Page 48 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

Whatever he did to me on that bent leather mat worked. Itdidhelp me, and I feel somewhat beholden to him for it. For being right about what I needed.

The kiss afterward…I’m not sure what to think about that, other than it being the most erotic experience of my life. I would have probably come if it hadn’t been for the soul draining orgasm I’d had with my dick humping that leather mat while the flogger teased my crease.

If my hole could talk, it would have been screaming at his cock to fill it up.

I’ve never wanted a dick in my ass as much as I wanted his today.

Which is probably why my gaze keeps landing on his crotch. I try to imagine what’s in there. How big it is. How thick. Is it dark? Is it cut? Would it fit? What does it taste like?

I once met a man on a plane

Whose rock solid body’s insane.

I wanted to fuck it I wanted to suck it

And that’s why I need a new brain.

This is my mind on Gibson: reduced to typing out bad, dirty limericks.

I write about half a dozen more before he wakes up again and stretches his arms overhead, his black sweater revealing a healthy slice of tan abs and a peek of his dark-haired trail.

It strikes me that I haven’t thought about my past for several hours, but because I have the thought, I’m at risk of slipping back into it, so I say something to him instead. “Good nap?”

“Not as good as the one earlier.”

I look down at my laptop screen to hide my grin and possibly a blush judging by the way it feels like all my blood just rushed to my face.

“I figured out your schedule for the week. You should check it out.”

He lifts his eyebrows and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah? How’d you work out the conflict with the walk-through on Thursday?”

“I moved your conference call to the morning and got the contractor to push the walk-through back an hour.”

“The conference call has nearly twenty people on it.”

I frown at him. “You do know who you are, don’t you?”

He cracks a smile. “What’s that mean?”

“It means, if you want to reschedule something you reschedule it. If people can’t rearrange their days, it’s their loss.”

“They’re investors, Christian,” he argues.

“And you’re a busy man. If they want in, they can fuck up their own days.” I give him a casual shrug. “No one expressed an issue with it.”

“Farley didn’t?”

“Farley was the first to RSVP.”

He reaches onto the seat beside him, picks up his laptop, and finds the pointed email I’d sent to his Wall Street investors. He chuckles softly. “Such firm language.”

“No sense dancing around it. It had to be moved.”

“Most people would have rescheduled with the one contractor, not eighteen investors.”

“A contractor?” I scoff at that. “In this town? Do you know in all the years I’ve worked at Gramercy how many contractors showed up on time—much less on the scheduled date?”

“How many?” he asks with that smirky grin.

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