Sins of the Flesh

Instead, she reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair. His mouth came down on hers in a kiss that was hard and deep and hungry.

She went up on her toes, molding her body to his. The solid ridge of his erection pressed against her mound, and she almost whimpered at the harsh tide of desire that slammed her.

There was nothing gentle in the way he touched her, his fingers biting into her hips, his kiss rough and wild, lips and tongue and teeth. Lust kicked her, low in the gut.

She felt hot and swollen and wet, and she wanted him inside her. Wanted to finish what they’d started that night in the club. It felt as if it was a million years ago. It felt as if it was only a moment ago.

She only knew that she wanted him to stretch her and fill her.

He twined his fingers through her long hair and pulled her head back until it touched the wall and her neck was exposed. His lips traced her pulse. His teeth nipped her skin. Shivers chased up her spine and along her limbs, leaving them weak and heavy.

This was passion. This was lust. But it was nothing she had ever felt before. Gone was her mask. Gone was the icy control she maintained always. He swept it away.

This was a wave of tidal proportions that took over her body, took over her thoughts. This would not be a coupling that allowed her to keep her checks and balances in place. This would be all-consuming.

A whisper in her thoughts warned that she ought to be afraid, ought not give him this power.

Then it coiled away and vanished like smoke.

She had made her choice.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the knife in his hand, and she gasped as he slit the sweatshirt from neck to waist then did the same to the thermal shirt she wore underneath.

He tossed the blade away and it clattered to the floor, discordant in the quiet that was punctuated only by the harsh rasp of their breathing.

For a long second, he only looked at her, his eyes glittering, his mouth hard.

He traced the tip of his finger along the wound on her forearm. It was a thin pink line now, healing, thanks to his blood. Then he moved his hand to her side, his touch gentle. The shiny scar over the wound there was darker, wider, but healing as well.

Then he raised his gaze to hers, open, unshuttered, and he let her see the naked longing and the heat.

“I’ve never wanted anyone as I want you,” he rasped.

And she believed him.





CHAPTER NINETEEN



Someone stands behind you, And you have power.

You shall neither perish nor be destroyed.



—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Chapter 177

MAL TRACED HIS LIPS ALONG the lovely warmth behind Calli’s ear, urgent, driven. He moved to her neck, nipping his teeth against her smooth, pale skin. She tasted like heaven. She tasted like heat and strength and passion.

He drew his fingers over her skin, smooth and warm, up along the delicate bumps of her spine, and buried them in her hair. The long, sleek strands poured through his hands in a fall of silk. The sweatpants rode low on her hips, and he saw that she was lean and muscled, yet curved everywhere a man could want her to be. Flared hips. Round, soft breasts. She was created to tempt him, and he was happy to be lured.

Moving his lips along the arch of her throat, he kissed her and tasted her skin, the tip of his tongue leaving a wet trail.

With a gasp, she pressed against the back of his head, drawing him closer. He turned his head, letting his ear rest against her heartbeat.

Her chest rose and fell, rapid, uneven.

He licked the curve of her breast to her nipple, his hand searching out the other breast. His fingers closed on her, teasing, stroking, and then his mouth. He sucked her gently, then harder, grazing her tender flesh with his teeth.

A wordless cry escaped her, low, ragged, and he felt it in his gut, in his groin.

Sinking down onto his knees, the backs of his thighs resting on his calves, he fisted his free hand in the cloth of her sweatpants, dragging them down with him. “What—”

“Shh.” Lifting her foot, he pulled off her sock and tugged the sweatpants free, then did the same with the other. She was left naked before him. Long legs. Curved hips.

The urge to taste her drove him. He closed both hands around her hips and steadied her against the wall as he leaned forward to trail kisses along the arc of her hipbone and then the indent of her navel.

She was gorgeous, responsive. Her breath hitched with each feathered touch of his lips.

But he wanted more than that. He wanted her to scream his name as she came.

“Mal, no.” She tangled her fingers in his hair but didn’t quite pull him away. “I—”

“Shh,” he repeated. He knew what she meant to say, the protests she meant to make. He didn’t want to hear them. She was his. For this shining, glorious moment, she was his, and he would taste her and take her and mark her. He would give in to every primitive instinct that rode him.