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Her hand is on my face and while she doesn’t respond, I’m speaking to what I’ve sensed in her, what I feel when I’m around her. She, unlike me, is not a natural rule-breaker. She’s wound tight, always in control. Always just a little bit afraid of what happens if she is not. I stopped caring at some point, and for just a while, it was a façade of perfection. Realization hits me and I pull back to stare down at her, aware now of what draws us together. She needs a little taste of safe rebellion and I need a little taste of something good, someone good. I need her, and yet all I say is, “It’s okay to be bad with me. Just with me.”
“Just with you?”
“Yes,” I say, and while I’m talking about the case, I’m also talking about sex. There is also something unfamiliar but distinctly possessive in the words, in what I feel for Pri. “Just with me.” I kiss her hard and fast and my lips curve. “Let’s find out if you live to see orgasm number two.”
She blushes a pretty pink, and Jesus, she’s so freaking beautiful, her expression soft and laden with desire . Holy hell, I want to take Pri to a place of pleasure and escape, though I know it’s a mistake. But then, I’m the devil’s spawn and she smells like Texas sunshine and flowers, two things I’ve known too little of as of late.
I tug down her skirt and unzip it, sliding it down her hips. I go to my knee and help her get rid of it and her panties. And then I’m back right where I want to be, right where she wanted me before she decided an orgasm was a prelude to me killing her.
I kiss her belly, fingers sliding between her slick thighs, then pressing inside her. Her soft moan and arched hips stiffen my cock, and if she were anyone else, I’d be inside her right now, thinking about me, not her. That’s how selfish the devil’s made me, how self-centered. But back then, I wanted everything with anybody to just serve a purpose and be over, usually forever, nice and simple, but as I’ve already realized, nothing about her is simple. Nothing about me with Pri is simple.
For the first time in a very long time, I want another’s pleasure far more than I want my own. I lean in and lick her clit. She sucks in a breath and my lips curve. Holy hell, I don’t know the last time I smiled during sex, but Little Miss Pri is a first in all kinds of ways. I know better than to fuck who I protect and I am protecting her. I slide my hand down her bare leg and lift it to my shoulder, my hand on her backside, cupping it and fitting her snugly against me. I suckle her, lick her, explore her with my fingers, my tongue, my mouth, and too damn soon as far as I’m concerned, she’s gasping as her body spasms around my fingers. I ease her through it with slower licks and when her knee starts to give out, I catch her around the waist, holding her up, lowering her leg.
I’m staring up at her, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes all satisfied and awed, when she says, “It’s been a long time since—I haven’t—”
I’m hanging on that sentence for reasons I can’t explain when the doorbell rings and my cellphone starts buzzing. I’m grabbing her clothes and on my feet handing them to her in about two seconds. “Expecting someone?” I ask softly.
“No,” she whispers. “No one.”
I answer my phone to hear, “Her ex-fiancé, Logan Michaels.” I disconnect as the doorbell rings again. “It’s your ex,” I say. “Get dressed.” I slide my phone into my pocket and snatch up my shirt, tugging it over my head. “I’m not in the habit of getting a woman ready for another man.”
When I would move away, she grabs my arm. “Really? Did you really just say that to me?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to not be an asshole. There’s nothing between me and Logan. Nothing. And besides, fucking me to get through the trial doesn’t exactly give you a say in what I do anyway.”
And yet I seem to want one, I think but what I say is, “And yet he’s here.”
“I don’t know why. I don’t even take his calls. He wants something. He’s my father’s protégé. That’s how they operate.”
“Like I said—”
“Not me,” she snaps. “He doesn’t fight battles he can’t win.” Her cellphone starts to ring. “That’s going to be him,” she says. “When I don’t answer, he’ll leave.”
We stare at each other, the air pulsing between us as the phone rings and then goes to voicemail. Aware that Logan could be tapped by Waters in some way or some game, I say, “Listen to the message.”
