Sins of the Soul

Then he raised his gaze to hers and said, “Your jeans.” His voice was like smoke, like velvet. Like sin.

She skimmed her palms along the black lace cups of her bra, down her waist to the button of her jeans. Slowly, she slid it free, then lowered the zipper partway.

“Push them down, pet. Nice and slow.”

Somewhere inside her was a seductive creature that wanted his eyes on her, hot and voracious. She’d caught him looking at her ass, more than once.

So she turned her back to him, pushed the zipper down, then pushed the denim over her hips to her thighs, arching her back as she leaned forward very slowly. She heard the hitch in his breathing. She shot him a look over her shoulder, bent all the way forward and slid off first one leg, then the other, knowing that the only thing he was looking at was her behind, now clad only in a pair of see-through black lace boy shorts.

He caught her hands and drew them forward, arranging her palms so they were flat against the wall, and she was bent at the waist, facing away from him.

“Not white cotton,” he murmured.

His hands skimmed her ass, squeezed, then slid lower to her thighs.

He was close at her back, leaning over her, his breath touching her nape. Then his teeth. She felt them on her skin. She felt them close on the swell of muscle where her neck met her shoulder.

With a gasp, she tried to straighten, to move.

“No,” he rasped. “Stay exactly as you are.” His hands moved on her skin, reinforcing his command.

She wanted to turn to him, touch him, pull the clothes from his body and run her tongue along his hot skin. But something in his tone made her stay exactly as she was, hands against the wall, bent forward. A part of her was appalled that she was letting him do this. A part of her was darkly excited.

His fingers freed the catch of her bra, and he pulled the scrap of cloth along her arms so it dangled at her wrists and her breasts were free, the nipples erect. From behind, he slid his hands around her, teased her breasts. She could feel his erection against her buttocks, thick and hard, confined by his clothing.

She arched into his touch, her nipples aching, and that served to press her ass tighter against him.

The way he touched her was mind-drugging. She was aching, wet. She wanted him right now, inside her, full and thick, stretching her, filling her, but he took his time, enjoying her body at his leisure.

“Beautiful,” he murmured as he traced his tongue along the bumps of her spine. She believed him. In that moment, she felt incredibly beautiful.

Then he looped his fingers in the top of her panties, and slowly, so slowly, he drew them down, trailing along her thighs, her calves and—oh, God—his tongue followed the path of his fingers.

As he nudged her, she lifted one foot then the other, and then she was bare before him.

“Turn around.”

She did, the straps of her black lacy bra sliding off as she dropped her hands from the wall. He looked at her, his gaze lingering on her breasts, her dark nipples, then dropping lower to the apex of her thighs. She was naked. He was clothed. A sexy little power play that made her shiver.

“You are gorgeous. Perfect.”

With his eyes avid and hot upon her, she felt both gorgeous and perfect. God, the way he looked at her.

Reaching out, he dipped the tip of his finger into her navel, then dragged it down, lower. Her breath hung suspended.

His mouth curved in a faint smile; his eyes were dark and hard with lust, the blue preternaturally bright against the thick, curling fringe of his lashes.

His fingers slid between her thighs and rubbed at her opening, slick and swollen.

“I don’t—”

He pushed his fingers inside her, and her breath slid away in a sharp hiss as she grabbed hold of him. In that second he was her anchor and her buoy. She needed him to stay afloat.

“You’re so wet, so tight.” His voice was low and rough with desire.

Looping his arm around her back, he held her close and she could smell his hair, his skin, luscious and tantalizing. She could feel the hard, lean lines of corded muscle through his clothes. Strong thighs pressed against hers. Muscled forearm against the small of her back. His lips were hungry on hers while his fingers moved inside her, his palm shifting to press against her clitoris, and she arched into his touch.

She shoved her hands under his shirt, her palms flat against the solid ridges of his abdomen, then her nails scraping his skin as she dragged her hands lower, wanting—

“No.” He caught her wrist.

“I want to touch you,” she rasped. “Not yet.”

His fingers slid out of her and she cried out in disappointment.

Pushing her back until she was pressed to the wall once more, he dipped his head and ran his tongue over first one nipple, then the other. Then he pressed his palms to the insides of her thighs and spread her legs.