Page 93 of Wicked Sins

“Look at me, darling.”

She licks her lips, and stares at my cock as I slowly start rubbing my hand down its length.

“Did you…?” Her voice fades as if she’s become hypnotized. I squeeze at her neck, bringing her back to the present.

“Did I what?”

She shakes her head, eyelids fluttering as if she can’t bring herself to ask.

“Did I imagine this? Is that what you want to know?”

Another lick of her lips.

Fuck, now I know she’s doing this shit on purpose. I groan, fighting back the urge to jam my dick through her plump lips.

She’ll fight you.

And the thought makes me even harder.

I told her I don’t date because Dad forbids it.

That was a lie.

A lot of what I told her is a lie.

I’m the son of the fucking Devil—lying is second nature.

I don’t date because I knew the moment I had my first orgasm that I couldn’t trust myself around girls. I know because the first time I came, it wasn’t from fapping over some crusty porno mag.

“You weren’t wearing these pink PJs,” I say, trying to smile and realizing I probably look like a lunatic. “But yeah, close enough.”

Her breath hitches, and her eyes flutter. I let go of my cock and instead tug down the hem of her PJ bottoms.

She’s not wearing underwear.

And that’s all I see before she starts struggling.

“There we go,” I murmur, easily keeping her legs trapped between mine. “That’s the one part of you I never could picture.”

“Joah, wait. Stop. We shouldn’t—”

“Too late. Way too fucking late.” I groan as I wedge my free hand between her thighs. “Open.”

“No, Joah, please. Let me go.”

Her disobedience does delicious things to my body. As much as I want to keep my hand on her throat, to remind her how easily I could snuff her out, I need both hands to open her, to bare her to me.

I expect her to bolt, scream, struggle. But when I lift her knees and slowly part her legs, all she does is cover her face with her hands.

“Jesus,” I breathe, drinking in the sight of her perfect pussy. I run my knuckle through her slit, groaning deep in my throat. “You’re fucking dripping for me.”

Her body hitches. Her thighs tense as if she wants to close her legs, but I wedge my waist between them. She shudders, and then a long, wretched sob escapes her.

I tug away her hands, slide my hand behind her neck, and draw her head up so I can look into her eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

She sniffs, blinks hard. A crystal tear flashes down her cheek. “It’ll hurt,” is all she whispers.

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