Page 48 of A Taste like Sin
I don’t know if it’s his voice or the warm sensation of my fingertips gliding over me that hypnotizes
me. First my throat, then skimming down the sides of my breasts, across my stomach. Back up.
“Now…spread your legs, sweet girl. Let them see what they will never have.”
I stiffen. Refusing is my first reaction. I almost can’t bite it down. “I can’t—”
“Sí,” Damien growls. “You will. Nice and wide, sweet girl.” God. A moan edges his voice so
unexpected in that grated tone.
My body jerks, my thighs parting as if of their own accord.
“You’ve done it,” he hisses as if spitting the words through clenched teeth. “I can hear them gasping.
So beautiful. So pink—”
Heat floods my cheeks and I almost stop listening. Shut down. Ignore.
But he’s right. I can hear a distinctive shift in the room: a change presented in a sudden hush the
farther my legs drift apart.
“Touch yourself,” Damien commands, his voice so damn thick. Each word is drenched in his accent,
barely recognizable as English. “Just once.Mierda.” He hisses as I slip my hand between my legs.
“Good girl. I can hear your breathing change. Againpor favor.”
My finger grazes a sensitive ball of nerves and a cry rips from my throat. Nerves prickle and twitch,
unsure of how to process each hesitant touch. With pleasure? Shame? Both? My quivering thighs
battle to close together. Hide. Retreat. God, who knows who could be watching. What they see. How
I look.
And the more my brain runs through every frantic fear and scenario, the less they seem to matter.
“Stop,” Damien snarls, jarring me back to the present. “I saidonce, sweet girl. I doubt these bastards
deserve more—mierda!” he grunts as my finger slips, which draws another gasp from my lips.
“You’re disobeying, Juliana.” A hoarseness laces the warning—he sounds anything but upset. “Don’t
stop there, then. Add another finger, sweet girl.”
A part of me shies from the dare. But another, bolder impulse seizes control of my limbs. Two fingers
stroke my flesh in tandem. It’s lightning. My back arches, my throat contracting around another
strangled cry.
“Imagine I’m there with you,” Damien murmurs. “Remember what it was like when you were at my
mercy.”
I stiffen at the memory, the images almost too sinful to imagine—but my brain produces them anyway.
