Page 15 of Sinful Chains

She shivered. Just the faintest little quiver in her shoulders. Then her eyes dropped to my bare chest, hungrily sweeping across my muscles, down to my abs, finally coming to rest on the gray sweatpants that hung low on my hips. Her attention sent a pulse of satisfaction straight through me.

I smirked as I went to my knees in front of her, reaching for her ankle.

I slipped off one fuzzy house slipper, then the other, taking my time to savor the silky softness of her skin and memorize the sexy shape of her feet. Beautiful, temptingarch. Black toenail polish—a nice departure from white, and very enticing.

My mouth watered as I eyed those toes, but there would be time for that later.

I ran my fingers down her arch, loving the way she tensed, the way she sucked in a breath but didn’t pull away from me.

Slowly, I guided her feet into the basin, watching as the hot, creamy water lapped around her ankle. Her body relaxed immediately, shoulders dropping, fingers unclenching.

She liked it.

And I liked watching her like this, like something precious and special, something that was mine to care for.

Her eyes fluttered shut as I used my hands to drizzle water down her calves. Every satisfied breath she exhaled made my body tense, my groin growing tighter and tighter until my dick was on brick.

My hands went to her skin, tracing slow, reverent paths along her calves, her ankles, letting her feel every inch of my devotion. I lost myself in it, working my fingers rhythmically, massaging her tension out, kneading my reverence in. A soft hum vibrated inher throat, sending desire coursing through my veins. She had no idea how much this shit excited me.

“Do you like the name ‘Princess’, or should I call you something else?” I asked.

Her eyes slowly opened, focusing on my face as she puzzled through that. “I—don’t know. Doyoulike it?”

I stilled my hands. “I like what you like. But yeah, I do.”

“Why not ‘Queen?’”

I smirked. “Queens have power, but they also have responsibilities. Princesses get to do whatever the fuck they want.”

She smiled. “That’s how you see me?”

“That’s how I see you.”

She took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. “Then I like that, too.”

I nodded slowly, dropping a cotton cloth into the water.

“So you’re enjoying this?” she said softly.

I gestured downward. Her eyes followed, glinting with mischief when they landed on my erection.

“You still don’t understand it,” I said. “But you will.”

I wrung out the cloth before dragging it along the arch of her foot, up over her ankle, my movements slow and unhurried. Her breathing turned shallow. Her hooded gaze locked on me. I studied every reaction, making mental notes, becoming a star student at what my princess liked.

“It’s not just about touching you,” I continued, dragging the cloth higher, following the curve of her calf. “It’s about giving you something you need.”

Her lips parted, her breath catching. The question showed in her eyes before she asked it.

“What do I need?”

“For a nigga to treat you like your worth,” I said roughly. Because I knew she’d been fucking with niggas who damaged her. Not necessarily with trauma or infidelity, which happens way too much. The other kind of damage may be even worse, because it’s benign and insidious. It’s what happens when niggas who mean well act nice to a woman, treating her like an equal. Wanting reciprocity. Matched energy. Pressure.

Fuck outta here.

Ain’t shit equal about romancing a woman. They don’t need us. We needthem. Weak ass, I’m-the-prize-too ass niggas out here have no idea how much easier life would be for all of us if they just surrendered to the truth.

Women are a prize worth winning.

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