Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  It was too bad she’d told him she loved him, of course, but even that … It wasn’t like he didn’t know it already, she’d bet. Harlan was no fool.

  And another thing. The main thing. Her honesty was her strength. Honesty was the strongest thing there was, because once you were brave enough to be honest, there wasn’t much anybody could say that could cut through what you’d already put out there. Your truth was your sword and your shield.

  That was why, instead of sitting on the bed and weeping again, she took her shower.

  She wasn’t going over for dinner in her comfy maternity leggings and a long T-shirt. Not tonight. She’d wear her green dress, because she’d bought it herself and it made her feel pretty. She was going to have dinner with Harlan like an adult, and have an adult conversation. She was going to work out a new deal with him. Mark thought she couldn’t negotiate? She was going to be calm and cool, and you bet she was going to negotiate. She wasn’t a scared fifteen-year-old anymore, crushed by what other people whispered about her or sprayed onto her locker for everybody to see, or by the fact that an NFL star with too many problems and heartaches of his own, a man who was just doing his best to get through the world with some integrity and kindness, the same way she was, hadn’t fallen in love with her.

  She was a full-grown woman carrying a baby boy who was going to be born to two parents who wanted him, and that boy would have a father who cared about doing it right. It was time to focus on that. Time to help Harlan realize how important that was, too. That he was enough, and he was going to be enough. That he would always be himself, and his self was good. Right down to the bone.

  She knew that about herself. She wasn’t sure he did.

  What did he do now?

  He knew what he wanted to do. Take off after her, throw her over his shoulder—wait, no. Pregnant. Damn—Well, grab her, anyway, carry her to bed, and show her exactly what he thought of her plan.

  Not right after you ran ten miles, bud. When you planned to knock a woman out with your power, it probably shouldn’t be the power of your stench.

  He took a shower, got dressed in one big hurry, and headed over there.

  He paused all the same before he knocked at her door. What are you doing here? What are you trying to say? Since he had no idea, he just went ahead and knocked.

  And nothing happened.

  He knocked again. Then a third time.

  Silence.

  A frozen moment, and he was downstairs again, checking the garage. Her car was still there, and the relief filled him. She hadn’t driven off to who-knows-where, determined to save her pride, to go it alone in some moldy apartment in a terrible neighborhood, because she was trying to save money for the baby, for Dyma, for her grandfather, for everybody except herself.

  It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have gone after her, because you bet he’d have gone after her. But he couldn’t stand to think of her driving, wiping the tears from her eyes, knowing he’d let her down again.

  But wait. If the car wasn’t gone …

  That surge of near-panic again, and he was taking the steps fast. No knocking this time. He went inside.

  Nobody in the living room or the kitchen, and both bedrooms were empty, too.

  The bathroom door was nearly closed, and he heard something from behind there. A mechanical noise. He knocked once, and then he opened the door.

  Whatever she was doing, whatever she was feeling, he needed to know. He needed to tell her what he was feeling, too, even if he didn’t know himself. He needed to try. It was time to drop the masks and tell the truth.

  The second he opened the door, though, she jumped so hard, she nearly dropped the hairdryer into the sink. “Why do you always do that?” she asked, once she’d switched it off.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. You didn’t answer when I knocked, and I got worried.”

  “Good thing you showed up. I was just about to fill the tub, drop the hairdryer in, and end it all. I was just hoping to be a beautiful corpse. I meant it, Harlan. I’m fine.”

  “Could you just … not?”

  “What? Oh. Sorry. That was insensitive. Your mom, I mean.”

  He wasn’t listening, because he’d taken another step and taken her in his arms. The air was still steamy and fragrant from her shower, and those strawberry-blonde curls were still damp. Her skin was soft and fragrant, and she was wearing the robe he’d bought her, the silky cotton one, pink and lace and innocent. It wasn’t closed, though. Underneath it, she was wearing something he’d watched her pick out online. A plunging black bra that showed off her breasts and pale skin like nothing you could imagine. It had double straps in the back that made a sort of triangle, he happened to know, and came with something called a “Brazilian bikini” that was cut high on her ass and had an extra strap in back, too, apparently for no other reason than that all those straps were sexy as hell. Just like anything else called “Brazilian.”

  She’d asked his opinion on it. That had been his worst moment. “Is it ridiculous that I want this?” she’d asked, with the cursor hovering over the set. “Eighty bucks for the bra and panty. That’s a lot. So sexy, though.”

  “Nope,” he’d said, as casually as he could manage. “Get the bra with the little straps in front, too.” The straps were above the cups, leaving a strip of skin in between, and the cups had a magnetic closure, the site said.

  A closure meant you could open them.

  For nursing. For nursing. He needed to focus here.

  “Black or white?” she’d asked.

  “Oh, black. And get two of that, uh, Brazilian thing. Or more. In fact, you can just buy anything off this website. That little black nightgown with the tiny polka dots, for example. Buy that.”

  “You’ve got a thing about black,” she’d said.

  No, he’d wanted to say. I have a thing about you in black. Especially under one of those sweet little dresses, the kind you wear because you’re professional and conservative and a little bit shy. Until I take them off you and find the black lingerie with those kinky straps.

  And that piercing that tells me the kind of dirty girl you want to be.

  He hadn’t said it, though, because they were friends. Or dating. Or something.

  Now, he didn’t say anything about honesty or truth or friends. He just kissed her. His hand in her damp curls, his arm around her back, her curvy body pulled up against his.

  He didn’t wait, because her hand was behind his head, pulling him closer, and one of her legs was wound around his. He got a hand on her ass and pulled her up tighter with a hard yank, then grabbed her thigh to keep her there. She gasped into his mouth and started making some noise, and that was it.

  He was trying to think, even as he was kissing her neck, bending her back a little while she moaned and he started seriously losing his mind. Trying to tell himself, Be romantic. All you’ve ever done is throw her down and boss her around and fuck her hard. Tonight, you’re not giving orders. Time to be sweet. Slow down and show her … show her …

  He lost that train of thought, because she had both hands around his head now and her tongue in her mouth. Her robe had come open, but his hands were under it anyway, touching that little strap at the top of those panties, finding the edge of the high-cut legs, then splaying both hands over her ass.

  She filled his hands everywhere he touched her. And he had big hands.

  Also, she was dropping to her knees.

  Oh, shit.

  He said, “Ah … We should …”

  “Shhh,” she said. After that, she shoved him up against the door, grabbed the plush rug and dragged it over, and walked to him on her knees.

  Robe open. All those curves in black lingerie. His baby in her belly. On her knees. She got her hands on his belt buckle, and his eyes were already trying to roll back in his head. Except that he had to see.

  She unsnapped the top button.

  She pulled his zipper down. With her teeth.

  Holy shit.

>   She took him out like he was her prize. Ran her hands all over him. Stroked down his thighs and back up again. Then looked up at him from down there with no smile at all and told him, “I’m going to make you beg. Do you want to beg me, Harlan?” And his knees went weak.

  “Uh …” His hands were already in her hair. He thought, Wait. This wasn’t … this wasn’t …

  She hadn’t been kidding. This was her skill, and she wasn’t shy. His feet were planted, and his back was against the door. That was the only reason he stayed upright, because her hands, her mouth, were everywhere. Fast, then slow. So deep, he was buried down her throat, and then sliding slowly up, letting him go again. Flicking her tongue over that most sensitive spot, and using the tips of her fingers to massage that landing strip of skin just north of the no-go zone. And when his hands tightened in her hair and all he was thinking was, Yes, going back to sucking him again.

  He was probably having thoughts. He couldn’t have said what they were. His eyes were closed, and he was gasping. Shaking.

  She still had her hands on him, was kissing the tip now, then taking it into her mouth and playing, and he wanted to tell her, Come on. Come on. Which was when she said, “You want this?”

  “Uh …” It was a groan. “Yeah.”

  “How much do you want it?” Some more finger play, finding that P-spot where his prostate lived and massaging it hard, and he was all but squirming.

  “Harlan,” she said. It was a sigh. “You’re going to have to be more specific here.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Please.” He wrapped his hands in her hair, and then he turned them and wrapped them harder. He tried to tell himself, Don’t push it. Wait.

  “You want to come in my mouth?” she asked, and he just about came right there.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

  “Then hold my head,” she said. “And make me take it.”

  Oh, god. He couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t. And she tipped her head back and offered herself up to him.

  Darkness. Hunger. Need.

  It was savage. It was feral. He shoved himself right down her throat, and then he did it again. Over and over, faster and harder. Trying to hold back, trying to tell himself all those things. About gentleness. About taking care. About tenderness. And losing the battle, because she was taking it, and her hands were around his thighs, pulling him in deeper.

  The orgasm came slowly, and then it came hard. And he lost control. He was groaning something, but he had no words. His head was banging against the door. His knees were shaking. The darkness was on him, and he was in her.

  She took it, and then she took more. And he was all the way gone. Swallowed whole.

  Into the darkness.

  52

  Not Your Turn

  She said, when she had her breath back and had her cheek pressed against his thigh, where she could feel him still shaking, “I told you that was my … sexual skill.”

  It was a little hard to talk, to be honest. She was good at this. She was. But he was big. He’d pushed her.

  He said, “Uh …” Which he’d said a bunch of times tonight.

  She was rising on the words, taking his T-shirt with her. This time, she was the one who was pulling it slowly up his body, kissing her way along everything she uncovered. Ridges of abs. Hard-muscled chest. The swell of triceps. His skin was quivering, his body trembling as she drew the shirt up his arms and over his head. He stopped out of his jeans, and … Well, yeah. There he was.

  He needed to be on a calendar. Except that she needed her hands all over him more. Tonight, he was hers.

  She said, “Want to come get on my couch?”

  Why not the bed? Because she didn’t want a bed. She wanted the lights on, and she didn’t necessarily want to be that comfortable, either. She wanted to know he saw her for who she was, all the dirtiest parts of her, and that he wanted her exactly like that.

  She wanted a freaking orgasm. She’d been as sexually stimulated, this past month, as she’d ever been in her life. Or more. So much more. Blame the hormones. Blame Harlan. She was nothing but swollen, aching need by now, and she’d crawl all the way over him to have that need satisfied. He was going to give her those orgasms tonight. As many as she wanted.

  He said, “You need a glass of water. Hang on.” And headed out the door and out to the kitchen to get it. Back in control again. Back to let-me-take-care-of-you Harlan. Also, she’d just note, he was the most beautiful man to watch, coming and going. He had some scars. He had some muscle. He had just absolutely everything she wanted.

  When he came back, he had two glasses of water. And a gleam in his eye. He said, standing naked in the middle of her living room, while she was still wearing her spun-sugar robe and her not-sweet-at-all black lingerie, “You’re a pretty bad girl, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah.” She tried to toss it off. It didn’t quite come out that way. “I’ve been trying to tell you. But all you’ve wanted to do is kiss me sweetly and tenderly and leave.”

  “No worries,” he said, drinking his own water down. “I’m not going to kiss you sweetly and tenderly tonight.” He took her glass from her hand, since she’d finished it, set both of them down on the coffee table, took her head in his hands, and kissed her. Hot, dirty-sweet, and deep. When he pulled back, he said, “That’s how I taste, huh.”

  “Yeah,” she said, and smiled. Slowly. “Aren’t you delicious?”

  “Uh-huh.” This time, he smiled. “And so are you. So we’re on the couch? Not the bed? You want me to play dirty with you, baby?”

  That sent a hard rush right through her. She could feel that little ring with every step she took, because that was just how swollen she was by now, and this time, she was the one who couldn’t answer.

  “Yeah,” he said, and now, his smile was cocky. “That’s what I thought. Come on. Get over the arm of the couch.”

  He didn’t ask. He just pushed her down so she was sitting at the end of the couch. Next to the arm. She said, “Uh … Harlan …”

  “Shh,” he said, then took her legs in his hands and spun her. He dragged her back until her hips were perched right on the edge of that upholstered arm, then asked, “OK? Comfortable enough?”

  She didn’t want him to ask. She wanted him to do it. But if he left her here much longer, she was going to get self-conscious. Her legs were dangling over the side, and there was no way you’d ever keep them together. She was resting on the back of her head, her shoulders, and her arms, the blood was rushing to her head, and she was already halfway there. She said, “Hurry up.”

  He smiled. Slowly. And said, “Oh, no. I don’t think so. Didn’t I mention this? Maybe I should mention it now. It’s not your turn anymore.” With that, he reached down and unfastened the cups of her bra, and the tingles that had been running through her became jolts.

  He brushed his hands over her nipples, and she felt them harden, the sensation so strong, it nearly hurt. “You can touch yourself there,” he said.

  “Yeah?” She was still going for it. Still doing her best to be that other woman, the one she wanted to be. “What are you going to do, then?”

  “Oh, baby,” he said. “You know better than to ask me that. I’m going to play with your ring, that’s what. I’m going to do anything I want.” He had his fingers around the edge of her panties, was pulling them over her thighs, down her calves, and when she felt them fall from her ankles, he stood there, shoved her thighs slowly apart with his palms, and sighed.

  Which was when he took that ring between finger and thumb and slowly twisted it. Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to shock her. And to let her know. “Thought I said to touch yourself.”

  She was embarrassed. She was. But she did it. Touching your own breasts didn’t do that much for you, she’d always thought. She’d been wrong, because it was doing something for her now. He smiled, slow and wicked, and said, “Yeah. Keep doing that.” He let go of the ring, pinched her labia together with one big hand, and s
tarted to squeeze. In a rhythm. He did it until she was moaning. Until she was rocking back and forth, as much as she could in her constrained position. And then he drew both thumbs up her, around her, until they met at the ring again.

  “You’re going to come before I even put my mouth on you,” he told her. “And once I do, you’re going to come over and over again. After that? I’m going to spank your ass pink and fuck you hard. You played with me. Now it’s my turn to play with you. By the time I’m done with you tonight, you’re going to remember I’ve been there.”

  The first wave of her climax spiked into her before she knew it was coming, and then the rest did. He was swearing, dropping to his knees, and setting his mouth to her, and she came again. And again. She was no sooner falling than she was going up again. And she was wailing.

  She could come just from him talking to her. And once he started in to please her in earnest, she came so hard, he got worried. He stopped, once, and asked, “Doing OK?”

  In answer, she gasped, “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare.” So he didn’t. He went fast and hard, and then he went slow and teasing, and she loved it all. She couldn’t even grab his hair, not all the way down there on the couch. She couldn’t grab him at all. She was helpless, and he was enjoying the hell out of that.

  He’d have said, after that episode in the bathroom, that he was a wrecked man. It hadn’t lasted, because when a woman needed it this bad, you pretty much had to give it to her. Which was why he got to his feet, finally, and took a good look at her. Lush, pink-tipped breasts outlined by black triangles. Swell of belly. Strawberry-blonde curls in wild disarray, her eyes closed and her mouth open, panting. That orgasmic flush on her chest that a woman couldn’t fake, especially not one with skin this pale. And hands that had forgotten to do anything at all, because they were over her head, clutching the fabric of the couch cushion.

  She made him feel too many things. Aching need. Fierce tenderness. And the primal urge to put his stamp on her in every way there was. He said, “I’m going to do some things here. If any of it doesn’t feel good, if you need a break … tell me.”