Devil In The Waters, Book 3, Chapter 19 (complete)

His current rationalization: If Kimmy was fucking Devlin, then why would she need to meet Devlin at a hotel after work? Devlin was her boss, so he could tell her to knock off for an extra-long lunch and they’d hook up for an afternoon delight. The reason then that Devlin would take her out after work was because he wanted Josh to know: Josh, I have your wife after work. That’s your time, buddy. But it’s my time now. Yeah, I could fuck her at lunch, but I need you to know I’m fucking her . . .

But why no more contact? Why no more taunting texts then?

This situation had finally twisted him to his snapping point. There were times he could ignore what was going on because he didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe Kimmy would ever cheat on him. But all day today Kimmy and Devlin were all he could think of. And self-hatred. Hating himself for letting it get to this point.

He buzzed down his window and breathed fresh air. It wasn’t fresh. He was in a shaded untraveled canyon-like roadway running a circuit between skyscrapers. Parked next to a yellow parking barrier by a black painted cement wall, the air that came through the window was hot like exhaust from the buildings’ air conditioners. He did the window back up and rotated his head on his aching neck.

This was really happening, wasn’t it? He was starting to believe Kimmy was actually sleeping with Devlin. For the longest time, he’d parted Kimmy from the formula. It was between him and Devlin, and Devlin used her as a pawn. Somehow he’d sexualized the fear, enjoyed it, let that weird pleasure strain his better judgment and permit his wife getting closer to Devlin—when he should have kept them apart. But up till this morning he hadn’t believed it was true. This morning was the first time he had real evidence. As real as it was. Maybe she sent the lingerie to the dry cleaner. He’d googled lingerie at work, and yes, some women sent lingerie to the dry cleaner. He didn’t go home and tear the apartment apart looking for her pick-up stub to prove it to himself, but just thinking maybe that’s where the lingerie might be calmed him down enough he could function.

Why couldn’t he commit to proving himself right or wrong, once and for all? Instead, here he was half-hearted, non-committed—fucking flaccid—skulking in an upscale alley in the vicinity of the Royal York. If he was a real man, he’d march right into the Royal York, sit down with them all and make his presence known.

Shit, no. That was stupid.

What then?

That was the problem: he didn’t even know. How does one deal with this? He’d always been cushioned by the thought that his wife would never cheat on him. Ever. And even though never was never, the added enforcement of her fidelity would be that—on top of it never happening—it especially would never be with Devlin Stone.

Slumped low in his driver seat, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned, hair a mess, he watched a technician unloading gear from his Bell van at a building’s service entrance; in his lap his phone’s screen showed Kimmy’s throbbing blue dot on the Find My Phone app so close to his own. She was just around the corner. He could go and spy, go see who the clients were (if there were any), see what she looked like sitting with Devlin. Fuck, that would hurt though. That scared the shit out of him. For what if her lingerie was at the dry cleaner and he was wrong once again and the woman he trusted was working and not having an affair? If he got caught he’d be embarrassed, at the worst. But equally worst was not getting caught and catching a real live glimpse of what his beautiful wife looked like sitting and having drinks with his high school bully. Kimmy in her new and foreboding dark lawyer clothes, hair pulled back, looking severe and scary and sexy, and she’s with the guy who told everyone in school Josh was gay for looking at his dick in the shower. He’d have that image burned in his head forever.

Probably go back to not getting it up for her, Josh. Remember that after Tiffany’s party? When you were so scared of Devlin’s big dick your smaller dick stayed down and cowered before your wife. You’d thought she’d had sex with Devlin those days. You want to go back there?

Just some lingerie. That’s what started this. Maybe the smoky stockings she wore this morning were just panty hose that looked the same. Maybe the lingerie was out of the house being cleaned . . . 

Maybe.

But you wouldn’t get stockings dry cleaned, would you?

“Fuck,” he hissed and thumped the heel of his hand on the steering wheel.

***

Devlin had booked a suite in anticipation he would get her into bed. Seventeenth floor, lake side of the building, windows looking out over the Scotiabank Arena and the Inner Harbour beyond. The coffered walls were a subdued dove gray; the furniture austere but reminiscent of vintage rail travel, modern and black with gold trim, swayed legs like what occidentals would have called oriental—a banker’s minimalist version of the Orient Express.

They walked together to the center of the hotel room’s living room, and Devlin asked her if she’d like another drink. She appreciated the distraction. The hesitation. The momentary pulsing of the brakes on this awful thing she was going to do. Because she was going to do it now.

So why stop for a drink?

“Yes, please.”

“Whiskey, right?”

She smiled, said, “You know me well.”

Devlin chuckled, strolled to a low smoky glass and steel table by the window looking out on the sunny waterfront. On the table there were bottles of liquor arranged on a tray, and Devlin looked through them, produced one and showed it to her. But she didn’t really know whiskeys, so she just nodded. He poured a glass while she stood in the room with her hands together at her front. Earlier this evening feeling so dominant, but now suddenly feeling very submissive despite her stern and proud attire.

Devlin returned with one glass and presented it to her.

She asked, “You’re not having one?”

He shook his head no, put his hands in his pants pockets like he would watch her drink. She let him watch, smelled the whiskey, took a long sip, then licked her lips while they burned, looked around the luxury suite. She said, “Can we talk about work or something?”

Devlin pulled a hand out of his pocket, checked his gold watch. “Too late to talk about work now, Kimmy. I’m all talked out. And it’s time for play.”

She nodded, licked her lips again, drained her whiskey glass and returned it to him. He took it and smiled, holding it at his chest and studying her. “The way that light is hitting your face right now, Kimmy, I can’t believe how beautiful you grew up to be.”

She tried not to show a reaction. Stared back. Studied the light on his face, imagining how the same light might play on her own. Late summer in the city, later in the day, almost dusk, the sun low and hot orange. The light that came in the windows looked reflected off pink glass. It put warmth on his dark and severe features. The prominent cheekbones, the sharp jaw. It was after six now, but no five o’clock shadow. Devlin had shaved for their encounter. She was sure of it. He was a masculine man, one that would show stubble.

He was so sure of himself. Inviting her here on a Monday night, two days ago, specifically to get her into the bed behind her. Tricking her. Knowing he could trick her. And he was right. He’d booked the suite. A luxury suite that must cost almost four figures for the night. Made reservations at Clockwork. Had shaved his face. All for her.

She let her purse strap fall from her shoulder, stepped away and plopped it on a chair. Devlin returned the glass to the table and set it down with a quiet click. Turned then, and met her in the middle of the carpet, face-to-face, her looking up at him. He cupped a hand to her neck, lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips came close, but she turned away.

“Don’t . . .”

He gripped her neck, stroked her jaw with his thumb. Then pushed her away with the slightest measure of roughness. It opened her eyes. But he was smiling, looking down on her like he controlled her. He said, “Take off your jacket.”

Blazer unbuttoned, she opened it, her eyes on his as she withdrew her arms then slung it across her purse resting on the chair. Devlin eyed her, looking her up and down, and she stood straight like she expected this inspection and wanted to measure up to his standards. Thought she did, too. He came close again, undid the top button on her shirt, slipped a finger in the open V now and touched the bare skin of her collar.

She put her hands over his, held it, he flattened the palm against her skin. She said, “I’m married.”

In one swift motion, eyes still on hers, Devlin stooped, the hand going from her collar to her waist, lower then, taking the hem of her skirt on one side and pulling it up her thigh.

For the first time, it looked like she had got the better of Devlin.

He hadn’t expected to see stockings and garters. No, not from the high school girl who used to wear khaki pants, white sneakers, and, yes, she did have a pale yellow sweater with three bunnies on the front. But what he said at Clockwork was correct: She wasn’t that girl anymore. She was the woman Devlin drew out from inside her.

Devlin’s face lost that dominant hardness, and she watched his eyes as what he saw genuinely pleased him. She took her lower lip in her mouth, bit it. He lifted the skirt higher, then with his other hand lifted up the front. Found out she wore no panties. She waited for his eyes to return, and when they did she smiled. That domination was gone still, and replaced now with pure male hunger. This was the reason a woman dressed this way. The control she had now felt more amazing than she anticipated. She even tightened her butt muscles, push her pelvis forward and widened her stance.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

He was going to anyway, and his hand smoothed down between her thighs; she could feel against his fingers and palm how wet she was. Even the insides of her thighs still felt greased. But his touch took away that momentary exchange of power between them. Now Devlin was dominant again, and she was falling against him, her knees turning to water.

He supported her, a hand on the small of her back while he pushed big fingers through her folds, sunk his middle finger inside her. While he fingered her gently, her knees came together till they touched. Then his fingers were gone, slipping up her front, the wetness leaving a trail on her skin through her pubic hair and below her navel. The skirt fell to her thighs, and Devlin touched her lips with the wetness from between her legs.

He said, “Now take off your shirt,” and stepped back, still facing her but pulling a chair closer. He motioned with his chin for her to move aside and stand in front of the loveseat at the foot of the bed, a gray upholstered sofa with black trim, the seat padded with harlequin-printed pillows. She centered herself, met his gaze, watched as he sat and crossed a leg. Devlin Stone wanted to watch her undress. She would do that.

Eyes on his, she took her time undoing each button until her shirt hung open. Then exposing one shoulder, the next, letting the shirt trail down her back before flinging it to the loveseat. She stood in her bra, and didn’t wait for him to ask to remove the skirt. Hands coming together at her side, drawing down the zipper, sucking in her stomach and letting the skirt fall around her ankles. She stepped out of it, not embarrassed for some reason, even standing before Devlin Stone wearing only lingerie and high heels and without panties. Which was insane. Never in her life was she the type of woman she would think could stand like this before a man other than Josh and let him study her body this way. But the man was Devlin Stone, and she wasn’t that timid straight-A student from high school anymore. No, she was a grown woman with long legs, a killer job, went to the gym three nights a week and did yoga twice a week at lunch time. And this was what you did that for. To be appreciated. She even turned, showing him three-quarters of her backside, let sexy Devlin stone see her ass. Yeah, she was skinny, she was long-limbed—but her ass wasn’t flat, it was round. She bit her lip, seeing that hunger growing in him, his stern expression glowering at her naked body like he wanted to punish it. Punish it because it was too good to be true. It affected him. And he didn’t like to be affected.

She whispered, “What do you think?”

***

Devlin liked what he saw, keeping his eyes on hers then rising from the seat to cross the space that separated them. She trembled in anticipation, and the closer he came, the more she could feel his presence—a phantasmal approach, his power over her tingling around her before he could even touch her.

He stood tall next to her, still clothed, her in almost nothing. And now she flooded between her legs again, her stomach quivering, but her mind still looking for a way to get out of here.

Voice low, he grumbled, “You’re torn, aren’t you?”

“Torn?”

She looked in his eyes, they were narrowed on hers, that Pinky orange sunlight coming in and filling them with otherworldly light. She nodded.

“You hate how your body betrays you,” he said, his eyes breaking their connection with hers, watching his forefinger trace down her lingerie clad body. Her body long, lean, one she was proud of, but also now feeling ashamed for showing it to another man so proudly. His fingertips touched across her hipbone and got butterflies lifting in her stomach. Then down, and she knew where it was headed: the angled crease where thigh met groin, coming down and tickling through her pubic hair and touching her pussy. His fingers produced a sopping wet sound. “You hate so much how your body betrays you.”

She whispered, “I want to be home with my husband.”

“But you’re here with me,” he said, and his eyes returned to hers as he slid his middle finger inside her.

She sighed, surrendering to him, body sagging for a moment before she stood upright again. “I’m here with you.”

“You want me so bad,” he said, a smile tugging to one side, eyes like black slits.

“Don’t taunt me.”

“You’re fascinating, Kimmy. I’m not taunting you, I’m getting to understand you . . . getting to know you . . .”

“Getting to know me while your finger’s inside me,” she said, touching his forearm, her hand coming down to hold his wrist steady.

“I’m going to know you, Kimmy. I’m going to know every inch of you. Inside and out. And you’re going to get to know every inch of me.”

She gasped—his incessant waves beating against her retaining wall, crumbling it—then let go his wrist, put her hand flat below his belt, smoothed the fine wool of his fly downward until she felt the bulk of his manhood behind the fabric. No underwear, hanging heavy down a pant leg. She squeezed and milked downward, stoked and squeezed up and down and cradled his balls through his pants. “God, I’m so awful,” she said, closing her eyes.

“You’re so perfect,” he corrected.

“Perfect to you,” she whined, gripping his huge cock through his pants, “but I’m a horrible human being to the one I love . . .”

“You don’t love him any less.”

“Don’t talk about him . . .”

“I like talking about him,” Devlin said, sneering, his breath on her neck, studying her face as he fingered her. “And you do, too—Sometimes we act like he’s not a part of this, but you know he is. You can’t stop talking about him. Down in Clockwork, letting me know how important he was to you.”

“He is important.”

“Then why can’t you help yourself?”

“You’re talking me out of it,” she said, let his cock go, showed him a more steely gaze.

“Nothing’s going to stop you from doing this, Kimmy. Your tough talk is cute, but I know I’m going to have your legs spread on that bed, and I’m finally going to take what I really want . . .”

Now her knees went weak again, and she sagged against his hand. Devlin met her slumping by pushing two fingers inside her and holding her up, pussy in the cup of his hand. He sneered again, loving his effect on her.

How had it come to this? It was a long and sinuous trail that lead back through the hotel room door, down the elevator, through the bar and then zigzagging her life for the last few months. The choice was hers to make. Devlin had given it to her. Devlin didn’t force her into this hotel room, he only opened the door. It was her stepping through. Her making the decision that could injure the man she loved.

“I just can’t,” she whispered, trying to show him a face that would inspire compassion or mercy from him.

“You say you can’t, but you’re standing here in clothes you wore for me. And you’ve left this bare,” he said, and cupped hand between her legs again. The stroke of her fingers against her slippery folds got her sighing. “You want me to claim this pussy as mine. You want to give it to me . . .”

“You can make me come again . . .”

“I can,” he said. “But aren’t you tired of playing this game?”

“It’s not a game.”

While his fingers stroked, finding the hard fleshy pearl of her clitoris, teasing it, working circles, he lowered his mouth toward hers again.

She pulled away, but this time his free hand gripped her throat.

He said, “You’re not fighting with me . . .”

“I know,” she moaned, “I’m fighting with me . . .”

“You want this—so take it.”

“I don’t even like you . . .”

“You don’t have to like me . . .”

His fingers probed deeper, and her hands went to hold onto his wrist. “just please—please, make . . . make me come . . .”

“It’s all about you, isn’t it, Kimmy?” He fucked her pussy faster with his two fingers, chuckling in his throat . . .