Page 54 of The Devil's Demise

I can’t help it ... tears burn behind my eyes. Even as I gasp, wanting more of what he’s doing, it’s too much at once. He brushes under my eyes, and with a kiss to my lips, he kneels, dropping to the floor before me.

Staring up at me with awe, his fingers slip into my panties, and he lowers them to the ground, until I’m nothing but bare skin.

With a long, deep inhale, he presses his mouth into my lower stomach, kissing me in the spots I’ve come to dislike. Over and over, he loves on my skin, showering me with whispered praises.

“So perfect,” he groans. “I can’t wait to taste you, to make you quiver around my tongue.”

“Oh God,” I grumble, grabbing a fistful of his hair. His mouth descends lower until his mouth meets my core, and he drapes my leg over his shoulder, sucking on my pussy. His growling sets me off. I could feel myself grow slick, hunger permeating my every cell.

I yank harder and he backs off, a pure animalistic look on his features. He gets back on his feet, curling his fingers around the back of my head and pulling me toward his mouth with a passionate kiss, his tongue harshly parting my mouth, twirling with the tip of mine before he sucks it into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he grits as he draws away. Taking my hand, his fingers gripping my wrist, he leads it to his thick cock. “Feel what you do to me, Aida.” He presses my palm into his thick cock and I fight to curl my fingers around it, his trousers in the way. “You see how hard I am for you.” I rub him up and down, our lips hovering above one another’s, our breaths tangled in need. “I can’t wait to watch you swallow my cock with that pussy.”

My mouth trembles. I need him now. “Matteo ... please,” I plead.

His eyes shut, head falling back with a groan. “Don’t you say my name like that. Not when I intend to draw every gorgeous inch of you first.”

“Don’t you have enough drawings of me already?” I grab the collar of his suit jacket, pulling him in for a hard kiss. His groaning intensifies as our lips meet once more, fingers spilling into my hair, fingertips dipping into my scalp as he angles me closer, tongue twining with mine. With a harsh tug to my hair, he separates us, teeth, mouth nipping at my jaw.

“Not nearly enough,” he rasps, sucking on the skin under my chin. “Now, go lie down on the sofa while I get everything ready.”

His heavy-lidded gaze flitters down my curves, and when he runs his hand through his hair, a deep exhale leaving his lungs, he marches toward his supplies.

I make my legs cooperate, even as the flaming desire, that shivery feeling, cascades down my body as I lie on top of the black leather sofa, unsure how to position myself.

He rolls his canvas stand over until it’s right before me, getting his equipment ready. And once he does, he removes his suit jacket, his large biceps flexing beneath the tight confines of his white button-down. He places the jacket on the back of the chair while his eyes swim with passion and savagery as they find my naked form spread open for him. The beat of my arousal drums through me, my nipples growing more erect the more he stares at them.

“What the hell did I ever do to deserve you?” He loosens his tie with one quick jerk, and my God, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. His masculinity only makes the craving inside me build.

I swallow down the butterflies as he moves closer, looming over me as he picks up my wrist and places my arm over my head, placing the other hand on top of my hip.

I bite into my lower lip, the hair on my arms standing up from his warm touch. He notices, his deepened smirk following the path until he looks into my eyes again. “Stay just like that for me.”

He palms his cock as he releases a sharp breath. “You’re killing me here.”

“I promise not to move.” My voice is a mix of hoarse desire. “But you better finish fast or . . .” My fingers drift in between my thighs with a devilish grin.

“Woman,” he grits, his jaw tensing. “You get that hand off your pussy. It’s mine once I’m done.”

I do as he says, returning the hand to my hip. He takes a seat, and once his hands move, those eyes now set with deep concentration, like they’re committing my body to memory, I watch him work.

There’s beauty in the way he brings his artwork to life, like the objects and people in them are really there, alive on his canvas. Breathing and living and feeling, the way we do.

I knew he was gifted from the moment he first drew us. Best friends forever is what his picture said, and boy, was he right.

My husband, the artist. The gallery owner. The lover. The father. The survivor.

We survived.

We lived our lives free of the clutches of our oppressors. And though the past is a part of our future, it isn’t infinite. It doesn’t define us or break us. Instead it makes us stronger. Gives us a brand-new understanding to the world we’ve been born into.

And there is something special about being with someone who can relate to your pain. I never had to explain myself to him when I was having a particularly difficult day. He understood. He was there. He didn’t have to tell me it was going to be okay. He knew I didn’t need that. He gave me what I truly needed—a partner who held my hand and let me cry. Let me spill my heart just so he could hold it and nurture it. And over the years, I’ve done the same for him. We healed each other in many ways. Self-love and therapy.

“Almost done,” he says gruffly, his eyes jolting between me and the painting.

“Does that mean we can play now?”

“Oh, we’ll play.” His smirk lights up his face as he places his brush down, his shirt now splattered with black and red paint.

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