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firmly against her and she bit her lip. Her climax threatened with a sharply honed edge, the pleasure achingly intense.
“I can hear your breath, Devin. I can hear your need in it. Do you need to come? Tell me.”
“Yes. I need to come.”
“Ask nicely.”
He moved the vibrator, then slid it into her, holding it so the heel of his hand ground onto her swollen clit at the same time. Her sex clenched hard around the vibe. Pleasure moved through her in rippling waves. Burning hot, scorching.
“Please!”
Please, please, please...
    “Yes, now. Come for me, Devin. Come into my hands.” He moved the vibrator, sliding it in and out of her, circled her clit with his hard palm. And she came undone. Her climax slammed into her like a wall of pleasure, moved through her sex, her limbs, her head, like a honeyed tide.
So good ...
He kept at it, pumping the vibrator into her, his hand grinding into her clit. Her body shook with the force of it. Pleasure washed over her, drowning her. She became nothing but sensation, the focal point her sex, his hand, the pulsing vibrator buried deep inside her. “Shaye . . . oh God . . .”
Still he worked her, drawing out the last quivering sensations, until she was too weak to move.
Finally the last trembling threads of her orgasm faded away. He seemed to know instinctively when it was over and pulled her into his arms, into his lap as he sat on the sofa. She leaned her head against his chest and inhaled deeply of his scent, so dark and earthy, so him. Her body was in love with him already.
What had made her even think that? But she was too lambent with the afterglow of a shattering orgasm to think about it—or to think about anything, really.
He stroked her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. So nice. So sweet. Such a contrast to the wanton, wicked way he had treated her body only moments ago. She loved that, the contrast of sexual abandon and this . . . tenderness. What else could she call it? Devastating.
Oh yes. Pie was the kind of man a girl could really fall for. Except she wasn't that kind of girl. This night with him did not make her submissive. She'd been the strong one for far too long. She'd had to be. Nothing would ever change that, not even this man with the amazing hands, the sensual instincts that read her body like an open book. “Devin?”
“Hmm?”
“What's wrong?”
“What? Nothing.”
“Then why did you just close up?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Your whole body tensed up, you crossed your arms over your breasts . . .” “Did I?”
A long moment of silence, then, “Do you want to talk to me about it, whatever it is you're thinking?”
“I . . . no. It's nothing.”
But that wasn't true. Maybe it was what he'd done to her tonight, the playing, as he called it, the orgasms. The tenderness of him now. But she wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him what she was thinking, about what had happened to her to make her feel like letting go of control was some sort of sin, some failure on her part. But she hardly knew him.
His voice was a quiet rumble, with her ear still pressed against his chest. “It's something. But you don't have to tell me now.” She sighed and relaxed into him again. He felt too good. They stayed there for a long time, until she almost drifted off to sleep, her limbs languorous, her mind hazy. Then he began to stroke her skin, his hands drifting slowly over her arms, her shoulders. She let her muscles unwind, melted into his touch while he slid one hand over her waist, her hip. It was so easy to open for him, so that he could stroke the inside of her thigh, stoking the banked fire of lust between her legs. He pushed her down, so that she was lying back against the arm of the couch. With one hand he caressed her breasts, while with the other he cupped her mound. She moaned, her sleepy body absorbing the sensation. Desire buzzed through her system, yet she could barely move.
“Yes, that's it, Devin. Just lay back and let me do my work on you.” He