The Devil’s Own Chloe
By Alix Nichols
Genre: Romantic Comedy / Contemporary Romance
Or so she thinks.
Capable, strong and patient, Hugo prides himself on being able to fix anything. Trouble is, he’s never tried repairing a chasm in someone’s soul before.
Will his love save Chloe or will fixing her leave him broken?
Hugo’s gaze zeros in on my lips.
I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I can’t wait for him to kiss me.
But instead, he lets go of my hands and pulls his sweater, along with his tee, over his head.
My mouth waters at the sight of his tanned torso. It’s all chiseled muscle and smooth skin with a dusting of freckles across his shoulders and a scatter of hairs over his pecs. The hair trails down to his navel and disappears under the waistband of his jeans.
My heart stops and then pounds like crazy.
What’s happening to me?
Hugo is not supposed to be my type. I’m not supposed to be into large, powerfully built men.
So why, then, am I leering?
With my eyes trained on his chest, I remove my sweater and bra faster than he can say, “Take off your sweater and bra, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t say that, of course. Instead, he takes off his shoes and socks and draws the zipper of his jeans down.
As if playing a game of Who Gets Naked First, I peel off my jeans and panties. My gaze is glued to his fly.
He lets his jeans and underwear pool on the floor.
I can’t believe this is happening. What’s even harder to believe is how much I want him to make love to me. But an equally strong need offsets my eagerness. I’d like to slow down the time so I can savor every second of this evening. I want to etch it into my memory.
Our first time together.
Hugo’s breathing picks up and he takes a step toward me. In a wink, his palm spreads across the small of my back. It’s big. It’s hot. I nearly whimper. He pulls me closer, and desire shoots from my groin, seeping into my mind and enveloping my brain in a thick lustful cloud of fog.
But I battle it, the cerebral creature that I am. I try to guess what kind of lover Hugo is. Will he be gentle with me or rough or both? Will he draw out the foreplay into a boring mechanical show of prowess like so many misguided men do? Or will be plunge into me the moment we hit the mattress? Perhaps even before we hit the mattress--
Hugo bends his head toward me, and his lips part. His warm breath fans against my face. He smells scrumptious.
How come I never noticed how good he smells?
Because I never let him this close.
His hand on my back brings me closer still until we’re skin to skin, his groin against my belly.
My skin prickles. Desire makes me tremble. My heart hammers with an ardor I’ve never experienced before. I give in to it gladly, completely. The fog in my head swaddles my brain, permeating every cell and taking charge of my body. When Hugo’s free hand lands on my nape, firm and gentle at the same time, my legs begin to quake. His gaze roams my face. I stare at his lips as I wet mine. Something molten flickers in his eyes, and the next moment he slants his mouth on mine.
I open up greedily.
His tongue explores my mouth, strokes my tongue, and makes me dizzy with pleasure. I kiss back, tasting him, drinking him in, and I rub his back and knead his butt.
Hugo draws away ever so slightly and slides his hand down my belly. I stand on tiptoe and push myself into his hand. He strums me with his fingers, exploring me, learning me, as I sigh and moan. And then he uses his newfound knowledge to make me moan harder.
I glide my hand over his hips to his front and wrap my fingers around him. A moment later, my internal muscles spasm softly and I come. It’s a small, no-fireworks—not even a firecracker-strength—orgasm that would normally require a lot more time and effort to wring from my body. Over the years I’ve learned not to expect more as this seems to be the only kind of release I’m capable of.
Hugo withdraws his fingers and lowers us to the bed.
I fumble for a condom on my night table.
My hands tremble with giddy anticipation as I pull it on him.
When I’m done, he braces himself on his outstretched arms, his hips wedged between my legs. I marvel at all that heavy muscle and restrained strength, at the sheer size of his body—so much larger, so much harder than mine. I’ve never been with someone like him. His size should intimidate me, feel like a threat, but instead it turns me on.
All our contrasts turn me on.
How can this be? How can a dyed-in-the-wool Loki girl feel this way about a Thor? Either I just spontaneously mutated or I’ve been feeding myself a big, fat lie.
One of many?
I’ll think about this later.
Gripping the back of his head, I pull him to me, closer, closer, until his cheek touches my stiff nipples. I want more contact. I want to feel his weight, his strength. My mind is overwhelmed by a primal, cavewomanly need to be enclosed within that strength. To be overpowered and conquered with it. And then serviced by it.
But Hugo balks.
Could he be afraid of hurting me?
“Come here,” I say, tugging at his neck without any tangible result.
He smiles apologetically. “I’m too heavy.”
“You’re silly.” I hope he doesn’t expect me to beg. Because it’s not gonna happen. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”
He doesn’t budge.
OK, I’ll beg. “Please, Hugo. I need you closer.”
I tug again and this time he lets me. I add my second hand and pull hard. A moment later, he stretches his full length over me. Our chests, stomachs, and hips are crushed together, his mouth devouring mine. He cups my breast. It’s a handful for him, and I’m struck again by the joy of how unalike we are.
He nudges my thighs wider apart, positioning himself.
And then he pushes inside.
I gasp and arch, meeting the force of him.
So good. So freaking good.
Why didn’t we do this before? How could I live all these years without it? I know there was a reason, a good one, something to do with what I am. But in this moment I couldn’t care less. No reason seems to make up for what I’ve been forgoing.
I close my eyes to enjoy his slow invasion more fully. After a few moments, I rock my hips, urging him to start thrusting.
So he does.
It takes only four or five strokes for my mind to go AWOL, leaving my body to its own devices. Which is a polite way of saying “out of control.”
All the wild things a woman might do while being bonked—my body is doing them all at once and with a total lack of coordination. My hands grip, squeeze, rub, and pinch. My fingers dig into his flesh, and my fingernails rake his back and nick his skin. My hips buck. I moan like a wild cat in heat. My thighs quiver and my internal muscles clamp around him and throb as I peak.
This time the climax is so powerful it shakes me to the core. It’s not just a firecracker or even your run-of-the-mill fireworks; it’s a full-on Bastille Day blast of color and light shot into the night sky from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Hugo comes, too. I grip his neck with both hands and hold him close while he groans his pleasure.
I wish I could stop time and freeze us in this moment for a few hours, just to give my frenzied brain a chance to comprehend what’s going on here.
This intimacy, this proximity bordering on fusion—I’ve never, ever experienced it before. It’s so much more than a well-timed joining of two bodies, followed by a release of endorphins.
All my previous physical sensations pale in comparison. All my past emotional highs fade into the background. I’m blown away.
Several long moments later, Hugo gives me a gentle kiss and rolls over. I stretch out next to him, still a little dizzy and disoriented. He turns onto his side and pulls me closer. I breathe in his musky scent and snuggle into the warm, comforting crook of his arm. As the marbles in my head rush toward the exit, I kiss his shoulder. As they clatter across the bedroom floor, I prop myself up and run my tongue over the salty skin around his nipples. With a worshipful keenness, I kiss every single freckle on his chest and shoulders.
Then I settle back into the crook of his arm, head empty and heart full to overflowing.
He threads his fingers into my hair and strokes the back of my head.
The blissful emptiness inside my skull thickens into a wooly cloud, and I begin to drift off.
“My pichune,” he whispers.
I tell myself it’s just a sweet nothing, a cozy little postcoital endearment. It doesn’t mean he has feelings for me.
Don’t read too much into it, Chloe. Don’t panic.
Ha! It’s easier said than done.
An ice-cold wave of fear washes over me, sinking my body through Hugo’s, through the bed, and hundreds of meters below, right into a foul-smelling, dark place that’s all too familiar.
Welcome to Chloe’s personal quarters in Hell.
The darkness seeps through my skin, poisoning my blood, and paralyzing my muscles. Just before I let it lull me into a slumber full of nightmares, I remember the reason why I convinced myself Hugo wasn’t my type. The reason why I denied myself the joy of his touch.
To keep him from harm.
To save the love of my life from being my next victim.
At the age of six, she released her first rom com. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper.
Decades later, she still loves the romance genre. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have made Amazon bestseller lists, climbing as high as #1. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog.
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01EJPM108
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01EJPM108
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