The Wicked in Me (Devil’s Cradle #1) Read Online Suzanne Wright

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, Magic, Paranormal, Romance, Witches Tags Authors: Series: Devil's Cradle Series by Suzanne Wright
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Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
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Cain kissed her, licking his tongue inside her mouth, swallowing her little moan. He tapped her delectable ass and released her hair. “Turn around. I want you on your hands and knees again.”

More than ready to be fucked, Wynter didn’t hesitate to do as he’d asked. She arched into the hand that stroked its way from her nape to the base of her spine. That same hand dipped a finger inside her.

“Ready for me. Good.”

She felt her lips part as the broad head of his cock slid inside her. Pleasure danced along her soul, as electric and consuming as ever … but the touch was light. More like fingertips than a hand. It came again, and again, and again. The bliss was immense—making her body sing and ache for more—but each touch was too soft. Too slow … much like the cock lazily making its way into her pussy.

After another fluttering sweep of soul-deep pleasure, he was finally buried inside her to the hilt. And then he began to thrust. Gently. Carefully. So sluggishly it was agonizing. The waves of pleasure he delivered to her soul were just the same. Every featherlight wave was as amazing as it was frustrating.

Soon she was trembling, whimpering, dazed with sheer want. “Cain,” she croaked.

“What do you want? Tell me, pretty witch.”

She swallowed. “To break.”

“Hmm, and how do you want me to touch your soul? Like this?” He sent out a firm wave of pure spine-tingling pleasure. “Or like this?” The second wave was a crackly charge of dark bliss that held a sting—and there was no hiding that her body responded more intensely to that.

He let out a low, velvety chuckle. “You like it when it hurts.” Then he was slamming into her. Hard. Fast. Deep. Ruling and ruining her, just as he always did.

She floated, out of her mind with pleasure/pain as he subjected her to an overload of sensation. The drag and thrust of his cock, the bite of his fingertips, the slap of his balls, the surge after surge of darkly decadent pleasure to her soul that electrified her nerve-endings … It all flooded her body with endorphins and totaled her control so that she was an absolute slave to the moment.

Still pounding into her, Cain curled his body over hers and splayed one hand around her neck while the other gripped her hip a little too tight. He growled low into her ear, squeezing her throat. “I want my fingerprints all over you. I want them imprinted on your bones. I want them stamped on your fucking soul.”

Another squeeze to her throat, and she shuddered as her orgasm came hurtling toward her.

“Look at me.”

She twisted her head and met a pair of menacingly dark eyes just as her release whipped through her very being like a lightning rod, striking her from the inside out.

He groaned, his cock swelling. “Those fucking tears.” He rammed harder into her pussy, bit into her shoulder, and exploded while her inner muscles milked him dry.

Finally, her orgasm faded, and she blinked away yet more tears as her breaths sawed in and out of her lungs. Jesus, he’d kill her one day.

“If I killed you, I wouldn’t be able to fuck you anymore. People tend to frown on stuff like that.”

Wynter snorted. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “Since when do you care what people do or don’t frown upon?”

“Since never. But don’t worry, your corpse would be safe with me. Necrophilia isn’t my thing.”

“That is a comfort.”

“I had hoped it would be.”

She let out yet another snort.

Once they’d both cleaned up in the bathroom, he helped her slip on one of his shirts and began to button it for her. This had become a ‘thing.’ Unlike him, Wynter didn’t like to sleep naked. He didn’t complain purely because she didn’t fuss over his preference for her to wear either his tees or shirts for bed.

“Do you always insist on this?” she asked.

He briefly looked up from the button he was closing. “What?”

“That whoever sleeps in your bed also wears your stuff at the time?”

He drifted his gaze over her face. “No. I don’t usually fuck women in my chamber, let alone put them in my clothes.”

She blinked. “Oh.” She wanted to ask why she was the exception, but that felt too much like fishing for compliments. And he’d only expect the same honesty in return—Wynter often fumbled when it came to talking about ‘feelings.’ But she could give him something. “Well, um, I don’t usually sleep in other guys’ beds or wear their tees or shirts.”

Satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “So we’re even.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

Setting down her chopsticks, Wynter briefly squeezed her eyes shut, hoping none of the other patrons were paying any attention to their conversation. “Hattie, can we talk about this later? Or maybe, like, never?”


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