“Perfect.” She grins.
She’s full of rowdy energy, amped up with nerves and excitement. She pushes me back on the bed, saying, “Sit there.”
I lean back against the pillows, waiting to see what this wild little thing has in mind.
Mara is the only person on this planet from whom I occasionally take orders, purely out of curiosity. No matter how much time I spend with her, I still can’t predict exactly what she’ll do next. That’s why she’s endlessly fascinating to me. She doesn’t fall into routine. She doesn’t pick the obvious choice. And she sure as fuck doesn’t behave herself.
Mara takes my Bluetooth speaker out of her suitcase, the one that usually resides in the bathroom. She sets it up on the dresser, streaming music from her phone.
The Devil is a Gentleman – Merci Raines
Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple
The beat flows into the room, mysterious and sultry, with a hint of playfulness. As soon as she hears it, she closes her eyes and starts swaying, shoulders first, then hips. She knows how to move. In fact, she has to move. She can’t hear music without it taking over her body.
I liked music well enough, but I never understood its full power until I met Mara. She unerringly selects songs with an irresistible beat and an overpowering mood. She finds the songs that tickle your brain, that fire up the neurons until you can almost see the notes sparking in the air around you.
Mara throws open the heavy drapes covering the windows, letting in the last of the late afternoon sunshine, revealing the view of the Hollywood Hills.
She stands directly in front of the window, framed by the glass, her body a shadowed silhouette, gold around the edges. She’s still dancing, running her hands through her hair and down her curves.
Slowly, she unzips the front of her hoodie. She shimmies out of it, languorously sliding the sleeves down her arms, then flinging it away from her so it sails across the room and lands on top of the lampshade. Underneath, she wears only a thin undershirt, through which I can clearly see the outline of her nipples, the shape of the silver rings, and the indent of her navel.
Next, her jeans: she unzips the front, her fingers light and teasing, taking her time. Turning away from me, she slides the jeans down over the round globes of her ass, bisected by her thong.
I want to unzip my own pants because my cock is raging against the fly, but I wait, eyes fixed on Mara, cheeks throbbing from how hard I’m biting them. She’s stoking my fire. The impulse to jump up from this bed and seize her is torturous. It takes everything I have to stay still.
She hops up on the windowsill, lifting up her legs and resting her bare feet on the opposite side of the frame so she can slide off the jeans. She tosses her pants aside, getting up on her knees now, then on her feet, standing in the frame with her back to me.
Resting her hands on the upper frame, she makes slow circles with her hips, swaying that peachy little ass, teasing me, tempting me …
Silhouetted against the setting sun, her figure glows like a caryatid, like she’s holding up the whole building.
I could never sculpt anything so perfect.
She pulls off her undershirt and tosses it behind her. It lands on my lap. I pick up the crumpled cotton, still warm from her body and I press it to my face, inhaling her intoxicating scent.
The idea that someone else might be standing below that window, that they might look up and see the view that I haven’t even yet seen myself, makes me wild with jealousy.
I like that feeling. I’m always in competition for Mara, for her attention and for her body.
I like competing.
I like winning even more.
Mara doesn’t give a fuck that we’re seven stories up, with only a thin pane of glass between her and a hundred-foot drop. She’s still dancing, her body as lithe and sinuous as a snake, rolling and swaying, hypnotizing me.
Now she turns and hops down, taking slow, sensual steps toward me, her hands covering her breasts. She caresses those breasts, squeezes them, then reveals their perfection to me, like opening the doors into heaven.
I’m salivating.
My cock throbs with every beat of my heart.
The chorus of the song begins to play:
Oh don’t you know, don’t you know
‘Bout the devil … he’s a gentleman
Mara gives me a naughty little glance, letting me know that she selected this song on purpose.
I was already well aware that she modeled her painting of the devil after me. After Shaw too—when she painted it, she wasn’t entirely sure which of us had abducted her off the street.