Page 79 of The Devil's Deal

“No.” She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”

She turns to the bar, giving me her ass, peeking from below the dress, the one I want to flip to her waist. Would she fight me?

Would she beg for my cock as I let my palm strike her flesh again and again, until she can’t take any more.

“Is Mr. Smith upset?”

She whirls back to me with pouty, fuckable lips, the bottle of my Bowmore in hand. The one I bought for almost two hundred thousand.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she continues. “I’m in a very sharing kind of mood. So how about I give you a little taste?”

I fold my arms over my chest, my feet crossed at the ankles as I shoot up a brow, quite intrigued at what drunk Chiara is capable of.

She slithers across the floor, edging closer to where I stand, the bottle rattling in her grip as she rocks on her feet.

The black dress that’s molded to her curves rides up to her upper thighs, making me want to rip it right off.

She takes another step and almost trips over her feet. Before she can fall and stab herself on the pieces of my whiskey bottle, I reach out a hand and wrap my arm around the small of her back, my fingers massaging her hip.

“My hero.” Her lips tip up right before the bottle makes it to her mouth, and she takes a swig.

And with one hand on my shoulder, she leans in, her eyes delving into mine, and she kisses me. The liquor from her mouth courses into mine, and I swallow it down right before I take her tongue and suck, milking every drop.

I fist her hair, grabbing the bottle from her hand and taking a mouthful, kissing her back, giving her what she gave me while placing the bottle on an end table beside me.

Feeling her lips after all this time—tasting her like I was always meant to—it’s better than any whiskey I’ve come to acquire. And though I try to fight the feeling of affection squeezing at my heart, grasping at my throat, I can’t. Chiara always had a way of lighting my heart on fire.

I groan as her moans vibrate over my lips, the liquor from her tongue coursing down my throat, her nails sailing down my chest to find me hard as a rock. My fingers tangle wildly through her waves, pulling hard as her palm squeezes around the head of my cock.

Our kiss turns savage, the moans and groans piercing through the walls as hard and fast as our hands pierce our very skin.

Consuming.

Devouring.

Aching for more.

Her other hand moves to the buckle of my belt as she unfastens it, her lips still moving over mine, her whimpers growing more intoxicating.

I yank her head back, my fingers winding through her hair, needing to see her eyes, needing to see what lies within them.

“You need to stop,” I warn. “You’re drunk.”

She eyes me defiantly, chin high in the air, as she continues to undo my pants, sliding the zipper down.

“What are you doing?” I hiss with a growl as her hand slips inside my boxers, sheathing me in her softness.

She gazes at me, hypnotizing me with her beauty.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Her husky voice is dipped in raw determination. “I’ve wanted to know what you feel like. Taste like.”

My jaw stiffens, my cock straining for what it shouldn’t want. She moans as her teeth entrap her lower lip, her face straining as she jerks me up and down, nice and slow.

“You want my cock, huh?”

She nods with a glint in her eyes, sending a jolt down to where I need her with a desperation I’ll never admit.

Placing the width of my palm on top of her head, I push her down to the floor. “Then go get it.”

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