Page 44 of The Devil's Torment

“If by romantic, you mean horny, then, yeah, I’m romantic.”

She goes still in my arms, and while I’m far from knowing what her body language means, if I had to guess, there’s a part of her that thinks last night was some kind of fluke.

Time to show her it was no fluke.

Reaching around to her front, I unfasten the buttons on her blouse and slide it from her arms, letting it drop to the floor. I brace a hand on her calf to balance her as I crouch and peel off her shoes, then pull off her jeans.

“I’ve realized something,” I murmur in her ear once I’m standing tall again, nibbling on the lobe. “Whenever I get you naked, that impudent tongue of yours is oddly silent.”

The laugh she emits is a little shaky. “I’m sure that’s pleasing to you.”

“Hmm, I may have agreed with you once.” I move her to face me, her hazel eyes luminous with a hint of unease visible. “But there’s a part of me that’s enjoying this verbal sparring we’ve got going on. It’s like gymnastics for the mind.”

“But you chose Beth because she was subservient.” Her gaze challenges me. “Yes?”

“That’s true.”

“And do you wish it was her here with you now?”

I rub my lips together, giving her question careful consideration. “I wish she were alive. She didn’t deserve to die like that, and I hate that I haven’t made any headway in finding out who planted that bomb. But if you’re asking would I rather she be here with me instead of you, the answer is no, I don’t believe I would.”

Her entire body relaxes, and as her shoulders sag, she loses at least two inches in height. “I wish she was here, too.” Her voice is small and far more reminiscent of Elizabeth’s timid tone than Victoria’s striding, confident inflection. “I miss her.”

Funnily enough, I don’t, and I never have. My drive to find those responsible for killing Elizabeth remains the same: securing my family’s reputation by ensuring the perpetrators are made an example of.

“As much as I risk sounding heartless, can we shelve talking about your sister while you’re standing almost naked before me, and my dick is weeping to get inside of you? It’s only marginally better than bringing up your mother.”

She chuckles, dropping her gaze, where it lingers on my groin. “I can do that.”

“Good.” I unfasten her bra and remove her underwear, tossing both lingerie items on top of her clothes. For someone so small, she’s in perfect proportion. High, proud breasts with pink-tipped areolae I’m dying to suck, a narrow waist, flared hips, and legs that will look incredible wrapped around my neck.

Grabbing my T-shirt by the neck, I pull it over my head. She stands and watches, her eyes traveling over my tattooed chest. Reaching up, she traces the outline of the ink.

“Why so many?”

I keep to myself the real reason I have tattoos. The pain of them reminds me I’m not dead inside. I was eighteen when I got my first one, and I quickly grew addicted. “You don’t like them?”

“Oh, no, I do. It’s just… I never would have guessed you were into them. You’re a De Vil.”

A chuckle echoes in my chest. “And that doesn’t gel with tattoos because?”

One shoulder pops. “I don’t know. I never think of aristocrats or members of high society as having tattoos.”

“Plenty do.” Grabbing her wrist, I tug her to me. Her tits collide with my chest, and a groan slips past my lips. “Take my trousers off.”

With more dexterity than I thought she’d have, she flips the button and tugs down the zip. As my trousers travel to the floor, so does she, and even when I step out of them and kick them to one side, she remains in a crouched position.

“You look good down there,” I rasp, my dick hard enough that it’s forced its way past the waistband of my boxers, and the slit is weeping. “Get on your knees.”

She shifts position, her head tilted back, her lips parted as though she’s already anticipating what I want. I tug down my boxers, and my dick springs free, the sunlight streaming through the windows glinting off the silver barbell. The dick piercing was another way of feeling pain, if only to prove I could feelsomething.

Palming her hair, I wrap the silken strands around my fist and gently tug her head back. I grip my dick at the root. “Open your mouth.”

“I’ve not… I’ve never… done this before. Does it taste bad?”

Her confession amuses and surprises me. I’d have thought a blowie would’ve been the first request for a selfish twat likeMatthew. After all, he’d proven himself to care only about his own pleasure.

“Difficult for me to answer. I’ve never been flexible enough to suck my own dick.” I grin, my attempt at humor meant to relax her, and it does. She grins, too.

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