Need Me by Cynthia Eden

now, a little rougher, even as his mouth found the center of her need. He worked her clit with his tongue and loved the way she trembled beneath him. Trembled and—
    “Devlin!”
    Came.
    He surged up. Devlin yanked a condom out of his wallet and had the thing on in about two seconds. He shoved his jeans down, and then he was driving into her. No hesitation. No restraint. He thrust into her as deep as he could go.
    Their eyes met. He could see the pleasure on her face. The wildness in her gaze that came from the fury of a climax. He locked his arms around her hips and hoisted her closer. Her sex closed eagerly around him, so tight he was going insane. He withdrew, thrust deep, and heard her sweet moan again.
    Would she come for him one more time? He sure hoped so.
    Again and again, he thrust. He had her pinned to the stairs. He kissed her, wanted to damn near devour her. Pleasure hummed along his nerve endings, but it wasn’t enough.
    Need in deeper. Want more. Want everything.
    He couldn’t hold back. He should have. He should have kept some control, but the fury of desire rode him hard. Her legs were around his hips, her body fitting his so perfectly, and when he felt the contractions of her sex around him—
coming again—
Devlin erupted. His release blasted through his whole body, a pleasure so intense that he could only growl her name. He was too lost, too fucking gone—too fucking caught up in the best damn climax of his life.
    On the stairs.
    With his jeans around his ankles.
    In the house where her husband had been murdered.
    That is fucked-up.
    His eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to keep thrusting. To take her again, endlessly. To go wild with her and let the rest of the world just fade away. Because in that moment, he could truly almost think that nothing else—and no one else—mattered. Just her.
    Just the pleasure they could give to each other.
    But he felt her legs slowly slide away from his hips. Her breath was coming in little pants and when he heaved up to look down at her, she looked…
    Beautiful.
    But there was hesitation in her eyes. Maybe even fear? Shit, no, he didn’t want her afraid of him. Not Julianna.
    Then maybe you shouldn’t have fucked her like a lunatic on the stairs.
    He should apologize. He should get his cock out of her and not think about what a hot heaven she felt like. He should do a thousand different things right then.
    He kept staring into her eyes.
    She pushed up toward him. Her hand reached out and slid over the stubble on his cheek. Then she kissed him. Not a passionate, hot kiss. But…soft, almost sweet, in the aftermath of the maelstrom that had consumed them both.
    His eyes closed and he just wanted to savor her. Instead, he very slowly pulled away. Her hand slid down his arm, over his jeans, then back to her side.
    He righted his clothes quickly, jerking his jeans back up and zipping way too fast. Then, with care—care he hadn’t been able to show her before—he pulled Julianna up to her feet. His hand caressed her shoulder because he was having a really hard time
not
touching her. “I’ll get your clothes.” From wherever the hell he’d thrown them.
    Part of Devlin was horrified by what he’d just done. Fucked her there—taken her
there
, so close to her husband’s murder scene. How screwed up did he have to be? And another part—the dark, twisted part—just wanted to have her again.
    He found her bra, dangling from the bannister. A quick search turned up her shirt. He gave those back to her, then took her jeans and the scrap of her panties to her. Sexy panties that he really hadn’t appreciated in the heat of the moment. She dressed quickly, in silence, and that silence tore at his gut. If ever a woman needed care—shit, why hadn’t he been able to slow down a bit?
    “I’m sorry,” he said. Devlin didn’t apologize often, but she deserved his remorse. She deserved flowers and chocolate and him swearing not to be a bastard any—
    “Don’t