Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “Yes,” she’d said, her chest heaving with her breath.

  He’d smiled, slow and sweet and sure. And then he’d done it.

  No fancy positions. No acrobatics. Just Harlan lifting her off him, then moving on top of her. Holding himself up on his palms as he entered her, then shifting position somehow so the friction got even more intense, and her eyes opened wide.

  He said, “Yeah. That’s it. That’s what we’re doing.” And she lost her breath.

  Her hands on his chest, his arms, exploring him, greedy for him, until it got better and all she could do was slide her hands down his back and hold his hips to try to pull him harder into him. Hearing his breath catch, feeling the strain in his body, and starting to go up again herself. The way he groaned when she did, the sounds she’d pulled out of him when, finally, he was spilling into her, and the way he held her afterwards. Brushing her hair back from her face. Kissing her cheek, her forehead.

  Telling her that today had been beautiful. That seeing their son for the first time had been the most intense moment of his life. And that he loved her.

  And the next day, a deliveryman had brought flowers to the office.

  Twenty stems of delicate, deep-blue orchids, tinged with purple. A rare color, like sapphires. The most fragile blooms imaginable, every blossom paper-thin, tiny, and perfect. And a little white envelope stuck into the midst of them. She’d opened it with trembling fingers to find a white card.

  Blue for our son. Thank you. I’m going to try hard.

  He just took her heart and twisted it. Her hands were shaking so badly, she had a hard time putting the card back in the envelope. She had to go to the ladies’ room, read it again, and cry.

  Good thing Blake hadn’t seen that. How did you explain that you were crying from happiness? From tenderness so strong, it hurt? From love so deep, it could only come out in tears?

  She was going to cry again if she kept on like this. Dyma’s graduation. The baby. Harlan. It was all welling up inside her. She was going to think about this morning instead. About dessert. That was the only way she’d make it to Idaho without becoming a soggy mess.

  No. Wait. She needed to have this conversation with Harlan first. She’d meant to have it this morning, but she’d been distracted. She was out of time. She needed to have it now.

  Jennifer looked so soft and pretty in that dress, all he wanted to do was cuddle her. Which was alarming, maybe. He was never going to win the tough-guy sweepstakes like this.

  On the other hand, shallow was no way to go through life. The deep end of the pool might be scary, but it sure did make you feel.

  Jennifer looked away from the window, which she’d been staring out of like there was something to see out there, and said, “Could you come talk to me a minute in the back?”

  “Sure,” he said, and got a twist of anxiety low in his gut, because that expression was serious.

  Then you need to know, he told himself. If it was about this morning … he needed to know.

  He’d checked. He’d asked. She’d sure seemed like she’d been enjoying it. But was she still thinking she had to go along with something she didn’t want? He needed to have a talk with her about that. An explicit talk about boundaries and limits and consent, no matter how embarrassed that made her.

  Because … yeah. This morning. Her birthday.

  She’d woken up in his bed, the same place she’d been waking up all week. She had a toothbrush in his bathroom now, but her clothes were still at the other place, which was driving him crazy. Possibly why he’d bought her some new clothes this morning.

  She woke up slowly, the way she always did, but without an alarm clock. Jennifer waking up was at once disciplined and anything but. Exactly the same time every morning, even on a day like this when she didn’t have to go to work, but like the woman she was underneath, all stretching, sighing, and sensual pleasure.

  She saw the flowers first, because he’d stolen out early to put them on the dresser. The prettiest arrangement the florist had been able to come up with, when he’d asked for something soft and romantic and just as extravagant as possible. It turned out to be a whole bunch of roses and other … rose-looking flowers in ivory and the palest pink, along with lavender and eucalyptus and some other deep purple and green items stuck in there to make it look nice. He’d wanted to do thirty-five stems, but the florist had said no, so he’d settled for two dozen. It was still a pretty good display.

  Jennifer thought so, anyway, because she said, “Oh,” on a breath, and then got out of bed to smell them and exclaim over them like he’d done some huge thing, not just call a florist. Then she said, “Sorry. I want to kiss you, but I have to go to the bathroom,” like you could have predicted, because whatever else Jennifer was, she was always real. Which gave him a chance to grab things out of the closet, so when she came back, there were a few boxes on her pillow.

  Shopping for women was fun. Of course, it probably depended what you were shopping for. He was having fun, anyway.

  She stopped halfway across the floor when she saw them and said, “Oh.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Happy birthday, baby.”

  She said, “I’m probably going to feel bad that all I got you was whiskey stones,” and he laughed.

  “Nope,” he said. “I love my wolves. And as I recall, we also had some smokin’ sex that day. That’s worth a present or two.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “Makes it sound hardly at all like a commercial transaction,” but she was laughing, too. “Which one do I open first?” On her knees on the bed now, dressed in the short black nightgown with the little dots, her hair messy and tumbled, her curvy mouth unpainted. Already a pretty good day, as far as he was concerned.

  “This one.” He handed her the medium-sized box. “This one reflects my higher powers, you could say. My, ah, better nature.”

  She looked at him sidelong out of her golden eyes. “So the other ones are dirty.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m hoping.” And she smiled with that mouth, showing him the deep bow in the top lip, and opened her present.

  “I know you don’t do much jewelry,” he said, when she’d opened the pale-blue Tiffany box tied with its white ribbon. “But I thought this would work.”

  She opened the lid of the blue velvet box inside. “Oh.” It was a sigh. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “It reminded me of you. Simple, but beautiful. Sort of … organic. Real. It’s called the Bone Cuff.” A wide, heavy, form-fitting cuff bracelet, asymmetrical and curving, like a wave.

  She said, “It’s gold.” And put it on her arm then and there. It looked terrific. A tiny bit barbaric, gorgeously feminine and curvy, and a whole lot bold. Like her.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I thought it had to be silver to go with the necklace, but the saleslady said no. Which was good, because I wanted gold. We did the one with the white jade insert, though, so it sort of … blends with the pearls. Mixing metals is a thing. I know that now.”

  “It’s perfect,” she said, tilting her wrist back and forth and watching the gold shine. “It’s going to look amazing. I love that you didn’t buy me some delicate little thing. It feels like you know me, you know? The me I only half-knew was there.” She looked up at him, then, smiled with all the hidden mischief in her nature, and asked, “Can I wear the padlock tonight, too, do you think? OK to be that bold?” And he went from tender to hard in about one second.

  “Yeah, baby,” he said, the lust twisting low in his belly. “You get to be that bold. You get to be every single thing you are. Open this one next.”

  This box was tiny. Some more tease in her eyes as she said, “I have a feeling I might know what this is.” Then she opened it and said, “Oh. Wow.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  She laughed. “It’s good. It’s gorgeous. And a little …”

  “Barbaric. Yeah.”

  She touched the tiny yellow gold barbell with the green stones set into the ball on either end. “So th
ese are …”

  “Emeralds. I was going to do diamonds, but emeralds are so much hotter.”

  “Uh-huh. The gold matches my bracelet. Call that hidden matching. Just for you and me to know about.” And he got another of those hard twists.

  She looked up at him, then. Slowly. The way that made his temperature rise. “Can I wear them both right now?”

  He had to clear his throat. “Oh, yeah. You bet you can.” He shoved the final box at her. “The bracelet’s the main present,” he assured her. “This is more a present for me.”

  “Gee,” she said, “I wonder what?” And once it was open, “Oh.” Pulling out one garment, after another, and holding them up.

  They were silky pink fabric edged with black lace. They were filmy and delicate and pretty. They also had strategic openings, with the cups of the bra tied closed with black bows. The thong, he happened to know, was tied closed with nothing. And the black stockings were so sheer, you could barely see them.

  He could tell when she realized about the thong, because her eyes went wide. He said, “I, uh, figured the garter belt still worked, because it could go … under the bump.”

  She said, “You sure you want to see a nearly-twenty-one-weeks-pregnant woman in these?”

  “No.” When she looked up, startled, he said, “I want to see you in these. In fact, I’m sort of dying to. You can pack them for tonight, or …”

  “Oh,” she said, “I don’t think so.” She walked to him on her knees in the way that made his heart pound, straddled him where he was propped against the pillows, got her hands around his head, kissed him deep and dirty and ground into him some, which made his heart pound a whole lot more, then sat back and said, “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Make it five.”

  “Makeup. Messy hair.”

  “Nope,” he said. “Five.” He got a hand under that nightgown, tugged on the little ring, and did some touching of his own. “You’re wet already. Five. I’m counting.”

  And when she came out of the bathroom? Well, yeah. That worked. That was purely inspirational. Black lace, white skin, and curves.

  And black stockings.

  First, he laid her on her back, exactly the way he’d imagined, and took out the ring. Carefully. Gently. After that, he touched the hole with his fingers, and then, because there she was, right there and wide open, with his tongue. She moaned, and he said, “Yeah. Wait.”

  Sliding that new barbell in took some lube. He’d known it would, because he’d studied. He had big hands, but they were clever hands. He could fix most things, and he could do this, too.

  When he screwed the end of the barbell into place, he sighed. Then he gave it a rub and kept on doing it, and asked her, “How does it feel?”

  She didn’t answer. She arched her back and opened her mouth. And about thirty seconds later, she was already coming.

  After that, it got a little wild. He pulled out the semicircular pillow he’d bought and shoved it under her hips so she was raised up high, and she made a little noise in the back of her throat and put her hands up over her head. He untied the black ribbons over her breasts, one at a time, and took his time there, sucking her until she came again. Just from that. Just from that.

  He was never going to make it. He’d meant to drag this out more. It wasn’t going to happen.

  And when he said, “Turn over, baby. Get comfortable over that thing”—she did it. And Jennifer on her forearms and knees in black lingerie and stockings, her knees apart and her hands over her head … that was his birthday present.

  Oh, yeah.

  He did it slow, rubbing that gold ball into her as he went. He waited until she was good and warmed up—by which he meant that she was calling out, coming hard, and grabbing at a sheet that twisted in her fists—then said, fighting for control the whole way, “I’m going to … touch you a little back here. That’s all I’m going to do. That OK? Or no?”

  “Uh—yes.” She had her head on one side, was lying on one cheek, and he could see her mouth open and hear her panting. “Yes.”

  “If you want me to stop,” he said, with the last of his control, “tell me so.”

  She didn’t answer, just moaned, but when he did touch her? She tensed hard.

  He stopped. “OK? That slippery feeling—that’s just lube.”

  “Do it … some more,” she said, and, yeah, that was pretty good, too.

  If there was any better feeling than being inside a woman while she was coming, while you had the tip of your finger in there just a little, and she was calling out, backing into you, and writhing some, like she was trying to get free? He didn’t know what it would be.

  Except maybe looking at that woman now in her soft, pretty dress and her soft, pretty hair, your baby in her belly, your bracelet on her wrist, and your necklace around her neck, with the padlock, because she wanted everybody to look at that padlock and wonder, and thinking about doing it all again tonight.

  He’d never been a possessive guy. He’d had a good time and made sure a woman did, too, and then he’d gone on his way. But the things she stirred in him came from somewhere down deep. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t easy. But it was undeniable.

  Oh. She’d asked him for something. To come into the back of the plane and talk to him. So maybe she hadn’t liked all that after all. Even though she’d sure seemed like she was going for it.

  He followed her back there, got on the couch with her, and asked, “Need anything? Water? Juice? You staying hydrated?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s an hour flight. And you know, for a guy who babies me this much, you’re pretty demanding.”

  “Well, yeah.” He took her hand. “That it, then? Was that too much?”

  “What? No. Of course not. Did I seem like it was too much?”

  “Well …” He knew Dyma and Annabelle couldn’t hear. He lowered his voice anyway. “Maybe a little. When you were sort of … twisting.”

  “Because it felt so good, I could hardly stand it. I wasn’t expecting it to feel that good. How did I have all this inside me and never know it? It’s like … you opened the door to the secret garden, you know?”

  “Oh, baby,” he said, “I know. So this what you wanted to tell me? Are you bringing me back here and begging me to do it all again tonight, just to make sure I’m as uncomfortable as possible today?”

  She smiled. Sweetly. “No. I wanted your advice.”

  “Oh. OK. Shoot. Keeping in mind that my expertise is pretty much limited to catching a football.”

  “Harlan.” Her eyes were serious now. “Your expertise is so much more than that. You’re smart about people, for one thing. Smarter than any man I’ve ever known. Most men stay on the surface. You see so much further.”

  Wow. That was a whole different kind of glow. He said, “Well, thanks. So—shoot, and I’ll do my best.”

  “Dyma.” She spoke low, with a glance at the front.

  “They both have headphones on,” he said. “Go.”

  “You know that I’ve had … reservations about Owen.”

  “Uh-huh.” This was going to be one of those dilemmas. His buddy, and his … whatever Jennifer was.

  That brought him up short. Why didn’t he know what she was? Or did he know? He was going to have to figure that out, because it felt urgent.

  For right now, he told himself, tell the truth. It’s only a dilemma if you’re lying, or trying to weasel out. So tell the truth.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” And waited for the rest.

  “Dyma’s graduating,” she said, then laughed. “Well, obviously. And it still seems like a big gap. Not just age. Life experience, too. Money. Everything. She’s never even lived on her own. But … she’s almost nineteen. How much say do I really have here? How much say should I have?”

  He thought about that, then he did his best to marshal his ideas and said, “OK, a few things. First—at some point, yeah, a person’s grown. Not to say they still can’t be stupid, not to
say they don’t still need somebody to set them straight, but you probably don’t get to actually tell them what to do anymore. Not really my area of expertise, though,” he added, “since I didn’t have much parenting after I was eighteen.”

  “I forgot,” she said. “But you’re right, I think.”

  “Sounds like you’ve talked to her a lot,” he said. “About making smart choices, and so forth.”

  She laughed. “Probably way too much, if you ask her.”

  “Also, Owen’s a great guy. I know he’s my buddy, but he’s objectively a great guy. I’ve never seen him do a really wrong thing. Not even a fairly wrong thing. And I’m pretty sure he’s crazy about Dyma.”

  “So maybe,” she said, “leave it to take its course? I mean, I’m not going to tell them to go ahead and get busy now that she’s not in high school. I still think it’d be better if they waited, but the truth is, it’s not my call anymore. So maybe I just … don’t say anything else unless she asks me? Which she won’t.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, then leaned over and gave her a kiss. “It’s great that you think about it that much. About what’s the right thing.”

  She sighed. “I wish kids came with instruction manuals. You think that when they’re two, especially Dyma, most stubborn child alive. Then they get to be teenagers, and … whoosh. But OK. I’ve got a plan.”

  It didn’t work out quite like that.

  58

  Transitions

  When they got to the high school, Owen was waiting out front. Leaning up against the brick wall near the entrance, to be exact, surrounded by four or five young guys on the big and tough side and looking like the leader of the pack.

  He didn’t say hi to Harlan for a while. That was because, as soon as he spotted Dyma—which was easy to do, since she’d given a shriek, clapped one hand over her mortarboard, and run to meet him—he was striding out of his group of admirers like the colossus he was, picking her right up off her feet, and kissing her breathless.