny noise as he opens drawers and moves about. The anticipation pricks at my skin from all directions. I desperately want to look, but I told him I trust him. It's time to prove it.

CHAPTER 30

SANTE

If you ask me,women are incredible strategists and are totally underutilized in our society. We make jokes about how their brains are always on, thinking of a million things at once, then we limit their access to leadership roles. It’s the fucking dumbest thing in the world. Totally counterintuitive.

Those active brains help them see five steps ahead.

When tragedy strikes, they’ve already planned for three contingency scenarios. They see problems before they’re problems. That sort of intuition is an excellent advantage in life, but every now and then, it can also get in the way—especially where sex is concerned.

Sex is physiological. The brain has to step aside and let the body take over. For some women, like Amelie, that’s problematic. They need help turning off their thoughts and letting the body take over. Things like blindfolds or restraints can be helpful. Instead of dwelling on the objective of reaching an orgasm, the mind can focus on wondering what’s coming next and the sensations themselves. Things that aid rather than sabotage their own pleasure.

If there’s one thing I can say about my time in Italy, it’s that it was educational.

Italians know sex.

As I stand over Amelie and think of how I gave her her first orgasm—how I was able to do that because of what I’ve learned while I was away—I’m wondering more than ever if things happen for a reason. I’ve never been one to buy into the whole things-work-out-for-the-best. My father killing my mother wasnotfor the best or any good at all. I don’t like the idea that it happened for a reason, and certainly not if I’m that reason.

However, I’m willing to accept that some good has come from her loss. At least from that perspective, the tragedy serves a purpose. Amelie is that purpose. She’s been through so goddamn much and stayed so incredibly strong that nothing makes me prouder than knowing I can help keep that vibrant spirit alive in her eyes. I can keep her safe and bring her pleasure like she’s never known.

I am meant for this woman, and she is meant for me.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” The second I say the words, a succulent flush blossoms on her cheeks, spreading down her neck and chest. She’s truly breathtaking.

I take the wooden spoon I found in a drawer and trail it along one of her thighs up to her delicate hip bone, then on toward her breasts. No doubt she’s consumed with trying to figure out what I’m holding and what I’ll do next. Thoughts that spark anticipation. Excitement.

While I circle each breast with the spoon, staying clear of her pebbled nipples, I reach down and cup her sex with my palm. I’m so satisfied with what I find that I fucking purr.

“My girl is already dripping for me.” I slide two fingers on either side of her clit, slow and purposeful, then glide one of those fingers into her warm pussy.

Amelie’s back arches off the counter with her gasp. I’ve never heard of a man’s dick bursting from too much blood flow, but mine sure as hell is trying. I’m so hard that my balls ache.

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