Page 69 of The Sinner and the Scholar
He’s so fucking handsome that I can’t think. Blond hair is plastered to his face. Tattoos and muscle clash with the spectacles. He’s a proper scholar and deviant rolled into one. But it’s more than appearance. It’s how his stubborn adoration for me bleeds from his every pore despite what he’s been taught to believe by his peers.
He’s not all good, but he’s not all bad. He’s somewhere between, and that thought is dangerous because it means we can make this real.
He grips my thighs and bites his bottom lip. Smoky eyes drag up my body, lingering on feminine places, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his gaze returns to mine, there’s a dark defiance I’m fast becoming addicted to. “More,” he demands.
Balancing with a palm to his slick abdomen, I slide off his length and hammer home. Every thrust is soul-jarring. At some point, I don’t know when, but I realize I’m not thinking about punishment, sin, or lies, and I’m simply enjoying the ride.
He rears up, braces my back with his hands, and kisses me all over. I’m a panting puddle of sensation and submission, a prisoner of his lips. I’m breaking inside, and I don’t know what to do. He shifts my legs from straddling to sitting so they hook behind him. Then he wraps me in his arms and looks deeply into my eyes. “That death is not on your hands.”
My throat tightens. The walls close in.
He tightens his embrace. “It’s on the hands of that demon. The blame lies with them, as it lies with the institution that created you.”
“But…”
He swallows my protest with a kiss. It’s slow, passionate, and forgiving. We rock together.
Forehead to forehead.
Breath to breath.
Soul to soul.
I’m falling into him. He’s catching me. There are no more words, just the absolution we find in each other. Gentle rocks. Tiny pleasures. A feather-light touch as he wipes hair from my slick face. The swipe of my thumb as I smooth sweat rolling from his temple. He kisses my neck and bites the charm. When heat gathers in my lower belly, I panic. This is so intense, so revealing, that I feel flayed open. Afraid.
“Wes…” I grip his hair.
“I’ve got you, love.” He tightens his embrace.
The next time I thrust, I climax so hard I see Heaven. I lose control of my rhythm, my body. Wesley takes over, thrusting up, grinding into me. His movements become frantic, desperate. His face crumples. It’s like he doesn’t want this to end. But he can’t stop it.
Sooner or later, everything ends.
He bites my shoulder and joins me over the edge. When it’s over, he plants soft kisses on my collarbone. I toss my head back and blink at the fuselage ceiling, and… for the first time in my life, Ibreathe.
He says something. But I can’t hear properly, and I think that orgasm made me deaf. The ringing is slowly dimming, but something is wrong.
Suddenly he’s shoving me off him. I tumble to the carpet as he scrambles for his clothes.
“Wes?”
He takes his bag from his seat and gives my torso a pained look. “I’m so sorry.”
I glance down. Blood smears are on my skin. He flashes his palms only long enough for me to glimpse raw wounds, then jogs to the bathroom and shuts himself inside.
I place my palm on the door.
“You okay? I can help dress the wounds.” Let me help.
“I’m fine.”
“Wes, it’s just a bit of blood.”
“I won’t be long, and then the bathroom is all yours.”
When he eventually comes out, he’s freshly washed, smelling like soap, and back in a hoodie and jeans. White bandages wrap his palms like boxing tape. He walks back to his chair without meeting my eyes.
I have my shower, but when I get out, he’s fast asleep.
