Page 58 of Devil

I’m rewarded with one of those dark, private smiles. “Good girl,” he murmurs. He takes the bottle, flips the cap, and drizzles a liberal amount on his fingers. And then?—

“Oh!” I squeak. “It’s cold!”

“I’ll make it warm for you in a minute, baby,” he purrs. He adds more lube to his fingers, and this time he doesn’t stop at the entrance but goes inside, painting the inner walls of my cunt with it. His motions are heedful, considerate, and as he works, I become aware of the lidocaine taking effect. The sensation of pressure is still there, but the stinging, the ache of having been penetrated, is receding into nothing.

He’s now wiping his fingers on the bath towel and then bracing a hand by my head, the other going to his groin to line his body up with mine. Soon I feel pressure and theconceptof slipperiness but nothing more as he rubs the head around my hole a few times before notching himself in place and pushing. I have more questions about how and why he’s used this before, but the questions skitter away in the face of his invasion, in the curious feeling of nearly feeling nothing at all.

With only the pressure remaining and none of the pain, I’m able to absorb so much more about what’s happening.

I’m able to watch the ink of his pupils spread until his eyes are more black than blue; I’m able to watch the way his jaw clenches tight as he looks down at where we’re joined. I can take in the magnificent architecture of his body as he works himself in to the hilt—the tendons in his arms, the strain of his shoulders and chest, the taut flex of his abdomen. He isn’t concerned with my comfort right now, not with the numbing agent in effect, and he doesn’t work himself in and out gently but enters with one unhesitating push. When he gets all the way inside, he pauses, his head hanging down, his ribs moving in hard, shuddering breaths.

“You have no idea,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t finish his sentence; he doesn’t elaborate.

I’m not sure I want him to, and yet a depraved part of me does—wants to know everything he thinks about me, everything he wants to do to me and how long he’s been obsessed with the idea of doing it.

After a long moment when he seems to simply endure being buried in my cunt, he moves again, drawing out to the tip and gliding back in. I can tell from the tension in his stomach and hips that even with the lube, it takes a little effort to push in, but it doesn’t hurt; it doesn’t feel like anything but a deep, displacing squeeze. Until, that is, he does it again, and his body makes brief contact with my clitoris. Pleasure sparkles through my torso, and I gasp underneath him.

“I didn’t numb your clit,” he says. “You can still get yourself off if you want, you know.”

I look up at him, this toiling angel fucking my numbed body, and can’t decide if his beauty makes me shy or if his inhumanity makes me honest. Both, I suppose, but it’s the honesty that wins out in the moment.

“I’ve never done that,” I confess, and he pauses at his work, his eyes lifting to my face. He looks shocked and faintly horrified, like I’ve just told him I’ve never eaten ice cream or seen the work of Michelangelo, like I’ve been living in a desert with only locusts to eat.

“You’ve never made yourself come? Ever?”

I shake my head on the pillow. “It always seemed wrong.” Which is a ridiculous thing to say, given what’s happening this very minute, but it’s true. “I have dreams where it happens, but whenever I’ve been awake, I’ve never been able to bring myself to try. The things I’d think about when I even considered trying seemed like confirmation that I shouldn’t—confirmation that something was sinful in me.”

He moves then, sliding so he’s no longer braced on his hands but down on his elbows, our stomachs touching, his chest brushing against my breasts as he dips his face to mine. “What things did you think about, little bird?” he asks in a murmur, his hips moving again, idly, lazily. “Did you think about me? About what I did to you in the studio at Evelyn?”

I close my eyes, miserable, and nod.

His hips pick up speed. He likes this. “Did you think about what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted? What would have happened if I’d found you again later that night?”

“Yes. And…”

“And?”

I’ll never be able to open my eyes again. It’s so awful to admit this, and yet it comes with a devastating kind of relief too, because I’m letting him fuck my numbed body right now—I’m letting him andI don’t hate it. I’m even moving underneath him to catch more friction against my clitoris as he indulges himself, so what can I tell him that he will be surprised by? That he might not have already guessed for himself?

“I think about what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped when I told you to stop.”

He pauses. I think he’s looking at me, but I can’t tell for certain because I still won’t open my eyes. Even with the relief that comes from tellingsomeone, even if the only someone I have is the very person who was so close to hurting me, I don’t know if I can stand to see his face right now. To know if it’s smug or concerned or gluttonous—or all three.

It doesn’t matter. He bends his head so his lips are near my ear and says, “That’s really messed up, Birdie. To think about that.” His hips start moving again—hard thrusts, punishing thrusts. “It’s not right. It’s probably a good thing that you didn’t learn how to make yourself come because if you’d given yourself an orgasm while thinking aboutthat, well…”

A low noise leaves me. It could be misery stoked by his words or it could be the tension knotting itself in my hips as his body rubs against my clitoris.

“Truthfully, it might be as bad as letting someone fuck you like I’m fucking you now.” He tuts between thrusts, kissing my jaw with what feels like pity. “I hope you don’t come like this. That would be so fucked up, wouldn’t it? If you came while I was using your numbed-up cunt like a toy, if you came thinking about what a bad, bad man I almost was. And I was already being so bad to you…”

He moves and suddenly I’m flipped onto my stomach, his hand underneath me and rubbing with firm, clever strokes, and then he’s got his chest on my back, coming back into me with long, rolling movements that only feel like pressure from inside. But those fingers on my clit—I’m going to…to finish. He’s right. I’m going to have an orgasm while I’m being treated like an object, something disposable, a warm hole. I’m going to have an orgasm while the memory of the studio is vivid in my mind.

“I don’t want to come,” I breathe as I get closer to the edge. “I don’t want tobelike this.”

“But I’m so glad you are” comes the low voice near my ear. “Otherwise, I’d be all alone.”

I come. I come after being numbed, I come while being taunted, and I comehard, the tidal contractions literally driving the air from my body, the overwhelming pleasure drowning me in raw, muscular bliss. Tears drop onto the sheets below me, nothing to do with pain but everything to do with the insuperable crush of euphoria, and the climax bears on and on, less a tide than a flood, lasting longer than forty days—lasting until eternity.

Bell pets my clit until the very last wave, and then he flips me back over and rams into me without so much as a pause. Our bodies slap together, and I’m more than numb. I’m utterly limp, completely drained. Even my thoughts have vanished. I’ve become an object for real, and he fucks me like one, like my cunt is a silicone thing kept in a drawer to be used and then tossed into a sink. He plunges fast and he plunges cruel, and at the very end, he goes so far inside that his thighs shake with the effort of keeping him sheathed so deep. He fills the condom with several long, hard throbs that I can feel even with the lidocaine.