Satan

by Jianne Carlo

  “When I have a real live humungous cock to explore? You must be daft. I’ve read this book, He Comes Second, about a kazillion times. I can’t wait to try out his ‘perfect’ blow job steps.”

  She wore the sexiest pout, and the half-hooded sultry peek she shot him decimated his good intentions. “Want to delay breakfast?”

  “Uh-uh.” She wagged a finger at him. “It’s my turn, after breakfast. You’re not confusing me into having it your way. After breakfast. My turn. What’s that noise?”

  “The oven timer. Shall we?” His food appetite had long evaporated, replaced by visions of Angel licking and sucking his cock. He had a hunch she would leave no stone unturned. The unintended pun sliced the edge off his rampant desire.

  He stood, pulled her to her feet, curled his arm around her waist, and led her to the kitchen. His thoughts turned to the issue of the Chapman lunch and delivery of his gifts. Her adamant refusal to become involved in his life rankled. It was almost as if she wanted the two of them to spend their time together in complete isolation what with her tech-free holiday suggestion.

  “Dollar for them?” She elbowed him.

  “My thoughts? Down and dirty. I couldn’t persuade you to a sixty-nine session and then you have your turn?” He winked at her.

  “No way Jose. Not budging. I have experiments to conduct. Body parts to taste,” She licked her lips.

  His nuts drew up. “You’re going to torture me, aren’t you?”

  “Yup.” She beamed at him as they walked into the kitchen. “Omigod. That smells like heaven. What’s in the oven? What can I do?”

  “It’s a frittata. According to Destiny, it’s the Italian version of an omelet, only it’s baked. This one, according to the freezer label, is made with spinach, fontina cheese, and prosciutto. You can do the toast. Croissants and toaster’s over there.” He pointed to the pantry and then to the open shelves under the island.

  While they worked to assemble breakfast, Satan contemplated different strategies. No matter what her protests were, she would attend the lunch, and he would weave her into the fabric of his life. He knew everyone, the entire Chapman family, including Sinner’s mom, who was a matchmaker on steroids, would welcome her with trumpets blaring. He had never taken anyone to the Chapman family lunch, and his statement would be obvious.

  No one could resist the magic of the family atmosphere created by the love, joy, and happiness exuded by every single person who attended the event. Out of sheer loyalty, every single member of the Hades team, in particular the wives, would band together to win Angel over. Jess had said as much when they spoke.

  A celebratory spirit claimed him. He popped open a bottle of Prosecco, juiced a few oranges, and mixed a carafe of mimosas.

  Six minutes later, they were seated at the table, plates loaded with buttered and jammed crisp halved croissants, wedges of frittata, and mimosas.

  “Your turn to toast.” He picked up his flute.

  For brief seconds her lips trembled and her eyes brimmed, then she blinked, tossed her hair back over one shoulder, cupped her crystal glass, and grinned. “To the perfect blow job.”

  “Minx. To the perfect blow job.” He returned her smile, and they clinked glasses.

  What had caused her fleeting forlornness? That look, one of abject loneliness and dejection, would haunt him forever. The acute pain in her eyes seared him to his core.

  He forked a portion of frittata into his mouth. Unlike him, she had happy Christmas memories, and it was probably a flash of a precious moment that had triggered her transient despondence. Maybe talking about it would be cathartic for her.

  “This is absolutely delicious. I wonder if this is the typical Christmas breakfast in Italy.” She crunched on a bite of her croissant.

  “What’s the traditional Trini Christmas breakfast?” He kept a surreptitious eye on her.

  “Garlic Pork, or Buljol and Bakes, or Pastelles, or plain eggs and bacon or ham. It all depends upon your ethnic background.”

  A tad surprised, he asked, “Garlic pork for breakfast? Doesn’t sound too appetizing.”

  “O.M.G. My mouth’s watering just thinking about it. Agreed. It doesn’t sound yummy, but it’s scrumptious. Cubes of boneless pork are steeped in a mixture of garlic, vinegar, and thyme for five days. Then they’re steamed, dried, and deep-fried. Garlic pork’s served with toast and vodka and orange juice. The vodka cuts the garlic, so you don’t repeat it for the rest of the day.”

  She spoke with her hands, stabbing the fork, or waving the knife to emphasize a word.

  “Sounds like a lot of work and preparation. And this is served only on Christmas day?”

  The most unusual food he’d had in Trinidad on his last trip was a rice and chicken dish made with pigeon peas, coconut milk, and scotch bonnet pepper that the waitress explained was called “Pilau.”

  “Nah. It’s eaten first on Christmas day, and then every morning after that until that year’s batch runs out. Garlic pork’s peculiar to those of Portuguese descent in the West Indies. When my nonna was alive, my parents always went away for Christmas and it was just the three of us on Christmas morning. We had bacon and eggs, but Martin’s best friend always invited us over for their breakfast. That’s how I first tasted garlic pork.”

  Her parents went away? They left their kids alone? Save for her paternal grandmother? To hide his shock, Satan reached for the chilled carafe nestled in the silver ice bucket on the table. He topped off her mimosa and his. Even his parents hadn’t been capable of such an act of rejection.

  “What about the others you mentioned? Buljol and bake? Can’t remember the rest.” He half-listened to her explanation about the foods. Buljol was made with salted cod, a bake was a type of fried bread, and a pastelle was the Caribbean equivalent of a tamale.

  She put down her cutlery and turned to him. “What about you? What did you and your parents do on Christmas morning?”

  “My mother didn’t believe in ostentatious gestures. We were each allowed one gift, which we opened at the breakfast table before the meal was served. I was free for the day after that. Once Sinner and I became friends, I spent the rest of Christmas day with his family. Colleen and Gavin Chapman treat me like one of their brood.” He pushed aside his plate. “Shall we retire to the library? I’m anxious to open my gift. And I do believe that my gift opening supersedes your turn.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you? You know that I can’t win that argument. You just wait, Satan—my turn’s going to last hours.”

  “You are the quintessence of cuteness when you’re annoyed.” He grabbed the ice bucket and lurched to standing. “Get moving, darlin’. Wouldn’t want macowell syndrome to set in. Grab the flutes.”

  She grinned and obeyed his orders. “Macowell syndrome. Now that’s cute. You did that so well. We’ll make a Trini of you yet.”

  “I need to phone Sinner and let him know I won’t be coming. Go ahead. I’ll join you in the library in a few. We’ll clean up later.”

  Satan waited until she left the room before he rushed to his study. He conference-called the entire Squad and outlined his plans. Satisfied with his arrangements, he headed to the library with the bucket and the carafe of mimosas.

  Angel was standing by the tree, but looked…different. She wore the same dress, but now her whole demeanor shouted sex siren. It took a few seconds before he ascertained the changes. She wore full make up. Satan had dated enough models to recognize a professional camera-ready maquillage. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, the hue of her irises more of a jeweled sapphire, her lashes thicker and fuller making her eyes dominate her face, if it weren’t for her luscious lips.

  “I’ve been thinking. You should go. To the lunch.”

  His blued balls begged to differ. “If you believe for one moment that I’m leaving your side either today or tomorrow—you’re not as whip-smart as I thought.”

  Her mouth pursed. “I’m sure the children
will be disappointed. Are you their Uncle Lorcan?”

  “Yep. I’ll see them on Saturday, when you have to go into town.” The truth, nothing but the absolute truth and yet, a lie. “You’re wearing shoes. Show me.”

  She canted her hips forward, and the slit in the dress parted to reveal her upper thighs. His gaze alighted on her red-sparkle painted toes resting on a delicate glass-slipper style sandal of the same hue as her toenails.

  He yearned to capture her right at that instant. She radiated a luminous sexuality, and he swore she quivered all over in anticipation of his unwrapping. He sported the boner of the century. She had him wound tight and ready to explode.

  “You have another present that must be opened before me.” She pointed to a box resting on the sofa.

  She surprised him again.

  He shook his head, placed the bucket next to the flutes on the coffee table, picked up the box, and shot her a sidelong glance. “Minx.”

  “I’m going to have to look that word up. I’m not certain it’s a compliment.” He untied the bow, lifted the lid, and pushed back the transparent tissue. For a two-second delay he didn’t recognize what he saw. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The man’s laughter proved way too catching and Angel had to smile back at him. At least the gift hadn’t insulted him.

  When his guffaws subsided, he plucked the plastic-encased red ring from the box, and twirled it on one finger. “A cock ring? You think I need help staying hard around you?”

  “Not to get you hard. To keep you hard. For your prolonged torture. When it’s my turn.” She sent him a smug smile.

  “Vixen and Angel all rolled into one. I’m beginning to look forward to ‘your turn.’”

  “There’s more in there.” She chin-pointed to the box.

  He dropped the lid on the leather sofa and pulled the silk bathrobe from the box bottom.

  “The one in your bathroom’s a tad on the ratty side. I think you should wear my present to unwrap yours.”

  The bathrobe purchase had been pure impulse. She passed a shop window, noticed the classic Bond silk robe on the male mannequin, complete with required cigar, and rocks glass filled with a rich golden liquid. The second Angel glimpsed the colors of the material, a rich onyx inlaid with scarlet thread, she pictured Satan wearing the robe, the silk swirling over his thighs when he strode toward her.

  He shrugged off his sweater, tossed the garment onto the couch, and unbuckled his belt all the while wearing a Cheshire-cat grin.

  She held her breath in anticipation when he rolled the pants down over his lean hips and heaved a huge sigh when his magnificent penis sprang free of the material. She loved that he wasn’t circumcised. Loved the way the shiny red glans poked through his foreskin. Saliva coated her tongue. What would his precum taste like?

  When he shoved the denim down his legs, footed the jeans off, and chucked the trousers next to his sweater, her nipples budded. He moved with both precision and grace, and slipped his arms into the bathrobe. She held her breath, too enraptured by the vision before her to bother with such trivia as oxygen filling her lungs.

  He was the image of his moniker. The archetype of the menacing Satanic male beauty artists struggled to describe and recreate. Black suited him. The edges of the robe caressed his olive skin enhancing the golden tones. His erection jutted and twitched, the shiny cockhead catching on the fabric every so often.

  “Do you always go commando?” She couldn’t force her focus away from his humungous erection.

  “When I’m at home.” His graveled, clipped reply spoke of passion barely in check. Her pussy quivered at the desire revealed in his growled declaration.

  The play of his quads when he stalked in her direction, the odd glimpse of his testicles swaying against his inner thighs fascinated her. A breathless desire raced through her, and she drenched the thong she wore—the black one he’d given her not a couple of hours ago.

  He walked past her. She frowned. He halted on the sheepskin carpet.

  “Come.” He crooked a finger.

  Only too happy to oblige, she exaggerated the sway of her hips and ambled over to stand in front of him. He captured her wrists and set one palm to cover his flat male nipple.

  “What do you want me to do?” She stared at him, trying to penetrate the blackness of his eyes.

  His gaze trapped hers, and he licked the center of her other palm. “To enjoy, Angel.”

  She trembled when he finger-traced the square neckline of her gown. The slight grazing caress sparked her skin. Still staring right into her eyes, he bent his head, and brushed his lips across hers.

  When his features blurred, she let her lids fall, and surrendered to sensation. The gentle, lazy way he sipped her mouth, pausing on every sweet suck to nip and then tickle-sooth the spot dizzied her. He traced a slow path across the seam, and she opened for him. He licked a lingering trail on the first four of her lower front teeth and her knees buckled.

  Immediately, he firmed his arm around her waist. “I have you, Angel. I have you.”

  His lips grazed hers when he whispered his assurance and his hot, orange-scented breath tickled her damp lips. Mesmerized by his languid kisses, entranced by the aura of cherish inherent in his sensual exploration, she gave over to him. Aware of nothing but him, his mouth and his clever tongue, and the safety of his embrace, she wallowed in the shroud of desire ensnaring them.

  Passion yes, but laced with a tenderness so poignant she yearned to draw out their beguiling mutual explorations. He feathered kisses along first the line of one brow, then the other. His fingers slipped over her ribs, a meticulous outlining of each curved bone as if he intended to learn every centimeter of her body.

  He combed her hair behind one ear. “I want to unwrap you now. I want to indulge in you. To memorize you standing here. Will you be comfortable if I simply look at you all unwrapped for a few minutes?”

  A fierce craving to please him, to grant his every wish, hurtled through her. She looked up at him, read the tenderness in his gaze, and reached up to stroke his cheek. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  He kissed her again, hot, moist kisses. Starting with the hollow in the center of her throat, he inched his way along her collarbone and suckled that sweet point where neck and shoulder met.

  The spot drove her wild. She moaned his name. When he made his way up to her ear, strangled noises erupted from her lips. How could desire be frenetic and languid at the same time? She hungered to have his cock pounding into her right there and then, yet simultaneously craved the continuation of his wicked, indolent pacing.

  “Ready?” He sucked on her lower lip before drawing back to look at her.

  She smoothed her hand over his chest, smiled, and nodded.

  He wrapped his fingers around the bow’s dangling ends, captured her gaze, and with infinitesimal slowness tugged the fabric. When the bow unraveled, he spread his arms wide apart gripping the ends with his fingers to hold the dress in place, and murmured, “I claim my Angel gift.”

  She was so ready to be claimed.

  He released the ends.

  Angel stiffened her spine. She focused on a tubby Santa ornament and didn’t flinch when the stretchy garment slipped in excruciating increments away from her breasts. Her nipples, already taut and throbbing, burned when the cool air swirled over them. The garment continued its sluggish descent and trailed past her waist. An unexpected rush of heat undulated over her navel and hipbones when the silk fluttered down her belly.

  Her pussy walls vibrated with tensed excitement. She lost her concentration and became aware of Satan’s searing scrutiny. She struggled to regain her vague deliberation, but time seemed to inch by in an agonizing slow-motion. Angel tried to reach the space she went to when doing her opening monologue in front of a live TV audience, but couldn’t. Her inhales and exhales spiked. If he touched her right then, she would shatter.

  The dress skidded down her legs and pooled at her
feet.

  A pang of doubt hit her, and she hesitated, sucked in her stomach, and leveled her chin before checking his expression. He had retreated during her semi-trance and now stood five feet directly away from her. His focus was on her feet. She flexed her toes.

  The corners of his mouth crooked.

  His predatory gaze crawled over her ankles, roved to her shins, and tarried on her knees for long seconds.

  Only by stiffening her spine did she curb the urge to cover her breasts and mound in the age-old female defensive pose.

  Pin-dropping quiet, broken only by her rasped breathing, shrouded the room. His glance roamed over her thighs, lingered on her black thong for what felt like an eternity, dwelled on her breasts for protracted breath-stealing moments, and loitered on her mouth before he looked right into her eyes.

  Flames licked her from within. She trembled all over. Her skin felt too tight for her body. She was no longer composed of muscle and organs, but of an incendiary desire that threatened to erupt at any moment.

  “Please.”

  Unaware the fervent plea came from her lips, she waited, unable to draw in enough oxygen to stop her lungs from burning. He loped, ever so slowly, in her direction and shed his robe half-way to her. She raked her stare over the length of him, her pussy clenching and jerking faster and faster the nearer he got.

  He scooped her off her feet, kneeled, arranged her on the furry rug, and fanned out her hair. The slight tugs on her scalp ratcheted her ready-to-implode sexual hunger. She quivered with need. Her breasts felt heavy and achy. Her nipples were aflame. Her clit throbbed, and her pussy walls quaked incessantly.

  She closed her eyes in ecstasy when he finally covered her body with his. The weight of him, the skin-to-skin tingling made her giddy. She lifted her lids to find him studying her, his lips wearing an ever-so-slight smile.

  “Merry Christmas, Angel.” He nuzzled her throat and nudged her knees apart.