Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  It’s hormones, she told herself, but it didn’t matter what it was. She wanted it anyway.

  “Exactly what kind of steps?” His voice was like warm caramel, and he wasn’t on his back anymore. She saw the darkness of him over her, felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. “Jennifer. Did you get a tattoo? Tell me it was on that gorgeous ass of yours, and I’ll forget all about my dream. Depending how well you describe it, of course. Or better yet … you could show me. Just roll over onto your stomach, and I’ll flip up that little nightgown and … look.”

  How were you supposed to breathe? She said, “It’s dark.”

  “Uh-huh. But, see, I’d have to turn on the light for that. Just a little one. Let it shine on you, so I can see.”

  “What would I tattoo there?” she asked. “Which I didn’t.”

  “Oh.” She could feel the disappointment in him even in the dark. “It’s on your ankle or something. Your hip, if I’m lucky. And you’d do a flower every time. Nothing wrong with a flower, though. Or maybe a tiny little heart. In that sweet spot right above your hipbone? Yeah, that works.”

  “Because I’m so sweet. So conservative.”

  “Conservative’s good.” He still wasn’t touching her, but now, he reached out and twined a curl around his finger. Just the faintest tug against her scalp, and she was heating up. Some more of his warm, dark voice, of temptation in the night as he said, “Nothing sexier than a good girl letting you take her over to the dark side.”

  She opened her mouth to say, “Which I’m not going to do.” She wasn’t Harlan’s comfort object. They were both clear on that. All she had to do was get up and go back to her own bed. Alone. She didn’t need any more complication.

  Instead, what came out of her mouth was, “Maybe you should …” She drew her hand down his chest. The barest brush of fingertips, but she felt his body go rigid. “Turn the light on,” she suggested with the last of her breath, “and find out for yourself.”

  It had been one hell of a dirty dream. It had involved her ass.

  It had really involved her ass.

  He reached for the light on the bedside table, then thought, Whoops, and stopped with his hand halfway there. “Have you, uh, been with anybody since me? Because I don’t have a condom with me.”

  Not good enough. A half-assed attempt at safety measures, and he knew it.

  He heard her soft exhalation of breath, felt her hand brushing over his chest again, lingering at the nipple. He could feel her wanting to put her mouth there, too, like he was in her mind. “I didn’t mention to you,” she asked, like a woman made of softness, “that I found you weren’t … replicable?”

  “That’s quite a vocabulary you’ve got,” he said. “I like that. I’m not replicable.” He had his whole hand in her hair now. Her hair was baby-fine, and if you twisted your hand, you could … “And same here,” he said as he did it. “Because it turns out you’re not replicable, either.” He took her mouth again and kissed her, dark and dirty and deep, his hair wrapped around his hand, the brush of thin, cool cotton against his skin.

  By the time he was done kissing her, she was sighing. And he was flicking that little switch by the bed.

  She said “Ahh… bright,” and put an arm across her eyes.

  He said, “Come on. Come over here.” His heart pounding like a drum, his blood pulsing hot in his veins. He had his arms around her, was pulling him toward him, away from the pool of light and into the shadows.

  “Better?” he asked, and she smiled at him, warm and secret, put her hand around the back of his head, pulled his head down, and whispered against his mouth, “Better.” And now, she was the one kissing him. The one pushing him down onto his back and straddling him. Which surprised the hell out of him, and gave him just that much of a thrill, too.

  He’d been right. The nightgown was white. It was thin, too. He could see right through it, backlit as she was. The shadow between her breasts, the faint swell of her belly. He put a hand there, cupping it, felt that hard little rounding for himself, and said, “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  He could see her swallow, and he could see her smile. “I know,” she told him, and the words felt like a blessing, and hot as hell at the same time. She got her hands on that white cotton and pulled it straight over her head, and he sighed.

  Well, yeah. That was the body he’d been thinking about ever since he’d first set eyes on it. Ripe. That was the word. He ran his hands over the fullness of her white breasts, brushed his fingers over the swollen pink nipples, and asked, “Should I be careful here?”

  “Yes,” she said, with that little hitch in her breath that told you she loved it. “There.” Another secret smile, dirtier this time. “But nowhere else. If you want to get a little rough again …” And he got a kick of lust straight to his groin.

  She was over him again, her hands in his hair, her tongue in his mouth. Sliding her way down his body, and he was hauling in a breath.

  Greedy hands. Hungry mouth. Strong legs gripping him tight. No shyness in her at all. And he was running his hands over the smooth skin of her shoulders, down her back. Closing around the thrilling curve of her waist, and finally sending them over the fullness of her ass. Running his hands over her there, again and again, feeling her squirm against him, her mouth getting even more avid.

  And then he trailed his hand around and found her. Wet and warm and …

  Whoa.

  He grabbed another pillow and shoved it under his head. He had to see.

  He said, “Holy shit. Sit up.”

  His voice was hoarse. Well, yeah.

  She didn’t quite sit up. She sort of … slithered up, dragging her body over him like it felt good. Which, oh, yeah, it did.

  He got his hand there again. “I’m guessing …” It was a little hard to breathe. “It wasn’t a tattoo.”

  A slow smile. “No. I did this instead.” And she sat up. Kneeling over him, leaning back on her palms. Showing him everything.

  She’d waxed. Yes, she had. She’d also pierced the hood of her clitoris.

  All the blood was leaving his head. She had a little silver ring in there. Positioned vertically, so the tiny black bead at the bottom would rub against her with every touch. Maybe with every movement.

  He’d heard of it. He’d just never seen it. And the contrast between the frank barbarity of that ring and the memory of her white cotton nightgown was doing bad things to him. The gentleness of her smile, and the dirty-sweet shock of that nasty piercing.

  She lowered herself over him and kissed his mouth again, and he kept his hand right there and rubbed that bead into her. And she squirmed hard.

  He said, “Tell me why.” It came out demanding. He didn’t care.

  “Because …” She sighed into his mouth, then kissed him some more. Her hand in his hair, her mouth wandering over to his ear, down to his neck. Exploring him. Tasting him. “Because I wanted to be a different kind of woman. I thought, if I don’t do it now, when will I? Why shouldn’t I feel as good as I can, even if I’m feeling it, uh …” She’d gotten a little breathless, because he was rubbing some more now. Sliding that ring through the hole. Experimenting. “By … myself,” she got out.

  “Yeah?” he asked. “Is it healed enough to play?” And tested it out some more. Felt great to him.

  “Feels …” she said. “So hot. And I want to have sex like this.”

  Well, yeah. He could probably help her out with that.

  First, though …

  He got a leg around her hip and flipped her. His palms on either side of her shoulders, and now, he was the one doing the kissing.

  No slow, sweet teasing this time. He was moving right down her body. He was going right there.

  He said, just before his mouth closed over her, “This is one hell of a secret weapon.”

  He could almost hear her satisfied smile. “I know. You can’t believe how good it feels. Walking around, even, if I start thinking. … bad thoughts. Doing the machine
s at the gym? Oh, yeah. And I have a feeling that riding a bike could get embarrassing.”

  “No,” he said, and gave the silver ring a gentle little tweak. “I mean for me. If you’re bad, all I’ve got to do is hold onto this, and …”

  She gasped and tightened, and as soon as she did, he had a finger inside her. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got you now, don’t I?”

  “Yes. Yes.” It was a gasp. “Harlan.”

  In another second, he was going to be too busy to talk. Right now, though, he messed with her a little bit more and said, “Did you think about me, when you got this? The first time you played with it?”

  The tension in her thighs. The quickening of her breath. “Y-yes.”

  That barely visible swell of belly. Her white skin, and all the secret pink of her. That little silver ring, and that black bead. He said, “Then come on. Show me it’s mine.” He lowered his mouth to her, and she came apart. Stiffening. Spasming. Her head thrashing. Trying to stifle her cries against her hand.

  Holy shit.

  She’d been thinking two things since she’d gotten the piercing, which had been about three days after she’d said goodbye to Harlan on the tarmac. To be honest, she’d been thinking about that piercing ever since she’d researched the less extreme ones Dyma wanted.

  You could say the idea had captivated her. How would it feel to be that sensitive? That stimulated? She’d wanted so much to know, and she’d known she didn’t dare.

  This time, she’d dared. And then she’d thought those two things. First, that she was crazy. It hurt a lot to have it done, and once she did, she realized she’d never be able to show anybody. She’d be too embarrassed. How was she even going to get changed after her shower at the gym? Why would a woman go around being invisible for thirty-four years and then do this?

  The second thought was even more dismaying. How much she wanted Harlan to see it. How much she wanted to have him lie over her, to look her over slowly, like she was his, and touch it. To decide that it gave him license to play with her. It had been a fantasy, but it had sure worked.

  He said, now, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it, like he was holding back, and he couldn’t stand to, while he kept his hand there, kept her focused right on the spot, “What’s going to feel good with that? What’s going to hurt you, being pregnant? Tell me. I need information.”

  “Uh …” She tried to concentrate. It wasn’t easy. “Anything that you do is going to be …” He blew on the piercing, then tongued it, and her legs stiffened.

  Oh, my god. She was going to come again. “A … amazing,” she got out. “It makes me, ah … so sensitive. Do what you … want. Tell me, and I’ll do it. Just be gentle with my breasts. Please.”

  He sighed. It came from all the way down deep. She felt it, because she had her hands on his shoulders.

  “Then,” he said, “let’s go.”

  He was gentle. He was also demanding, and inventive, and thrilling as hell.

  When he had his hands around her ankles, pulling her back into him, then his hands around her thighs, and her face was pressed into the mattress while he was driving hard. When he was talking to her, giving her orders, telling her everything she wanted to hear, and her hand was underneath her, helping herself out? She came so hard, it almost hurt.

  When she was riding him slow and he was pulling her into him, saying, “Show me how you play with that thing,” then watching her while she did it? She threw her head back, tightened around him, and came even harder. She had to bite down on her hand to try to keep quiet, until he got his hand over her mouth to help her, which was when she came again.

  And when, at last, he was over her, resting on his elbows, his hands cupping her head, thrusting long and slow and deep, waiting until she couldn’t stand it anymore, until she was asking for more, and then going faster, and finally, driving into her like he never wanted it to end, piercing to the heart of her …

  She came so hard, she cried.

  He was over her, doing his best to wrap himself around her. She was crying. Why was she crying?

  The fear twisted in him. What had he been thinking, using her that hard?

  “Hey.” He kissed her eyelids, tasted the salt of her tears. “Hey, baby. What? Too rough? Did I hurt?”

  She shook her head, and her hand came up to grasp his shoulder. It was shaking a little, and he smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her temple. “What? Tell me.”

  “It just felt …” She tried to laugh, and couldn’t quite do it. “So good. I’ve been trying not to … want you. You’ve been my … secret. My fantasy. I thought … that’s all right. It’s been freeing, the piercing, letting my … mind go, and that’s good, but it isn’t real. But you’re so … so real. And it feels too good, and I …”

  He kissed her some more, then rolled with her so they were on their sides. “Hey,” he said gently. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Her eyes searched his. His leg was over hers, his arm around her, holding her close to him, like he could hold her right here with him. “Me, too,” he said again. “I wasn’t going to push it. I mean, obviously, not with the whole pregnancy deal. And everything that’s happened. It’s too much. But when you show up in a guy’s room in the middle of the night and tell him you’ve done something secret and dirty, and invite him to find it for himself … well, there’s only so much self-control a man has.”

  “I showed up because I thought you were in pain,” she said, but she was smiling now.

  “Well,” he said, “you were right.”

  Another smile, another kiss, and he said, “If I give you back your nightgown, will you stay with me?”

  It wasn’t forever. It was for now. They both know it. But it felt so good to have her here. She wound her arms around him, and he pulled her in a little closer, looked into those golden eyes, and lost himself a little.

  She said, “I’ll stay with you. And I don’t need the nightgown.”

  38

  Sins of the Fathers

  The next morning, he was sitting with all of them—Annabelle, Alison, Vanessa, and Jennifer—on a bench in the courtroom. Around them, others waited. Sometimes a woman alone. Sometimes an entire family. The atmosphere tense, especially when another defendant walked through the door dressed in orange, handcuffed and escorted by deputies whose eyes never stopped moving. And it had lasted for over two hours already.

  It was like a movie, except that you were living it. And that it was more boring.

  Jennifer had offered to stay with the kids so Steve could come with Alison, and he’d wanted to tell her, No. I want you there. Selfish of him in every way there was. Selfish not to let Alison have that comfort, and selfish to expect Jennifer to provide it, so he’d shut up.

  Especially since Jennifer had been making French toast at the time. Back to looking cheerful, and so pretty again in a pair of stretchy gray jeans and a turquoise top with long sleeves and a wrap front that showed a bit of cleavage, because she had so much going on under there, she couldn’t help it. She’d changed into those clothes just about as soon as she’d climbed out of his bed in the gray light of morning, when she’d found the thin white nightgown, pulled it down over her body, and been covered up … not much at all.

  He’d grabbed her wrist, pulled her back down onto the side of the bed, and said, “Stay.”

  “No,” she’d said, then leaned over and kissed his mouth so sweetly. She trailed her hand down his jaw, smiled into his eyes, and said, “Time to go back to the real world. Cinderella doesn’t get to dance with the prince forever.”

  He could still see that little swell of belly through her nightgown, because it was just that thin. He could also see, or he imagined he could, that silver ring with the black bead that would be rubbing against her all day. The only jewelry he’d ever seen her wear. He wasn’t sure which thing he wanted to touch most. He just knew that he wanted his hands all over her, because she was going to be the only good thing about this day.

  She�
��d pulled away and left him anyway, though, and she’d also offered to take the kids once his sisters had shown up for breakfast, everybody quiet and subdued. Steve had said, though, “No, I’ll take them to the park. You’ll probably sit there for hours just to see ten minutes. Not sure why you want to do it anyway. It’s not like it’s going to be a happy family memory. It’d be better to head back to Minneapolis right now, so we’re not driving after dark. You all can text Alison what happened.”

  Alison said, “I think I need to go, though.” Looking troubled.

  Annabelle said, “I’d feel better if we were all together. Does anybody else feel like that? Like, I don’t want to be there at all, but I kind of think I have to, or it won’t be real. Even though I saw Dad getting handcuffed and everything. It still doesn’t feel real. Maybe if I see him like that, it will. If we feel like a family, too. Maybe then I can … believe it.”

  “That’s it,” Vanessa said. “That’s why Ally and I have to go. We didn’t see Dad get arrested like you did, or see Dad in jail, either, like Harlan did. It’s not going to feel real until we do. And I want to see his face.” Her own more-than-pretty face hardened. “I want to see him look at us and know we know. I want him to know how much I hate him for it. I want him to look at me and know I’m hoping he burns in Hell.”

  Everybody had been silent at that, but Jennifer had asked, once Harlan was driving everybody to the courthouse, the three sisters squeezed into the back like they’d been so many times in their mom’s car, “Did your father call you again yesterday?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “While I was giving Bug her batting practice.”