Page 66 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

He smirks. “You’re right. So that’s a no?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Gibson.”

“Yes. You will.”

20

GIBSON

I’ve done more difficult things in my life than try to focus on my work while Christian is sitting across from me at my desk wearing a brand new gray suit, but at the moment, I’d be hard pressed to remember any of them. My tailor is an evil genius.

It’s nearly noon, and whatever cologne he’s wearing must be made entirely of pheromones. I’ve been fighting a losing battle with my erection for the better part of the morning, and he looks like he hasn’t even broken a sweat.

Whatever hang-ups I might have had about being with a man disappeared the second he slid his lips around my dick last night. When I stopped by the club before crashing in my private room, I’d studied the male couples and the way they interacted with each other on the amphitheater seats. Lots of hand jobs. Face-sucking kisses. One particularly erotic show of nipple play. But no one was fucking in the open. I would have pulled up some porn, but after giving Pet the night off, I fell asleep before I even had a chance to unlock my phone.

Staring at Christian now, though, I realize I’m not as cluelessabout pleasing a man as I worried I might be. I’ve already made him come twice.

I watch as he takes a note while glancing at his laptop, his sleeve revealing a slender wrist with a silver chain around it. His fingers are long—shapely even. But he bites his nails, and this small detail has somehow escaped my attention until today. I’ve never seen him do it. His cuticles are a mess, though, tempting me to do the appalling thing of taking his hand in mine and sucking each fingertip into my mouth to soothe whatever raw skin exists there.

Obsessing over his body—every inch of it—has me drinking more water than usual and taking extra trips to the restroom. I jerk off once, but only because I knew it wouldn’t take long. My hard on had been full and leaking, and all this from watching him hold the cross on his necklace and move it back and forth on the chain as he read an email.

It was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

He’s driving me utterly out of my mind.

“Christian,” I finally say, at the end of my patience.

He looks up, his blue eyes bright in the sunlight, his lips barely parted.

“Take a break.”

“Can I get you anything?” he asks.

Your ass.I want your ass.

“I’m fine,” I say, a bit too sharply.

He nods, stands, and heads for the door.

“Wait,” I burst as he reaches for the latch.

He turns.

“Where are you going?”

“Just to stretch my legs. I’ll probably get a hot dog.”

“Take your time,” I say, satisfied with his answer. “But finish the hot dog before you get back.”

There’s no way I can watch him eat that without taking him to the floor and rutting into him like a mating beast.

“Text me if you need anything. I’ll be back in what? Half an hour?”

“Take an hour,” I tell him.

But as soon as he’s gone, I want him back.

I loosen my tie and sit back in my chair, spreading my legs to give my semi room to breathe. Resting my elbows on the arms of the chair, I tip my head back and close my eyes.Why is this happening to me?I’ve gone at least twenty-five years without more than a passing interest in anyone but Marianne, and now I’m lusting after my doorman—my dead friend’s son, no less—like a dog near an unattended steak.

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