There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet Book 2)
There Is No Devil: Chapter 2

When we return from shopping, Mara pounces on me, shoving me down on the nearest chaise, saying, “Now it’s my turn,” in that husky voice of hers.

If I could describe the attraction I feel for her, and the way it eclipses what I’ve ever felt before, I’d have to say that Mara is just … gritty. She has an edge of roughness, wildness, neglect.

Even though I should dislike certain aspects of her person—the way she bites her nails ragged, for instance—it all becomes the spice that I crave more than any bland and perfect beauty.

The artist in me desires what is truly unique. The slope of Mara’s upturned nose, her wild fling of freckles, the fox-tilt of her eyes, the lower lip’s ratio to the top … these proportions are so exaggerated that they ought to be wrong. Instead, they could never be more right.

She looks up at me, a wild creature. No captive pet … I’ve lured her here but not yet tamed her to my will.

I lean back against the cushions, arms spread across the scrolled woodwork, looking down at her. Watching her work.

She unzips my pants, looking up into my face, her sleet-gray eyes flirting with mine. She’s smiling, licking her lips with anticipation, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.

Her excitement ignites mine like a firestorm. The more eager she seems, the more my cock throbs and rages for the touch of her tongue.

The sunset flowing in through the plate-glass windows colors her skin pink, peach, and gold. Her hair illuminates like electrical filaments. She seems to glow with energy and light.

She wore home one of the dresses I bought for her—cloud-light linen, soft and floating around her shoulders.

My cock springs out, almost slapping her in the face. Mara jumps and lets out a peal of delighted laughter. When she’s happy, she laughs so easily. Each throaty note runs down my spine like a scale.

She floats her fingertips over the head of my cock, teasing me. Her hands look naked—bare and unadorned, no rings or polish. Stained around the nails by ink and paint.

Her mouth hovers inches away, partly open, the tip of her tongue curled up to playfully dance around her teeth.

Her lips are swollen as a bruise. I’m aching to feel them closed around my cock. I might blow the instant they touch me.

Mara puts out her tongue and runs it softly up the sensitive underside of my cock. It feels like she’s stringing a wire all along the path of her tongue, then sparking it to life.

She enfolds the head of my cock in her warm, velvety mouth.

I make a sound I’ve never made before. My brain exits my skull, floating several inches up in the air.

She sucks slowly, gently, for what seems like forever. She’s not trying to make me cum. She’s blowing me like she intends to do it all night long.

I look down at her. Her eyes are closed in peaceful satisfaction. Her ear rests against my thigh. She might be asleep, except for the warm, steady pressure of her mouth, licking, sliding, sucking.

Some mistake has been made: I died, heaven exists, and they let me in.

After a long, blissful eternity, I start to cum. While I drift through this dreamy, eternal orgasm, Mara never stops sucking for a moment.

She finally raises her head to look at me.

I ask her, “How did you do that so long?”

She shrugs. “I like it. It feels good.”

“I know it feels good,” I say. “For me. Doesn’t your jaw get sore?”

“Sometimes,” she says. “But I just switch the angle or depth. The longer I do it, the more sensitive my lips and tongue and throat become. The better it feels, the longer I can do it.”

I’m struggling to understand what she means.

“You’re saying … the better it feels for you.”

“Yeah,” Mara says, squinting at me like this is obvious.

It’s not obvious, and I must look confused, because she frowns and says, “Doesn’t it feel good for you when you touch me?”

“It does …” I pause, trying to articulate something I’ve never consciously considered. “What I’m enjoying is the effect on you. The way it puts you under my control. If I can make you feel pleasure, I can get you to do anything I want. When I’m getting what I want, I can eat your pussy for hours.”

“So when you suck my tits, you’re doing it for me, because it drives me insane. Not because it makes your tongue feel good,” Mara says.

“That’s right.”

We’re looking at each other like we just discovered one of us has been speaking Spanish and the other Portuguese.

Slowly, Mara climbs up onto my lap, straddling me on the chaise. She pulls her linen dress overhead, letting it drop on the floor behind her. Underneath, she wears only a skimpy lace thong, no bra.

Her bare breasts sit directly in front of my face, small, round, soft, and ripe.

Her tight little nipples poke out, brown as her freckles, pierced through with silver rings.

Cupping the base of my skull in her palm, Mara draws my head toward her breast.

“Close your mouth around my nipple,” she says.

Flushed from that long orgasm, I don’t think or plan. I only obey.

“Suck on my tits,” Mara says. “Soft. Slow. Feel what they feel like in your mouth, against your tongue.”

My mouth latches onto her breast, taking the whole nipple in my mouth. Its stiff pebbled tip lies firmly against my tongue. The round swell of her breast presses pleasantly against my lips. Her skin smells of the intoxicating perfume Mara chose at the store, selecting the one that incited me the most without me ever saying a word.

I suckle on her breast, trying to shut off my impulse to look up at her face to gauge how effective I am. I close my eyes, focusing on my own sensations. Letting the soft sounds of her moans, and the tightness of her waist between my hands, guide me.

Her nipple swells in my mouth, warming and softening against my tongue. The silver ring remains cool and unchanging, ice that can never melt.

Slowly I increase the pressure, not because I can feel that it causes Mara to grind harder on my stiffening cock, but purely for the satisfaction of sucking harder.

Mara pushes herself up, then lowers down on my cock, her lace thong pulled to the side. Her pussy is drenched, so wet that I feel it on my thighs. She’s so close to climax that she’s already riding me hard, starting at a gallop.

I release her breast and seize the other in my mouth, sucking hard, ravaging it, trying to fit as much as possible in my mouth. The silver ring like the tine of a fork, or the lip of a glass: serving her nipple to me.

The sensation satisfies like eating, like drinking. I’m devouring her. Gulping her down.

Mara starts to cum. She’s clutching the back of my head, pushing my mouth harder against her breast, slamming her pussy down on my cock.

I swallow her breasts. When I’m full to the brim, I explode inside of her.

Sometime later, we’re still sitting on the couch in the same position. Mara’s head rests on my shoulder. I’m trailing my fingertips lightly up and down her spine.

I can tell she likes it—her body is heavy and sleepy, her soft sighs tickling my ear.

I’m not thinking about that. I’m focusing on the feeling of her skin beneath my fingertips. Her warmth and her softness.

When Mara finally lifts her head and sits back on my thighs, the silver rings on her chest glint in the moonlight. We’ve yet to turn on any lamps. Stars reflect on the glassy ocean below us, like half have fallen down into the water.

I say, “Those rings are the only useful thing Shaw has ever done.”

Mara’s mouth falls open, letting out an outraged laugh.

“That’s so fucked up!” she cries.

“Oh shut up,” I say. “You like them too.”

Mara smacks me hard on the shoulder, unable to hide that I’m right.

“Why is that?” I ask her.

She considers.

“They suit me. I like the way they feel. And in a strange way, as awful as that night was, it brought me to you. The value in horrible things is what you make of them. As long as you’re alive, you can still turn shit into gold.”

“You’re glad you’re here?” I ask her, my eyes intently fixed on her face. Wanting to know the truth, whatever she might say.

“Yes,” Mara says softly, without hesitation.

“Why?”

I’m thinking it’s what I bring her: the money, the clothes, the connections, the orgasms.

Mara grins. “I told you. It’s interesting. And I hate being bored.”

“Me too,” I say, just as passionate on this topic as Mara. “I really fucking hate it.”