Page 64 of Sinful Desires
“The first men I killed were selling children,” he said. “Thirty-five of them. Trafficked through oil deals and gun routes. Some were sold. Some stolen. I found the ship, took it back, and put the children somewhere safe.”
The wind moved through the night. The silence between us was heavier than sound. I looked at him, really looked, and saw it: the flicker behind his eyes, the thread pulled tight beneath that stillness.
I swallowed hard. “And the men who took them?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand rose slowly, fingers brushing the wet skin beneath my eye. He caught the tear like it was something alive, something fragile, then let his thumb drag lower, skimming the curve of my cheek.
He didn’t stop there. He followed the line down to the edge of my lips, tracing them once, and I swear my knees nearly buckled.
He watched the way I leaned into him. Watched the way my mouth parted. Then his palm cupped my face—rough, warm, possessive.
I let out a soft breath that sounded far too much like a whimper. My eyes fluttered closed as he tilted his head, the tip of his nose brushing mine. His breath kissed my lips and I tasted it.
“They got what they deserved,” he finally said.
I didn’t ask again. His voice said enough about the past he had written in blood.
My hands found his chest, trembling as they spread flat. I felt his heart beating behind them. His other hand glided lower over the small of my back, his fingers curling, dragging me flush against him.
“And what doIdeserve, soldier?” I whispered.
His hand slid from my cheek into my hair, gripping hard at the root, tugging just enough to make my legs threaten to fold. He dragged his mouth down my jaw, deliciously filthy, until his tongue found the curve of my throat.
He licked me once, slow and hot, right where my pulse was losing rhythm. His lips parted and he kissed me there—open mouthed, possessive, like he was marking me.
My nails clawed at his shoulders. I couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop needing to be touched back.
He moved to my ear, his voice rough and hungry. “Everything.”
His head tilted back toward mine. I reached for the nape of his neck, fingers curling into the heat of his skin, dragging him down.
Champagne and lust had me swaying, eyes half lidded, starving for him. I wantedeverything. His mouth, his hands, his ruin.
The second our lips brushed, I rose on my tiptoes to meet him, my eyes fluttering shut. It wasn’t a kiss, but a threat of one. A ghost of something filthy waiting to happen.
My mouth had just barely touched his when the lights of the living room suddenly flicked on.
My body froze. My breath slipped out shaky and needy.
His hand didn’t leave me, not right away. But his mouth did.
And when I opened my eyes, he was already gone.
Only the heat of him remained along with the ghost of his mouth, still trembling on mine.
Chapter
Nineteen
“If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave.”
? Emily Brontë
Théo
The shower didn’t do a fucking thing.
Heat hammered my back until my skin stung, steam curling in the air. I stood there, unmoving, as the water poured down over my shoulders, letting the silence chew through my self-hatred. My chest tightened, my breaths coming in short, uneven pulls. I pressed my head to the tile to keep from swaying, my jaw locked so tightly it ached.
