Page 10 of Darkest Sin

You’re going to show me how you come.

Is he for real? Shit. What a stupid question. Of course he’s for real.

He refuses to give me his name, and yet somehow, I already know he’s one of the most powerful men on the planet. If he asks a woman to spread her legs and fuck herself in front of him, then that’s exactly what she will do. This isn’t a man who enjoys being told no. Hell, when he is told no, he fixes it by taking lives. At least, that’s what I assume he does. He all but confirmed it when he suggested that he paid for me by allowing my original captor to live.

So why the hell am I so giddy with excitement?

This is wrong. So fucking wrong.

This man is terrifying, and if I deny him, I don’t doubt that he will force me to see it through. And yet, I still want to please him. Surely that must mean there’s something wrong with me. He hasn’t once claimed to be the hero. He’s not a good guy and doesn’t deny that. So why am I not repulsed?

He heads in a direction we hadn’t taken on his initial tour, which piques my curiosity. When he walks into a small, darkened room, my eyes widen, that same unease coming back to haunt me. I follow him right into the center of the room and stand awkwardly as I look around. The walls are either painted or covered with material. It’s too dark to tell which.

There’s a small stage behind me, and directly in front of it, there’s an armchair he lowers himself into. He relaxes back, propping his foot onto his knee, just as he did in the car. He lowers his elbow against the armrest, his whiskey refilled and hanging from his fingers.

It’s private in here, and as he fixes that alluring gaze on me, the tension builds in the room. I’m not the nervous type when it comes to performing for a man. I’m comfortable with my sexuality. Hell, I’m more than just comfortable, I’m a firm believer in getting down and dirty. And yet right now, I’m scared to death.

What happens if he doesn’t like what I have to offer? Will I be prosecuted to the highest degree? Sent to a dirty basement to live as his prisoner?

The darkness of the room helps, and I anxiously make my way toward the small stage. “How do you want me?” I ask, my tone coming out a shitload more confident than how I feel.

“On the stage,” he instructs, nodding to the space right in front of the armchair. He watches me as I move across the room and take a seat on the stage, my stomach clenched with nervous energy. My tongue rolls over my lips, the adrenaline of this moment spurring me on. His dark gaze is barely visible in this dimly lit room, but just the knowledge of having his eyes on me like this is tantalizing.

“Now what?”

“Move back,” he rumbles, watching as I scoot further onto the stage—so far that I have to put my feet up. “Lean back and open your legs. Slowly. I want to be able to smell you.”

Oh, God.

Electricity shoots through me, right down to my core at the way he instructs me. Is he going to do this the whole way through? Or is he going to allow me to take the reins at some point? Either way, I lock my gaze onto his and watch him as I slowly spread my thighs, my heels making my legs look a million miles long.

Need slams through me, and I find myself already wet and desperate for his touch, but tonight is all me. I don’t doubt that I’ll experience his hands on me soon enough, I just hope it’s under my terms.

He sips his whiskey before giving a slight nod, indicating for me to get started, and good God, I don’t hesitate to get the show on the road. With my legs as wide as they will go and my knees up, it gives him the perfect view of my pussy. I bring my hand up, trailing my fingers over my body and pushing the strap of my harness off my shoulder. The hard leather of the harness slips down enough for my nipple to peek out and join the party.

I continue moving, brushing my fingertips over my sensitive skin as my pussy begs for attention. I skim over my nipple, pushing the leather down further and watching how the gathered leather pushes my tit higher. But while it sure is a stunning sight, we both know that’s not what he brought me here to see.

Trailing my fingers down lower, I suck in a breath as my fingers brush my waist, my sensitive skin not immune to the sweet tickle of a feather-soft touch. A breathy groan slips from my lips, and I push my hand down further as I watch my captive audience, my hand dropping lower over my hips until finally hitting the sweet spot.

I cup my pussy, giving a gentle squeeze to try and relieve the building ache between my legs, but it’s not nearly enough. Moving slowly, I pull at the flimsy material of my lace thong and push it aside before trailing my fingers through my folds.

My head tips back, just enough that I don’t lose sight of my Romanian jailer, and I roll my thumb over my clit, my needy moan breaking the silence.

The tension builds as he adjusts himself and takes another sip of whiskey. “Remove them,” he says in that seductive accent, his tone thick with hunger and driving me wild with need. “Let me see your tight cunt.”

Oh God. He’s a dirty talker.

Not one to disappoint, I adjust myself slightly and make a show of peeling my lace thong down my legs and kicking it off at the end of the stage. I widen my legs once again, this time completely open, vulnerable, and available to him.

Unable to help myself, I bring my hand back down between my legs and show him exactly how I like it. I rub circles over my clit with my thumb as my fingers drop lower to my entrance. I push them inside of me without pause, watching the way his eyes darken with desire.

I’m soaking wet, and the tension in the room is so damn thick, it’s almost impossible to breathe. I’m right on the edge, my fingers massaging my walls from within as my thumb continues rubbing tight circles over my clit. My hips start to rock, my thighs trying to push themselves wider, to open myself up even more. My fingers aren’t enough. I need him to take me deep. Need him to fuck me until I scream.

“Why don’t you come and join me?” I say with a breathy groan, our eyes locked together in a fiery war, fighting for dominance when we both know I don’t stand a chance in hell.

He doesn’t move, and I almost drown in devastation. “Remove your fingers,” he instructs.

Disappointment fires through me as I free my fingers from within, wondering if this is all part of his game—getting me all hot and bothered, waiting until I’m just about to come, and depriving me of my release. I watch him expectantly, waiting to hear what he wants from me next. “Now, tell me how you taste.”

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