Page 83 of Sinful Desires
“Now. Say my fucking name,chérie.”
Her forehead dropped to mine. Her hips jerked. Her body locked up in my arms. “Fuck, Théo!”
She shattered, wet and shaking, grinding down on me through her orgasm. I held her there, chest heaving, watching her fall apart in my arms. My mouth brushed hers.
Three years ago, she drowned in my arms.Now she was drowning me.
Fuck.
I didn’t think dry humping could knock the air out of me, but then again nothing with Scarlett Harper ever played fair.
“Good job, pretty girl.”
Her lips found mine again, slower this time, and I groaned into her mouth, biting back the need clawing up my spine.
She held my face softly. Too soft. Her thumb grazed my cheek. She hummed, almost smiling. “You feel like an angel.”
My breath caught. That word twisted something sharp inside me.
“You look like one too.”
I stared at her, my brow furrowed, pulse pounding, something raw cracking under my ribs. I leaned in, voice low against her skin. “Te souviens-tu de moi, Scarlett?”
Her tongue flicked against my lips again, smug and lazy. “English, please.”
“Do you—” But I didn’t get the chance to finish. My phone buzzed like a bullet through my spine.
I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. But the real world clawed its way in, dragging me back from heaven.
The fog snapped.
“Fuck,” I muttered. I tore myself away, hands clenching like they wanted to go back.
Her heels hit the floor with a sharp clack, and the heat between us died like a flame smothered by ice.
I cursed under my breath and yanked the phone free just as she rushed to the door and let it slam behind her.
The only thing she’d left behind was her thong, still warm in my pocket.
Forever mine now.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
“I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.”
? S.E. Hinton
Scarlett
“Perfect, Scarlett!Madre mía, you look insane. A little more to the right?…?now let the towel slip off your shoulder, just a touch. Yes, that’s it!” Lucía Martínez shouted over the hum of the lights, the camera’s flashes searing into my eyes.
Her assistant, Gloría, angled the fan lower. Cold air licked up my body, making the towel cling tighter. My hair whipped around my face like it had a mind of its own.
Lucía was one of the most famous photographers of the last twenty years. She only shot two people a year for Harper Magazine’s front cover, and every celebrity from here to hell clawed their way through PR chains just to get picked.
Her concept wasraw beauty, an effortless queen just out of bed. Just a towel. Natural hair.
