Page 56 of The Devil's Deceit
“Good. We’ll eat later.” He acts so quickly, I don’t register he’s lifted me off my feet until we’re halfway across the living room. He kicks open a door, stopping it with his elbow when it bounces off the wall. Low lighting sets the mood, and silken sheets brush my skin as he sets me on the edge of the bed. Kneeling, he slides off first one heel, then the other, caressing my calf with firm strokes.
Once he’s done, he gracefully rises to his feet and, taking both my hands in his, helps me to stand.
“Turn around.” His voice is low, husky, and filled with a yearning that mirrors my own.
When I do, he tugs down the zip on my dress, his fingertips brushing every bump in my spine. Sliding the dress off my shoulders, it slips to the floor. The rough hitch of his breath sends a wave of lust through me. One flick, and my bra joins my dress. His warm palm caressesmy arse.
“I think we might leave the thong on. For now.”
Not being able to see what he’s doing is oddly thrilling. My sense of hearing heightens. The rustle of his shirt as he discards his jacket, the sound of him removing his tie, the way his breathing gets faster and faster. I close my eyes, swaying slightly, then jump when his hand clasps my ankle.
“Relax.” His palm travels up my leg, his thumb sweeping behind my knee before he places a kiss there.
My skin peppers with goosebumps, and I shiver, although it’s warm in here. Too warm. I’m burning up. Is death by lust a thing? My heart hammers against my ribcage, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as Christian explores my body with his hands, his tongue, his lips. The entire length of his body presses against me, his torso and legs bare. When did he take off his shirt and trousers? His hands slide around my waist, the flat of his palms settling on my stomach. The thick rope of his erection presses between my cheeks, and it takes everything in me not to rub myself on him like a cat at a scratching post.
He turns me in his arms and… ohhh. I’m a shoulders girl, and this man’s shoulders make my ovaries scream with joy. I openly stare, reaching up to trace the bulk of muscle. His eyes drift closed, and he shudders, his six-pack rippling with the movement.
“I didn’t take you for a gym bunny.”
“Boxer,” he mutters, grabbing my wrist and putting it on his chest as I pull away.
“Like, in the ring?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who do you fight?”
“My brothers, mainly. Sometimes one of the bodyguards. It… relaxes me. Quietens the voices in my head.”
“You make it sound like you’re carrying the troubles of the world around with you.”
The incredulity in my tone sounds loud even to me. He opens his eyes, his gaze immediately finding mine. “Money doesn’t mean I don’t have problems. Believe me, I have more than my fair share.”
I rub my lips together. “Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “I know. It must be easy when you’re constantly living to a budget to believe that having an unlimited supply of cash would solve all your problems. It doesn’t. I promise you. I bleed just like everyone else.”
“What kind of troubles?”
“Not the kind I want to share when I’m about to fuck the woman who’s consumed every damn thought in my head for weeks.”
Clamping his huge hands around my waist, he lifts me clean off the floor and tosses me onto the bed as if I weigh nothing. My giggles don’t last long when he crawls after me, trapping me between his muscular thighs. I gaze up at him, copping another feel of his shoulders, which I know I’ll dream about long after my deception is out in the open.
As he blankets me with his body, and his lips find mine once more, I forget who I am, who he is, our disastrous history, and I steal a memory precious enough to last a lifetime.
Chapter Eighteen
CHRISTIAN
Men don’t think in flowery thoughts. We don’t describe women’s skin as silken or her hair as flowing locks, or the sounds of her gasps of pleasure like a Beethoven symphony. We’re far more cerebral than that. Blunt instruments who haven’t evolved all that far from their ancestors, who hunted with spears and carried any woman they fancied back to their cave.
But fuck me, as I crawl down Grace’s body and bury my nose in her pussy, I may as well be at the Chelsea fucking flower show for the number of flowery, poetic thoughts filling my head.
Her fingers dive into my hair, and she presses firmly on the back of my head and lifts her pelvis, grinding herself against my face. I like a woman who shows me what she likes and wants.
Need me to grab your tit, but I’m copping a feel of your arse? Put it there.
Enjoy a hand necklace? Take hold of my wrist and clamp my hand to your throat.
