Hers for the Evening (25 page)

“I should get down here more often for a visit,” she said. Her mom poked and prodded the turkey, squeezed the legs with a piece of paper towel to see if the bird was ready. She didn’t believe in meat thermometers. “Honey, we understand you’re busy. You’re a big CEO. You take after your dad, a workaholic.” She threw the paper towel in the trash and wiped hands gnarled with arthritis on her apron. “Look what you’ve made of yourself. Your dad and I are very proud of you.”

“My priorities need to change so that I can visit with you and Dad more often.”

Her mom went up on her toes to kiss Devon’s cheek. She was only four eleven now, and barely came to Devon’s shoulder.

“I’m not a workaholic,” Devon added.

“It’s a term of endearment, sweetheart.” Her mother laughed. “Don’t try to deny it.” She shrugged. “That’s you. We accept it.”

Devon stuck a fork in the potatoes boiling on the stove. “They’re done. Do you want me to mash them?”

“That would be wonderful, honey.”

After dumping off the potato water into a pan for her mom to use in the gravy, Devon retrieved the masher from the drawer. Maybe she needed to rethink a lot of things. She’d told Hunter she wasn’t afraid of relationships, but were the auditors and Garrison’s antics excuses not to have a relationship with Hunter? Her parents weren’t getting any younger, but neither was she. She wouldn’t be a CEO forever. When she retired, what would she have to fill the place of her career?

She mashed the potatoes as she contemplated, then she set the serving dish on the warming plate.

“Would you get your dad a glass of sherry, dear?” Her father loved his Bristol Cream.

She took the bottle down from the cupboard. Her dad was five years younger 166

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than her mother, yet he seemed ten years older. Once he’d retired, he quickly wearied of fixing things around the house and aiding in her mother’s charities, and he started a downhill slide, favoring his easychair and the TV on mute. Devon was an only child. She didn’t have any kids of her own, so her parents didn’t have any grandchildren. Once her father lost his work—he’d been CFO for a large aluminum company—he didn’t have anything left to fill the empty space. Just as Devon would have nothing, not a daughter to visit her, not a spouse, not even a lover. Hunter was right. She used her career to avoid relationships with men, and she’d relegated him to nothing more than a co-worker. Not even a friend. It was possible she’d screwed up the only chance she had at the best man she’d ever known.

She took a good long look at her mom and decided she wasn’t going to screw that relationship, too. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes, but I’ll spend the night anyway. That okay with you, Mom?”

“Sure, honey.” Her mother didn’t even look up from the cheese sauce she was making for the cauliflower. She didn’t have a clue about Devon’s inner turmoil.

It wasn’t so easy to fix what she’d messed up with Hunter. 167

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14

AS THE OLD SAYING WENT, HUNTER HAD CUT OFF HIS NOSE TO spite his face. Instead of trying to reason, he’d issued an ultimatum. With Devon, it was the worst thing he could have done.

He’d had a great holiday with his folks and the kids, but the empty Saturday night loomed, made worse by the fact that he was well aware Devon would never give in by arriving at his door. He didn’t give a damn about his instructions for nothing but the coat and high heels, he just wanted her to show, to at least be willing to talk. Yet the fact remained, after he left the company, he wanted Devon by his side for all the world to see. Today, despite it being a holiday weekend, he’d called Richardson at National Dynamics, told him he’d heard the news, and they’d made a Monday dinner appointment. This particular opportunity might not pan out, but there would be another. He wanted the career advancement, but the more he thought about leaving, the more he craved having Devon. Everything was open to them once he no longer worked at GDN, but it would be a cold day in hell before he’d make her see that. If she wouldn’t give up her work code for her husband, why would she give it up for Hunter?

Even if she consented to an affair, he’d moved beyond that. He needed more. He believed she needed more, too, if she’d only admit it. He poured himself a glass of wine and shot a DVD into the player. Saturday night and he was home alone watching a movie. Truthfully, who was the uncompromising one?

He wasn’t even engrossed in the action flick when the doorbell rang. Glancing at his watch, his heart started to pound. Seven o’clock on the dot. When Hunter opened his front door, he half believed Devon was a figment. She wore a calf-length, cream-colored cashmere coat. Above the coat’s lapels, her throat and cleavage were bare. Her heels spiked at least four inches, her ankles delicate, her calves firm, her skin smooth. And all bare.

“May I come in?” Her lips were painted a deep burgundy that suited her coloring, her lashes long, eyes outlined and brushed with a purple shadow that glittered in the porch light.

Dazzled by her, he didn’t say a word, just held the door wide. The high heels tapped on the tile entry as she entered. “Do you need me to 168

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prove I’m wearing nothing underneath?” She trailed her fingers over the coat’s tie.

“No.” He needed to understand what she proved by being here. She stepped in on him, closer, her sweet, sexy scent intoxicating him. He didn’t need alcohol to get him high. All he needed was her.

“There’s no stand-in, Hunter,” she said, her voice a low, seductive pitch. “Just you. Just me.” Her breath was sweet with cinnamon. Like a starved man cast away on an island for five years, he was dying for a taste of her. In that instant, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about a relationship, about his career, the corporate ladder he strove to climb, or getting reamed by Human Resources or the auditors for fucking his boss.

“In the bedroom,” he ordered. He wasn’t going to jump her right in the tile entryway.

“Which way?” she asked.

Devon had been to the house for cocktail parties and business functions, but she’d never gotten the grand tour past the bathroom. He had a four-bedroom house, keeping two for the kids, one for his office, and the master for himself.

“Down the hall”—he pointed—“last door on the left.”

Watching her sexy fuck-me heels sink into the plush carpet, his higher brain ceased to function. He wanted her in those shoes and nothing else. Whatever her arrival meant, he’d figure out later.

HUNTER’S BEDROOM WAS MASCULINE WITH CHERRYWOOD FURNISHINGS. The bed’s duvet cover was a simple navy, no extra pillows, no extra fuss. The pictures adorning the wall were of his kids. No vases or knickknacks festooned the bureau or chest of drawers, no doilies sat beneath the bedside lamps. Devon turned at the end of the bed and faced him.

In the doorway, he braced both hands on the jamb. His pull-over sweater was red, his jeans black and molded to his body with wear. A five-o’clock shadow marred his chin. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. It wasn’t merely her body involved. He engaged her mind, tugged at her heart. She’d never experienced this immense feeling with a courtesan, the overpowering need to touch, taste, savor. Not even with Kenneth, the stand-in. Hunter was the only man who meant anything, the only one to make her body hum even when he wasn’t there.

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She was here to tell him that and so much more, but for now, she was his willing slave.

“Drop the coat,” he demanded.

She received the same delicious thrill she’d felt in Sedona. Her skin flushed, her clitoris throbbed, and her thighs were wet with her desire. Dropping the coat to the carpet, she stood naked the way he’d instructed, naked in more ways than one. His eyes roved her body, their brilliant blue deepening to midnight.

“This isn’t going to be a simple fuck, then you walk out, Devon.”

The whisper of words seared her mind. “I know.”

“Get on the bed,” he directed. “Don’t remove the shoes.”

“The heels could ruin the bedspread.”

His eyes blazed, his voice roughened. “I don’t give a flying fuck.” The word was a not a curse. It was a promise.

Her breath quickened, blood raced through her veins, and she shimmied backward across the bed.

“I was going to make you suck me off,” he said. “That’s not enough.” He advanced to the edge of the bed. “I need to come inside you. Not in your mouth or on your face or over your breasts.”

He braced a hand on the mattress and trailed a finger through her drenched pussy. She gasped, the sensations sharp, shooting up inside her.

“My cock will own you,” he murmured. Backing off, he stood, tore his shirt over his head and tossed it, undid his belt. Unzipping was a vision, his cock bulging against his jeans, the unveiling a masterpiece.

“You are so beautiful.” She bit her lower lip, entranced by him. The sweeping look he gave her body was the return compliment. “Spread your legs. Touch yourself.”

Leaning back, propped on one elbow, she drew a finger down the center of her pussy, grazing her clit, sliding inside herself to test the heat, the wetness. Returning to her clit, she parted her folds so he could see the plumpness of her sex. She hissed in a breath, her pleasure rising.

“Don’t come,” he warned. “Just play. Keep yourself on the edge, but don’t you dare push yourself over.”

He shucked his jeans and stood before her in his true naked glory, cock jutting. He crawled across the bed like a predator, a sleek jungle cat, then went back on his haunches between her knees, pulling her spread legs across the 170

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bulging muscles of his thighs. “The drawer,” he said, “open it.”

She loved every order, every demand. Loved that he made her stroke herself. The sexual glitter in his deep ocean eyes. The heat of his flesh against her. She loved every single thing about this man from his mind to his body to his heart. His gaze made her creamier.

Her clitoris throbbed beneath her slow, sweet caress. She hadn’t let up; he hadn’t told her to. With this newest command, she leaned over to his bedside table, opening the drawer to discover an open package of condoms and a bottle of lubricant. He didn’t offer an explanation, and despite all her courtesans, a bolt of jealousy sizzled through her. In spite of her good intentions, she’d become proprietary about him.

She passed him a packet and the lube. He put on the condom, poured liquid down the crease of her pussy and over the head of his cock, and entered her. There were no preliminaries, yet she was wet and more than ready to receive him. Like the lioness being claimed by her lion. He slammed home and she almost lost consciousness.

Filling her, huge, demanding, he rocked inside her. “Let me tell you how it’s going to be, Devon.” He thrust balls deep, held still. She raised her thighs to his hips and locked her feet at the base of his spine.

“Tell me, Hunter.”

“You are mine.” Out, in with another deep lunge, nostrils flared, hot male all the way.

She blinked, her pulse beating at her temples and in her ears.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I’m yours, Hunter.” They were words she could never take back. Deep in the heart of her, she didn’t want to take them back. He moved inside her, his cock stroking her G-spot, bringing it to life. She shoved her head back into the pillow and moaned.

“No more courtesans.” He branded her with the heat of his body and the command in his words.

She raised her hips to meet his next delicious plunge. At the same moment, he gripped her butt and yanked her to him.

“Oh God.” She tossed her head, hair flying.

“No more courtesans,” he repeated, grinding against her writhing body.

“Only you, Hunter.” She moaned and groaned, undignified sounds, yet she 171

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loved letting them loose for him.

He kept up a steady stream of demands as his cock drove her closer to the edge of heaven. “You will dance in my arms, eat at my table, bathe in my tub, and sleep in my bed. You will be my lover.”

“Yes, Hunter.” Sobs of pleasure flooded her voice and a tear leaked from her eye.

“You’ll never fear telling people you belong to me.” He came down hard on top of her, buried his face in her hair. “You will love me,” he whispered,