Chapter 87: HER DEVIL

Arianna

In the corner of my eye, I saw him prop his hand beneath his chin, still looking at me, studying me with that unnerving intensity.

He was like an artist contemplating his muse, dissecting every nuance, every subtle shift in expression. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to be under such scrutiny.

“I have some gifts for you,” he then said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, and I widened my eyes, all the carefully cultivated shyness suddenly evaporating in a puff of curiosity.

Gifts? Vincent and gifts were usually a recipe for delightful disaster.

“What kind of gifts?” Suspicious and intrigued in equal measure, I finally met his gaze again, my blush fading, replaced by a spark of playful anticipation.

He let out a low chuckle, a sound that resonated deep within my chest and sent a fresh wave of heat through my body.

“Not the kind you are thinking of, you little minx,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Running his hand through his surprisingly dry hair, he then deliberately dipped them into the wine-tinted tub water, slicking it back, droplets cascading down his forehead and temples. The action was casual, almost careless, but the underlying sensuality was undeniable.

“I finished my book.” He finally declared, the simple statement hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. “The first copy is on our bed with a small gift for my muse.” My heart skipped a beat. “The other copies will be published next Monday,” he added, his voice regaining its usual confident cadence, and I almost screamed in disbelief and happiness.

Finally! The book I was waiting for. Not just any book, but his book with my name. The one he had poured his heart and soul into, the one I had watched him struggle with, celebrate over, and despair at for months. The one that had consumed his every waking thought, the one that had kept him up late into the night, the one that he had, in countless whispered confessions, told me was inspired by me.

“Really? You’re not joking?” My voice was breathless, my doubts clinging on despite the overwhelming surge of joy.

This couldn't be real. It had been such a long journey, filled with setbacks and self-doubt on his part.

“No, it’s done,” he smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up his entire face and made my heart ache with affection. “It’s finally, irrevocably, finished.”

Filled with an overwhelming rush of happiness, relief, and pure, unadulterated adoration, I lunged at him, propelled by an uncontrollable impulse, and crushed my bare skin against his wet body.

His surprised grunt filled the space around us, a sound laced with both shock and pleasure, as water splashed in a miniature tidal wave over the sides of the tub and onto the tiled floor. His hands, strong and sure, immediately gripped my waist, anchoring me to him, holding me in place against the sudden momentum.

“Fuck, baby, you’re that happy?” Vincent rasped, his breath warm and damp against my ear.

His hardness, even through the water and the thin layer of bubbles, pressed insistently between us, poking my stomach, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes in pleasure, a soft moan escaping my lips, though I tried to ignore the immediate heat that flared between my thighs.

The book was exciting, yes, but this, this closeness, this raw physical connection, was intoxicating.

“So happy,” I confessed, my voice muffled against his chest, where I could hear the rapid thump of his heart mirroring my own. “I want to read it. I love the way you write,” I added, lifting my head and tilting my face up to his.

He lifted my chin, his fingers gentle but firm, staring at me with such a tender expression, such raw, unguarded emotion in his golden eyes, that I melted, every last vestige of resistance dissolving in the warmth of his gaze.

“And I love you,” the words were uttered with a quiet sincerity, a simple truth that resonated deeper than any dramatic declaration.

Leaning down, he nipped at the sensitive skin of my neck, marking my shoulder with his teeth in a possessive claim that sent another shudder of anticipation rippling through me.

Then his hands, big and undeniably manly, slid down my back, cupping my ass, his fingers squeezing and kneading, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

A moan, deeper this time, broke free when I felt the unmistakable pressure of his cock, impossibly huge and undeniably hard, pressing against my stomach.

My eyes fluttered shut involuntarily, and his low voice, a husky rumble that vibrated through me, made me moan again even before he spoke. “You know…you can thank me for the gifts.”

My eyes snapped open, a question forming on my lips. “How?” I managed, my voice breathy and uneven.

He smirked then, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that promised delicious wickedness. “Baby…be creative. Use your wild imagination,” he whispered, pulling away just enough to maneuver me, shifting my weight until I straddled his hard length.

My pussy throbbed, aching with a desperate need, a primal yearning for the very thing he held captive between his thighs. “Let me show you the devil you worship,” he breathed, before I could even begin to decipher his poetic words, he guided me down, impaling me on his cock, filling me with its monstrous strength and size in one swift, breathtaking motion.

The water surged around us, sloshing over the sides of the tub like miniature waves in a tempestuous sea, a Red Sea of passion and pleasure.