Shadow of a Doubt (Tangled Ivy Book 2) Page 6

  Devon bent my knees, pushing them apart. He guided his cock and I felt the head at my entrance. I reached for him, but he remained sitting back on his haunches. Settling his hands on my hips, he pulled me toward him, burying his length inside me.

  I made some kind of noise, though I know it wasn’t actual words because I wasn’t lucid enough for that. He stretched me, filled me, much better than his fingers had.

  Prying open my eyes, I saw he was gazing down at where our bodies were joined, his expression rapt as he slid out of me and back in, a slow glide that made me feel every inch of him.

  “Touch yourself,” he ordered.

  I hesitated, but desire and passion overcame my embarrassment at doing what he said and I reached down. My fingers slid between my folds and I found my clit, slick and plump. Stroking the bit of flesh, my eyes fluttered shut again as my thighs trembled.

  “That’s right, darling,” he encouraged.

  Devon’s hands gripped my hips and he moved faster, his cock pumping hard into me. My hand moved faster, too, and I was splintering apart, crying out his name. Devon’s body jerked into mine, his breathing hitched in gasps as he buried himself in me. I could feel the pulsing of his cock as he came and it prolonged my own orgasm.

  Afterward, I was spent. My body felt boneless, but Devon wasn’t through with me. After pulling out, he moved back on the bed and lowered his head between my legs. I jerked at the soft touch of his tongue, my body too sensitive, but he held my hips still.

  “I can’t,” I said, still breathless.

  “Yes, you can,” he murmured. He licked me again, parting my folds with long sweeps of his tongue. My eyes slid shut.

  Devon was very good at this, and soon my legs were trembling and I was clutching his head to me, moaning nonstop. I lifted my hips to his mouth as my body convulsed in an orgasm so powerful, tears came to my eyes.

  If I’d been tired before, now I couldn’t even summon the energy to move. Devon crawled up my body and kissed me. I could taste myself on his lips, and his tongue languidly stroked mine for a moment before he lay down beside me.

  “You’re beautiful. Sensual. I love watching you,” he said, his lips brushing my ear. His voice was like smoke, drifting through the air and clinging to me.

  His words made me blush. Devon had made sex an amazing experience for me. He’d turned it from something dirty and painful into something beautiful and filled with pleasure. I liked hearing him describe my body through his eyes, especially when being on the too-skinny side of thin made me all bones and pointy angles. I liked how I looked wearing the clothes I loved so dearly. With them off, not so much.

  I tipped my head to look at him. His eyes were clear blue, intense as he studied me. The hard lines of his face were softened slightly with lovemaking.

  “You’re beautiful, too,” I said softly.

  His smile was faint, but there nonetheless. “No longer angry with me?” he asked.

  I shrugged. Multiple orgasms had a way of softening my temper. “You’re here now. Why waste time being mad? It is what it is. I can’t change it.”

  He brushed my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “And what would you change if you could?”

  I sighed, turning to rest my head on him. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. I closed my eyes as I answered.

  “There’s no future for us,” I said. “No matter how much I wish otherwise. Your job doesn’t allow it, and you won’t leave your job, even if you wanted a future with me, which I’m not sure you do. So . . . that’s that.”

  Devon stroked my hair, his hand moving in gentle passes down the long locks splayed across my back.

  “My job is the most important thing to me, yes,” he said.

  That hurt, no matter how much I’d already known it.

  “But I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t important, too.”

  It was nice to hear that, the hurt easing inside. “I’m glad,” I said, my voice quiet in the room.

  We lay like that, him stroking my hair and me listening to his heart beating, for a long while.

  “I should have foreseen this,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur.

  “Foreseen what?” I asked.

  “Clive, coming after you. Perhaps I was too hopeful that he would go his own way. And now he’s hurt you. Frightened you.” His hand drifted down to touch the bandage on my arm ever so gently.

  “He knows I’m carrying the vaccine,” I said, then decided to come clean. “And now the FBI knows, too.”

  Devon’s hand stilled. “You told the agent?”

  “About the virus, yes. He overheard Clive talking about the vaccine.”

  “You said you hadn’t told him anything,” Devon reminded me.

  I twisted to look up at him. “I lied. I’m sorry. I was afraid of what you’d do to him. Or me.”

  He frowned. “After all this, you still think I would hurt you?”

  “I know where your loyalties lie.” I wasn’t trying to throw his words back in his face, but there it was.

  His hand cupped my cheek. “My loyalties may lie with the Shadow, but you . . . you are dear to me.”

  My throat closed up at the unexpected confession. It wasn’t love, but it was better than what I’d thought he felt. His eyes perhaps saw too deeply into me, but I couldn’t look away.

  “Which is why Clive will pay for hurting you,” he added. “I’ll see to that.”

  The thought of Devon and Clive going head-to-head again scared me. Clive had intimated months ago that he was afraid of Devon, but now it seemed he didn’t care. Probably because he had nothing more to lose, I guessed.

  “I know what we need to take your mind off things,” he said, his lips curving into a tender smile.

  “What’s that?”

  “Shopping, of course.”

  I hid a grin. “You think I can be placated with pretty clothes?” Then I quickly added, “And shoes?” Best not to forget the shoes.

  “I know you can.”

  This time I laughed outright. When my chuckles had faded, Devon asked, “How’s the arm? Are you in pain?”

  I shook my head. I had a very high pain tolerance—courtesy of Jace—and while it was uncomfortable, it was bearable. “I’m fine.”

  “You should take a pain pill,” he persisted, but I shook my head again.

  “I don’t want to. They knock me out.”

  “Yes, that is rather the point,” he said dryly.

  “I don’t like that feeling,” I said. “I’d rather put up with a little pain than feel like I can’t stay awake.” I hated that feeling of being out of control.

  Devon’s gaze was shrewd. “Yes, I believe I know exactly how you feel.” Reaching over to the lamp, he switched it off, then lay back down with me. “Go to sleep, darling.”

  So I did.

  “That’s an absolute yes.”

  I glanced uncertainly over my shoulder at Devon, who sat in an armchair outside the dressing room. “It costs way too much,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Of course it does, but you look stunning and I don’t care.”

  I turned back to the three mirrors facing me to take another look at what was capping off an entire day of shopping.

  The gown was by Elie Saab, black, floor-length, and made almost entirely of lace. The neckline plunged in a deep V and the sleeves were short. Swaths of silk served to cover areas of the body for modesty’s sake, while the handmade lace billowed from the waist to my ankles. The way the dress was cut, it helped disguise my sad lack of cleavage. Black Christian Louboutin patent leather heels graced my feet, complete with bloodred soles. It was divine.

  “If I could dress like this every day, I’d be a much more pleasant person,” I mused to myself.

  Devon’s laugh startled me and I reflexively smiled at his amusement. “Darling, somehow I doubt you’re a hardship to those around you,” he teased.

  He had been in a good mood all day, taking me tirelessly from store to sto
re and insisting on buying me everything from lingerie, to shoes, to summer clothes, to designer jeans. Since what had been salvageable from his apartment hadn’t been very much, the additions to my wardrobe were wholly appreciated. As for this dress, though, I had no idea when I’d ever have an occasion to wear it.

  But it was still very, very pretty.

  I was busy admiring the dress when he stood and came up behind me, resting his hands lightly on my waist.

  “And there’s no sense in owning a lovely dress if you have no occasion on which to wear it,” he said. “Would you care to accompany me to a ball tonight?”

  My eyebrows flew up. “A ball?”

  “The symphony is holding their annual gala tonight,” he explained, bending down to nuzzle my neck. His voice lowered, sending a shiver through me. “I’d like to take my lovely lady to an elegant dinner, then see how she sparkles under the chandeliers at Powell Hall.” He pressed a light kiss underneath my jaw, the warmth of his breath tantalizing in my ear. “I want to memorize how beautiful you are while the melodies of masters wash over us, and spin a fantasy of forever in my mind.”

  Wow. It took me a second to overcome my surprise at this romantic side of him. “How could I possibly say no to that?” I asked with a smile.

  “I might have overshot it a bit, just in case you were considering refusing,” he said, making me smile wider. I loved this teasing side of him, so much lighter and carefree than when he was dogged by work.

  But the dress and shoes weren’t the only extravagances he bought for me. Tugging me into a jewelry shop, he insisted on buying a diamond and onyx necklace to go with the dress. A heavy, round pendant hung between my breasts on a long, white gold chain and the matching earrings adorned my lobes.

  “Are you spoiling me out of guilt?” I asked him hours later as I sipped the red wine he’d ordered and we waited for our entrees. The restaurant was romantic, with dim lighting and the tables spaced far enough apart to convey some privacy. I knew it was the most exclusive and well-known restaurant in town, but had never been there.

  Devon looked utterly at ease in this environment, his gaze not often straying from me. I hoped I’d done the dress justice by wearing dramatic smoky eye makeup with a touch of glitter, and pulling my hair back into a loose French braid. Tendrils escaped to frame my face and touch my neck.

  “I’m spoiling you because I want to,” he said simply. “It pleases me. If I felt guilty for something, I’d tell you so. And I wouldn’t try something as pathetic as buying you gifts to attain your forgiveness.”

  Well, okay then.

  He didn’t seem offended that I’d asked, just matter-of-fact. And who was I to argue if he wanted to buy me the clothes that were my own personal version of crack?

  Dinner was one of the best meals I’d ever had, barring Christmas dinner in Paris—which I didn’t tell him—and by the time we entered Powell Hall, I felt like I was floating on air.

  I’d never been to the symphony before and the gala ball had turned out the finest in St. Louis society. I wasn’t the only woman in a designer dress with diamonds around her neck.

  “Let’s play a game,” Devon said in my ear.

  “What kind of game?”

  “We should mingle, but the rules are we can’t use our real names or jobs. So when we meet someone new, we’ll take turns.”

  I looked questioningly at him, not quite following, but his lips twisted in a crooked, mischievous smile.

  “I’ll go first,” he said.

  Drawing my arm through his, he guided us over to where two couples were chatting. As we approached their small group, they turned and smiled politely.

  “Hello,” Devon said, only now he didn’t have a British accent, but a Southern one. “I’m Travis, and this is Millicent. We’re from Dallas here visiting family.”

  I struggled to keep the giggle that produced inside. Devon with a Southern accent just did not compute, though I couldn’t fault his delivery.

  Everyone kindly introduced themselves and we did a whole round of handshaking before the next question.

  “What do you do, Travis?” one of the men asked. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and his wife had done a few too many rounds of Botox.

  “My company works with oil and gas companies to obtain leasing permits from the government,” Devon smoothly lied. “Millicent here is my secretary.”

  That shit. I choked back another laugh at his audacity. As if the name Millicent wasn’t bad enough, he’d turned me into a cliché secretary dating her boss? My nails dug into his palm, but he just smiled blandly. I got him back once we’d moved on from that group to another.

  “How do you do?” I asked, taking the hand of a woman who stood with two other ladies. They were all older, perhaps early sixties, and exuded class and wealth. This time, I adopted the accent—heavily French. “I am Vivienne. This is Marc.” I indicated Devon.

  “Pleased to meet you both,” the woman said, introducing herself and her friends. “Is this your first time to the symphony?”

  “Indeed,” I said, laying it on thick. “I know no one in the States, so I hire a man to accompany me.” I smiled as I saw all their eyes open wider. “He is very good, no?” Devon’s hand tightened on my waist, but his face remained pleasant.

  “Really?” one of them asked. “How interesting. And is he, perhaps, a . . . full-service escort?”

  “Is there another kind?” I replied with a very French shrug.

  Now they were all looking Devon over as if checking out the merchandise.

  “Wherever did you find him, darling?” another woman asked, her gaze resting a tad longer than necessary on the bulge in Devon’s trousers.

  “How you say . . .” I pretended confusion. “Ah yes! The yellow pages.”

  “I do believe the performance is about to begin,” Devon cut in. “A pleasant evening, ladies.”

  They all nodded as Devon herded me away.

  “I do believe those pensioners are eyeing my arse,” he complained in my ear. “And you certainly do not need any more encouragement on this game, I can see.”

  I laughed outright, unable to hold it in any longer, and we paused in an empty corner. The chandeliers twinkled above us as I gazed at Devon. He held my hands with each of his own, tugging me closer until he bent and brushed my lips in a sweet kiss.

  “A gigolo, eh?” he murmured. I giggled again.

  “Millicent the secretary?” I replied.

  “Touché.”

  The symphony was a blur of happiness as we sat in a private box, my hand in Devon’s. He ordered us champagne for intermission and told me how he’d played the violin for a short time, but had given it up because it never ceased sounding like writhing cats fighting.

  I loved how he talked to me, just chatting, and he was constantly touching me—whether it was a hand on my knee, or a caress to my shoulder, or playing with my fingers. And since he was sharing stories with me, I told him of my one and only failed attempt to make the cheerleading squad—failed because of my inability to turn a proper cartwheel.

  “But I could do the splits, which should have made up for it,” I said. “But they still turned me down.”

  “I’m quite sure you would’ve been an excellent cheerleader,” he teased. “Even without the cartwheels.”

  Chatting eventually led to more serious matters until Devon was telling me the story of his parents’ deaths while we were driving back to the hotel.

  “It was an IRA bomb,” he said. “My parents had taken my younger sister with them into the city. The bomb went off while they were in the Tube. I was staying with a chum because I didn’t want to go.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “That must’ve been horrible.” My heart went out to him and I reached across the seat to take his hand. To my surprise, his grip was tight on mine.

  “They said Shannon died instantly from the shrapnel,” he continued. “And I remember feeling grateful because she hadn’t bled to deat
h like my parents had, waiting for help to arrive.”

  “They couldn’t get to them in time?”

  He shook his head, glancing at me before looking back at the road. “The damage and rubble were bad, which made getting to the survivors extremely difficult.”

  Good God, how awful. I didn’t say anything after that, just held his hand as we drove. I couldn’t begin to imagine the therapy he’d had to undergo to get past something like that. But then who was I kidding? I needed therapy, for crying out loud.

  Devon made love to me as if it were our first time together, his touch gentle—almost reverent. I wanted so badly to tell him I loved him, but didn’t know if he’d welcome the sentiment or not. I’d told him once, months ago, and hadn’t repeated it. So instead, I tried to show him.

  Afterward, we lay in bed, me cuddled into him again. If Devon had time to linger, I’d noticed he wasn’t one of those men I’d always heard about that went right to sleep. He liked to hold me, oftentimes sipping from a shot of gin sitting on the table. It was a comfortable silence and my mind wandered. After tonight, I felt closer to him, and dared to ask the question that had lingered in the back of my mind for months.

  “Why did you kill Jace?” I asked. We’d never talked about it. I’d just . . . known it had been him.

  “How do you know I killed him?”

  I twisted and looked up at him, but didn’t speak. He must’ve been able to read my face because his lips twisted.

  “All right then,” he said softly.

  “Why?” I repeated.

  “He deserved to die,” Devon replied, his shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. “I had the opportunity, motive, and capability. I believe that is all that’s required.”

  “Motive?”

  “He’d hurt you,” he said simply. “I couldn’t allow that to happen again.”

  I shuddered at the thought, remembering how Jace had attacked me in the parking lot of the bank.