Page 30 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“Oh.”

I lick my sore lips, and he does the same. I’m having even more trouble catching my breath now than I was on the sixth flight of stairs.

“I thought you wanted…” he starts and stops again.

Assuming he was going to say some version ofthis, I speak quickly. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“You look so good tonight,” I tell him stupidly. “And you smell incredible.”

“We’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” I agree, giving his lapels a tug.

His mouth lands directly on mine.

I slip him my tongue, and hegrowls, taking over once again.

10

GIBSON

I’ve never experienced anything like this. There’s a knot in my stomach that won’t loosen, no matter how deep I shove my tongue in his mouth. No matter how well I map his lips, or grow accustomed to his soft sighs, whimpers, and low moans.

It’s wrong. I pay him. I promised his father I’d look out for him. I’m not gay. But I haven’t kissed anyone like this in two decades.

His mouth is whiskey-soaked crack. His tongue is heavy and hot. His lips are plusher than they look, soft and pliant. I’m terrified to touch him, afraid I’ll grip him too hard, force too much. I worry his head in my hands, rubbing the silky strands of his hair between anxious fingers as I plunge my tongue repeatedly into his open, inviting mouth.

But fuck, I’m hard. My cock strains against my fly, and I’m afraid to touch that, too. Kissing is something I can downplay in the morning. Coming isn’t.

But if I don’t stop kissing him soon, I might not be able to deny myself some relief.

He’s just so…fuck…different. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.

“Should I stop?” I whisper into his mouth.

“No. Please. Do whatever you want to me.”

What I want is to get him on his back, sew my mouth to his, and rut on his cock until I come in my pants, which is nothing like anything I’ve wanted before. Not even close.

If I wanted to kiss a man, I’ve had my pick of hundreds over the years—high priced escorts and closeted CEOs alike. Broadway producers and movie stars who made no secret of wanting to show me a new way to express my sexuality. Kissing isn’t really my style either. Long story short, I don’t know what’s come over me, or why it won’t let me go.

I kiss him so hard for so long, I forget to breathe. Pulling away, I gasp, my hand on his chest so he doesn’t pull me in again.

“We’re drunk,” I say, the first stirrings of guilt confusing my body.

“I’m sorry.”

“No—it was me. You should go to bed.”

He studies my face. “You sure?”

I hesitate becauseno, I’m anything but sure. Fuck me, I want more. “I’m not sure what that was.” I take my hands off him and rub my sweat-slicked palms down my thighs. I’m burning up. The lights in here are too bright—both lamps, the kitchen—I’m an exposed, perverted opportunist. A sexual harasser with no clue what I’m doing.

“I apologize,” I tell him.

He sits forward and puts a hand on one of mine, sending a thunderous surge of sensation up my arm. “It was just a kiss. And it was good. But I’ll grab some food and head to my room. Don’t sweat this, okay?”

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