Page 46 of Devil's Thirst
“After the stunt you pulled, you don’t think you owe me just a little?”
The only word that adequately describes his answering grin is diabolical.
“You’re absolutely right. I do owe you.” His guttural words tease my inner ear and send tingles down my spine.
Before I can argue, he backs me up against the dining table, then seats me atop it with his body pressed between my thighs.
“Sante,” I warn. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
His teeth rake over his bottom lip. “What I know is that I’ve been denying this craving for you for too damn long, and now that everything’s out in the open, I’m not waiting a minute longer.”
He trails his nose along the length of my neck on a deep inhale while his hands, around my waist, pull my center against the enormous bulge in his pants.
The sensual assault short-circuits my brain.
My head falls to the side, making room for him. He nips at my jaw, alternating between gentle bites and soothing kisses. Amoan unfurls from deep in my throat when he begins to rock himself against me.
“Better than I imagined,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’re perfect.”
Perfect is a very high standard. The word seeps into my consciousness, kickstarting my thoughts … and my doubts.
I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and graze my nails in the softly shaved hair. “Nobody’s perfect. Especially me,” I whisper against his lips before kissing him deeply. I let my tongue swipe over his, savoring his taste.
His hand slips confidently beneath the loose elastic of my pants and into my panties. His touch is criminally competent—the perfect pace and pressure—he brings his fingers to my entrance, teasing it before slowly working his way closer to my clit.
“So wet for me,” he murmurs.
His touch feels incredible. I try not to think and simply enjoy the moment because I desperately want to feel good, but it’s no use. I can’t shut off my brain. He’s doing everything right, and it feels incredible, but I know there’s no point. I also know how awkward it is to let a man chase something that isn’t there.
“You don’t need to do that. It’s okay.” I angle my hips away, encouraging him to remove his hand.
Sante stills. “You don’t want me touching you?”
“It’s not that.” I can hardly meet his eyes.
This is so fucking embarrassing.
The more I draw it out, though, the worse it’ll be. I need to get it out there and be done with it.
I sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I don’t have orgasms, okay? It doesn’t matter how long you spend at it, so it’s not worth the effort. Trust me, I can’t even make it happen on my own.”
Not so perfect now, am I?
If my face blazes any hotter, I’ll be in need of a burn unit.
“Mellie, look at me.”
I do, though reluctantly. His tone tells me I have little option.
“Who did I say this body belongs to?”
“You,” I breathe.
“And that’s the problem. How will anyone else unlock a door when I’m the only one with the key?” It’s the cockiest, most overconfident thing I’ve ever heard a man say, and he says it with such conviction that I somehow believe him.
Sante lifts me into his arms, my legs wrapped around his middle, and takes me back to my bedroom. He sets me on the bed, then disappears into my bathroom. When he returns, he’s carrying the full-length mirror he’s taken from the wall.
“What on earth are you doing?”