Page 87 of The Devil Gets His Due

His mouth tugs at one nipple as he shoves his shorts and boxers down and steps close.

When he pushes inside me, my teeth sink into his shoulder. “This is another really good position,” I gasp.

“I told you,” he says against my ear, his voice tight, “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

He’s careful with me, more careful than he is in those slivers of memory from January. He moves in and out slowly, his jaw flexed as he tries not to come. I know he’s scared about the pregnancy, being gentler than he otherwise would be. I wish I’d paid more attention during my obstetrics rotation…maybe I’d know enough to assure him it isn’t a concern.

His brow is damp, his eyes are dark and drugged. “Are you close?”

“I am. Just do it harder,” I beg. “Stop holding back.”

“Fuck. I shouldn’t,” he says, but everything about his clenched jaw, his tight grip on my hips, tells me he wants to. “Just for a minute.” He gives in with a muffled cry, as if some part of him has finally been set free.

In seconds, he has me going off like a bomb.

“God, I love that,” he hisses and then his thrusts come fast and sharp, and he lets go, too, throwing his head back, his eyes squeezed tight.

When they finally open again, I reach up to his throat. “You have my favorite thyroid cartilage in the entire world.”

He laughs. “That’s probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“All the blood may have rushed from my brain. I’m not thinking all that clearly right now.”

His mouth curls into a hint of a smile—a smug, smug smile—and then he lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me.

“What are you doing?”

He walks into his room and deposits me carefully on the bed. “Making sure you keep not thinking clearly. Traditionally, that’s worked out really well for me.”

The second time is long and luxurious, and he refuses to do it hard, the way I ask, but goes down on me instead, and I guess I really have no complaints about this in the end.

When it’s over, though, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. If he’s flying out in the morning, he might want the room to himself. Maybe he’s got to repack. Maybe he wants to do laundry.

“Well,” I begin, sliding away.

“Keeley,” he says. “Don’t.”

I’m not sure what he’s telling me not to do, at first, but then he pulls the blankets over us both and his hand lands on my hip.

Ah, I think, smiling.Don’t leave.

He tugs my back to his chest, his knees sliding into the curve of mine, his arms around me so that I am covered in him, as close as we can possibly be. And like that we remain for the entire night.

It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.

40

KEELEY

When I wake, the bed is empty.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find that disappointing, that there wasn’t a part of me hoping maybe we’d pick right back up where we left off, or that maybe he’d even just…stay. I don’t know what any of this means for when he gets home on Wednesday.

I walk to the kitchen, glancing at my clothes strewn around the room and walking past them to his discarded t-shirt, balled on the floor. He’ll never notice it’s gone, and even if he does, he wouldn’t accuse me of taking it. He’d sound crazy.

I bring it to my nose and breathe him in as I slip it over my head. He was so…himlast night. So feral and restrained and hungry and unleashed all at the same time. Like a delicious package I only got to partially unwrap.

I’m taking another sniff of his shirt when the door swings open and he enters, carrying two cups and a white paper bag.

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