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He didn’t stop sucking until another orgasm had followed the first, the pleasure so intense that she didn’t know whether to beg him to stop so she could remember how to breathe or keep going.

When he was done, and she was nothing but a limp and trembling mess before him, he sat up, tongue gliding across his top lip.

“That,” she gasped, “was not part of my plan.”

“I’m in charge, you little brat.” He grabbed the foot that was resting on his shoulder and kissed the inside of her ankle. He set her foot on the bed and rose, and she closed her trembling legs as he bent to kiss her on the lips. She could taste herself on him, but she found that she didn’t mind. “My brat,” he said against her mouth, his voice a bass rumble.

“Dictator,” she mumbled back.

His eyes widened with feigned anger, a threat for a spanking glinting within them. She wouldn’t mind that either. The first time he’d spanked her in the bedroom, she had nearly come from the feeling alone. That particular memory sent a fresh rush of color to her face.

“Really?” Darien’s voice was deadly.

She flashed him a bright smile. “Kidding.”

“That’s what I thought.” He took her hand, tugging her up off the bed. “Get into something comfortable. You look like you could fall asleep at a clap.”

He wasn’t wrong, so she made her way into the walk-in closet, her legs as wobbly as a new fawn’s. When she emerged a minute later, he was lying on his back in bed, wearing nothing but black boxers. An ankle was crossed on a propped-up knee as he watched the ceiling with a look of concentration on his face, likely thinking about the things she had managed to make him forget for an hour.

“Do you think I can get my own Devils tattoo?” Loren crawled across the mattress to his side, sheets and blankets rustling.

“What?” Darien snorted, his serious expression clearing out like a storm pushed away by wind. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll get you one of those sticky ones that last a couple days. How does that sound?”

She snickered. “Hilarious, Darien. I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

With a flip of her hair, she laid down on the bed and snuggled up against his side. “Whatever you say, Mister Bossy.”

Darien was eyeing the black t-shirt that fell nearly to her knees. “Is that my shirt?” Amusement shone in his eyes.

“Our shirt,” she corrected. She slung a leg over his and tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder. “So, what was the consensus?”

A strong arm wrapped around her, holding her tightly against his body. “The consensus is that we aren’t doing it.”

Loren stiffened. “And what if you end up…?”

“Behind bars?” He tried to look her in the face, but she was careful to keep it hidden. When she nodded, he told her, “Then we’ll deal with it when we get there.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “How am I supposed to love you properly if you’re kept away from me?” Her heart gave a painful thud, fully skipping a beat before lurching back into its usual rhythm.

Darien’s hand traced a comforting pattern across her ribcage, the heat from his palm warming her skin through her shirt. Their shirt. Her mouth twitched with a smile, despite the horrible topic at hand that felt like someone was squeezing her heart like a lemon.

“Don’t worry, sweet pea.” The teasing tone in his voice suggested he was about to say something he knew he shouldn’t say. “You would move on. It wouldn’t take long, not with your pretty face.”

Loren lifted her head to glare at him. “Darien!” she scolded, flicking him in the nose. “I absolutely would not move on.” Darien gave one of those low, rich laughs that made the butterflies in her stomach stir. She lowered her head back to his shoulder. “Besides, this pretty face you speak of will age.”

It was Darien’s turn to tense, the muscles in his shoulder hardening under her cheek. “We’re not talking about that tonight.” His voice was firm but not mean.

“Or any night.” She had brought up the subject far too often, and she knew it. Her worry of the future was robbing her enjoyment of the present, but she couldn’t help it.

“Loren,” Darien rebuked.

She peeked up at him to see that he was pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, his jaw tense. In the twenty years she’d been alive, she hadn’t thought much about her mortality—not until she had fallen in love. Not until she had found someone she didn’t want to lose.