Page 58 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“Suck me, Leila.” His words are a plea, a prayer. “I want to feel the inside of your pretty little mouth.”
How can I say no to the raw need in his voice? I slide to my knees and open my mouth but don’t move. A wicked part of me likes seeing him work for it. I mean, he did leave me. He did make me feel like his death was my fault. He can’t be let off that easy, right?
He cups the back of my head and glides past my teeth. When his cock hits the back of my tongue, his strangled groan is sweeter than honey. I taste salty precum, moan, and then continue to blow him with barely restrained fervor.
“Jesus—fuck,” he gasps, his fingers flexing in my hair. “Slow down. Fuck. No—do that. Do exactly that.”
He throws his head back, scowls at the ceiling, and breathes through flared nostrils. There’s nothing like the view of a man in the throes of passion, flexing and tense, trying to make his body last. He winces as he tries to hold back his desire, to prolong the experience. But when his brows lift in the middle, and his eyes flutter closed, I feel that wickedness in my heart again.
I scrape my nails down his thighs and pull off his cock long enough to say, “Look at me, Zeke.”
The darkness in his gaze hits me like a jolt. His lips curve on one side, and he says, “You little teasing wildcat.”
I lick my lips and pretend to rise, but he forces himself back through my lips and starts fucking my mouth. My body melts from the need in his eyes, in every line of his body as he pumps into me desperately, saying between ragged pants, “You have me in such a...fuck... I can’t resist you...goddammit... I’m a slut for you... I want to do this every fucking—” He sucks in a breath, rolls his eyes back in bliss, and unloads down my throat with a low groan of satisfaction.
He watches me with awe as I swallow. Awe and then fear. Fear and then panic. He pulls me up to my feet, a wild look in his eyes. His lips part. Close. Part again.
Paranoia wraps barbed vines around my throat. Is that shame? Is he... regretting this?
“What the fuck, Zeke?” I mumble, wiping my mouth.
He grips my face between his hands and shakes my head gently, his jaw hard, his eyes volcanic. He is a man disheveled in every sense. He still can’t speak. I’m about to lose my shit. I’m about to pretend like this was nothing to me. But then he blurts, “Leila, I fucking love you.”
“Wh-what?” I splutter.
“I love you.”
“It was a blow job, Zeke.”
“It was the best fucking one of my life.”
I push at his chest, irritated. My eyes burn with unshed tears. I don’t know why.
Yes, I do.
It’s not the first time a man has proclaimed his love to me after an act like that. It’s not real. It’s the high of the orgasm. It’s my job.
He tugs me back.
“Don’t you fucking do that,” he snarls.
“What?” My voice is cold again.
“Don’t belittle my feelings, Leila.”
I force him away and step back. “They’re just like every other man whose cock I’ve had in my mouth.”
My words create the small reprieve I crave. But not the distance. He stalks back toward me, eyes hard and determined. Then he pinches my jaw and makes me look up. Danger flashes. Violence. Jealousy.
“Mention another man’s cock in your mouth again, and I swear to God I’ll...”
“What?” I whisper.
“I’ll hunt them all down and put a bullet between their eyes.”
I gasp at the promise in his words. He’ll do it.
He once left to protect me, but now he’ll kill to possess me. The thought makes my hormones surge, and I bite my bottom lip to stop him from seeing my reaction. Too late. He cups me between the legs, presses the heel of his palm into my clit until I whimper, and snarls, “Don’t even ask what I’ll do to another man who puts his cock down here.”
