Page 118 of Devil

Her hot mouth has closed around the tip, enveloping the head fully, and I can’t stand it. It’s too slick, her lips too pretty as they stretch around me, and then she takes it deep, all the way to her throat.

My hips try to fuck, my back arches, but I can’t find my footing like this. I can’t balance on my heels while Birdie has my dick in her mouth. Not when she pulls off to lick at it with long swipes of her tongue, not when she takes me past her lips again. Not when she looks up at me with the eyes that sundered time itself. No, I’m thrashing, and it shoves all my weight forward, so I’m hanging by my bonds, shaking, struggling, a man given a death sentence even older than crucifixion.

With a low, vanquished noise, I surrender to the pleasure gripping the root of my spine, surrender to the shivering clench of euphoria right as my cock starts throbbing in Birdie’s silky mouth.

I can’t stop it; I can’t prolong it; I can’t grab her and try to get more into her throat. I can only endure like Paul the Apostle’s perfect love, panting and grunting as Birdie swallows every last drop of my cum.

And when she smiles up at me after, one of her big ones, with parted lips and sparkling eyes, I allow myself to hope that she knows, that she’s beginning to see.

My love will never fail.

47

BIRDIE

“You don’t haveto do this,” I say as Bell finishes feeding the half-signed NDAs into the shredder. “I don’t need a…” I search for the right word. “A gesture.”

“It would be a weak gesture if that’s what it was meant to be,” says Bell, “since it’s not like this destroys the concept of an NDA altogether. But I don’t want them in the house like a spent radioactive rod, making us both sick. Signing them was an idle reflex, and I wish to God I hadn’t. I’m so sorry, Birdie. Never again.”

I’m standing next to his office chair, and he turns so I can step between his feet and he can put his hands on my waist and look up at me. I can see that he means his apology, his eyes bright and his lips parted as I brush the backs of my knuckles against his cheek.

Bell spent the last hour or so debriefing me on his financial crimes—well, mainly just the trust and its forged signatures—and he walked me through everything that belonged to me and to Busy. He explained how the two different trusts work and how they could be amended whenever I need. He showed me the brokerage account, and when I started to protest, he just smiled.

“What?” I asked, frowning.

“You’ve said you’ll be with me as long as I’ll let you, and I’ve made it plain that what I feel for you is probably diagnosable and almost certainly incurable. Even if I can’t convince you to marry me, a rational outcome to that set of variables would be lifelong cohabitation, which means you’d have access to everything I have anyway. Why fret about some of it being explicitly in your name?”

I couldn’t tell him that it was because it would make it easier for him to leave me. For him to sayokay, I know this will hurt, but at least you have this as a settlement, as fee for services rendered—a way for him to pay away his guilt after ending things.

Which was a ridiculous way to look at it. I cast around for a more sensible reason.

“Because it’s not the terms we agreed on at the beginning. It’s overpayment. It’s a gift. And gifts create obligations.”

“It’s so,” he started, finding my hand and kissing it, “you’re nottrappedwith me, pretty bird. I need you to be able to leave without any hesitation, without anything in the way. You can always take the money and run, no matter what I do, no matter how you feel.”

For his peace of mind, he wanted it to be easy for me to leave; for my own, I wanted it to be as hard for him as possible.

“I think we need therapy,” I murmured, half joking.

“I can find someone for us,” he said.

I stared down at him. “You’d really go to therapy with me?”

He kissed my hand again. “You heard the part about me being pathologically in love with you, right? It’s probably not a bad idea.”

I thought about it. I’d had my first family session with Busy earlier that morning, and while I’d been uncomfortable and nervous, it had been easier to talk when someone was there to guide us. Maybe it would be a good idea for me and Bell too.

“Have you ever thought about therapy on your own as well?” he asked. His voice was still agreeable, easy in that enviable Ryan Bell way, but his eyes were observant and the question direct enough that it required an answer.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“Do you think you will?”

“Yes, but—” I hated asking this. It was needy, and there was a part of me that felt like therapy was a kind of punishment, an atonement for the sin of wanting to die, the sin of despair, and I would be shirking my duties as a Catholic if I lessened my penance in any way. On the other hand, I suspected that the way I’d been brought up to think about suffering was part of the problem. “Will you come with me? Not…not into the appointment or anything, but will you drive with me there and wait? I just feel better when you’re around, and the idea of talking to a stranger alone for that long…”

“Of course. I’m at your disposal.” His eyes twinkled. “For eternity.”

I sighed in relief. I knew it was codependent and fucked up, but Bellsettledme, he made me feel safe, and he made the idea of being vulnerable with a stranger easier to contemplate.