Page 12 of There is No Devil

Nobody wanted me to achieve anything.

Until I met Cole.

He turns the vibrator on several more times while we’re shopping. It becomes a game between us, him trying to do it at the most inopportune times, and me fighting my hardest not to show any sign of it on my face, to keep talking and picking out mascara while my knees tremble and my skin flushes as pink as a baby pig.

Soon I’m giddy and over-stimulated, hanging off his arm because I can barely stand up. Cole carries all the bags for me, laden down like a Sherpa.

I’ve never felt so spoiled.

I’ve never had so much fun.

* * *

2

Cole

When we return from shopping, Mara pounces on me, shoving me down on the nearest chaise, saying, “Now it’s my turn,” in that husky voice of hers.

If I could describe the attraction I feel for her, and the way it eclipses what I’ve ever felt before, I’d have to say that Mara is just … gritty. She has an edge of roughness, wildness, neglect.

Even though I should dislike certain aspects of her person—the way she bites her nails ragged, for instance—it all becomes the spice that I crave more than any bland and perfect beauty.

The artist in me desires what is truly unique. The slope of Mara’s upturned nose, her wild fling of freckles, the fox-tilt of her eyes, the lower lip’s ratio to the top … these proportions are so exaggerated that they ought to be wrong. Instead, they could never be more right.

She looks up at me, a wild creature. No captive pet … I’ve lured her here but not yet tamed her to my will.

I lean back against the cushions, arms spread across the scrolled woodwork, looking down at her. Watching her work.

She unzips my pants, looking up into my face, her sleet-gray eyes flirting with mine. She’s smiling, licking her lips with anticipation, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.

Her excitement ignites mine like a firestorm. The more eager she seems, the more my cock throbs and rages for the touch of her tongue.

The sunset flowing in through the plate-glass windows colors her skin pink, peach, and gold. Her hair illuminates like electrical filaments. She seems to glow with energy and light.

She wore home one of the dresses I bought for her—cloud-light linen, soft and floating around her shoulders.

My cock springs out, almost slapping her in the face. Mara jumps and lets out a peal of delighted laughter. When she’s happy, she laughs so easily. Each throaty note runs down my spine like a scale.

She floats her fingertips over the head of my cock, teasing me. Her hands look naked—bare and unadorned, no rings or polish. Stained around the nails by ink and paint.

Her mouth hovers inches away, partly open, the tip of her tongue curled up to playfully dance around her teeth.

Her lips are swollen as a bruise. I’m aching to feel them closed around my cock. I might blow the instant they touch me.

Mara puts out her tongue and runs it softly up the sensitive underside of my cock. It feels like she’s stringing a wire all along the path of her tongue, then sparking it to life.

She enfolds the head of my cock in her warm, velvety mouth.

I make a sound I’ve never made before. My brain exits my skull, floating several inches up in the air.

She sucks slowly, gently, for what seems like forever. She’s not trying to make me cum. She’s blowing me like she intends to do it all night long.

I look down at her. Her eyes are closed in peaceful satisfaction. Her ear rests against my thigh. She might be asleep, except for the warm, steady pressure of her mouth, licking, sliding, sucking.

Some mistake has been made: I died, heaven exists, and they let me in.

After a long, blissful eternity, I start to cum. While I drift through this dreamy, eternal orgasm, Mara never stops sucking for a moment.

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