Page 41 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

He gives his head a dismissive shake. “You needed more.”

The comment annoys me. “How the fuck do you know what I need?”

“Because I was with you at St. Peter’s. Now, I don’t know what you asked for when you came down here, or what you were expecting, but I do know what you got wasn’t what you needed because if it had been, you would have been hard.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t always about that.”

“On a milking table? It absolutelyisabout that.”

“I didn’t pick the table. What should she have done differently?”

“She wasn’t the problem—she just wasn’t whatyouneeded.”

Again with that. Why does he think he knows what I came looking for? Or what could have helped me in that moment? “Okay, I’ll bite. What do I need?”

“I thinkyouneed to know the person dominating you. If you really want to be dominated. At the bare minimum, you need tobe able to set an expectation and have a conversation about your limits before you start a scene.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be dominated.”

“Then why allow yourself to be restrained?”

“I just wanted to stop thinking, Gibson. It’s not that deep.”

“It’s exactly that deep,” he says, his eyes darkening with an intensity that I swear I feel in my balls. “Everyone has limits. Soft limits that can be tested and hard limits that can’t be touched.”

“Yeah, yeah, I feel like I know enough about BDSM to have a grasp on the basics.”

“But you felt like any Italian Domme could tie you down and give you exactly what you needed on your lunch hour without any prior discussion or thought exploration on your part?”

Hot, rich,andintuitive. Lethal combo. “Okay—let me rephrase—whydoes it have to be that deep?”

“Because submission requires trust, and trust requires a connection. I’m not saying you have to be in love with your Dominant, but it helps to be on the same wavelength if you want to get out of your own headspace. If you just want to get off—there’s plenty of ways to do that without strapping yourself to a table and putting your dick through a big hole.”

I accidentally snort when I laugh, and it makes me reach up to scratch my nose. “On that note…”

His hand drops onto my neck, and I turn to look at him. He’s closed half the distance between us. I can feel his breath on my mouth. “Five more minutes.”

No whiskey dick tonight. It rises to attention like he just pulled it with a string. “To what?”

“Kiss me back.” The music is too loud to hear him, but I’m staring hard enough at his mouth to understand. While the demand seems to come out of nowhere, something inside me expected it and is now able to relax.

“You can’t control yourself,” I say.

“Maybe not.”

“What are you doing, Gibson? You’re not into guys.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that. I’m into you.”

This is probably what it feels like to be chosen first in a schoolyard pick. My chest swells with something like pride. Someone this wealthy—this worldly—thishot—who’s never been with a guy wants to suck more hickeys ontomylips.

But tonight, I shake my head. “I’m going to bed.”

“Let me come with you.”

It’s incredibly obvious that he’s lonely. Lonelier maybe than anyone I’ve ever met, and it hurts to see. It hurts not to kiss him like he asked, because I do want to. There’s not much in me that doesn’t want to feel the clench of his strong hands on my shoulders or in my hair, or the warm press of his commanding tongue inside my mouth—anywhere really. I want him too much, but also not enough. Defeated, I pull away.

This is who I am, and it is hopeless. “Not tonight, Gibson. Stay here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

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