Page 48 of Sinful Pleasure

Just when I felt him on the brink of passing out, I released my grip. He collapsed forward, clutching at his throat, desperate for air.

“I swear, if you mess up, I will end you,”

“I won’t,” he barely managed to speak, still holding his throat.

He should be thankful he’s alive. He should be on his knees thanking whatever gods he believes in that he’s not lying dead on the floor right now.

I don’t feel empathy. I don’t feel anything at all.

I can’t even remember how many lives I’ve ended with my own hands. The number doesn’t matter. It’s ugly, sure—but it’s what I was born to do.

Without saying another word, I stormed out of his office, slamming the door behind me. If I stayed even a second longer, I wouldn’t be able to guarantee that he’d leave that room alive.

On my way out, I almost collided with two more of his whores, their hips swaying as they made their way to his office. Both were draped in robes—but nothing underneath.

The blonde one shot me a look that was supposed to be seductive—biting her lower lip, stripping me with her eyes.

If I wanted, I could’ve given a simple command, and she’d have dropped to her knees right then and there, taking me in the middle of the hallway without a care for who might see.

But I didn’t even glance at them. They didn’t realize it, but I was doing them a favor. I was saving their lives.

There’s a world of difference between Angelo and me.

He gets his kicks from these women. It’s how he releases his pressure. But it’s more than just the women for him— it’s the game. The power he feels from using them however he pleases. Kissing them, fucking them, sharing them with his friends— or his business partners.

I won’t lie—I’ve indulged in his hospitality.

We’ve shared women. More than once. But it’s never been about pleasure for me the way it is for him.

Sex, for me, is a transaction. A way to relieve the tension in my body.

No more, no less.

I like to fuck for my own pleasure, yes. But I don’t like being touched.

Ever.

Just the thought of someone else’s hands on my body makes my stomach turn. It’s not even a matter of pride. It’s a matter of control. I don’t want anyone near me unless I’ve given them permission.

And no one dares to cross that line. Not when they know what I’m capable of.

I haven’t felt guilt or pity for another human being in a long time. These things are weaknesses—luxuries that don’t exist in the world I live in.

It’s kill or be killed. Simple as that.

But then again, I can’t stop thinking about one thing—Why the hell did I let Allyn kiss me?

It doesn’t make sense. I don’t do this shit.

So why didn’t I feel disgusted when her lips touched mine? Why didn’t that little voice in my head scream at me to kill her?

Instead, I kissed her back.

I fucking let her touch me.

She’s my brother’s fiancée, for god’s sake.

That alone should’ve been enough to make me keep my fucking distance.

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