Page 87 of Sinful Desires
“You do that a lot.”
My palm molded to him like I was built for it.
He let out a low scoff, his gaze dragging down, slow and lazy, to where my hand sat on him. His eyes were half lidded, darker now. Heavy.
“I lie because the truth would fuck us both up.” I looked up at him, fingers still curled around the heat straining in his pants.
“What truth?”
My lips parted. Breath caught. “That you’re the only man who makes me feel this.”
His breath hitched. He masked it as a scoff, but it came out too rough, too close to a groan. “This, what?”
I rose to my toes, lips brushing his jaw. “Alive.”
And that was the worst part.
He’d stormed into my life a year ago, uninvited and unwelcome, and had still managed to make everything pulse again.
Before him, everything had felt numb. My career. My voice. Applause sounded distant. Champagne tasted flat.
I floated through rooms like a ghost wrapped in designer fabric, smiling at flashing lights I couldn’t feel anymore. Fame had given me everything except feeling.
But Théo? He didn’t cheer. He didn’t chase. He looked at me like he saw through every polished lie, and it lit something inside me I’d thought was dead.
Hunger. Anger. Heat.
A low, burning hum beneath my skin that reminded me I still had blood, still had teeth, still wanted.
A long beat passed.
His hand moved between my breasts, fingers dragging slowly over bare skin. Then one slid up and circled my nipple, teasing it until it hardened under his touch.
A moan slipped from my lips.
His hand moved to my throat, palm spreading over the heat there, his fingers slowly curling. “And you,” he said, voice low and rough against my ear, “are the only woman who’s ever made me feel this.” His thumb pressed beneath my jaw, and the pressure made my knees soften.
“This, what?” I whispered.
His lips brushed mine. “Envouté.”
I didn’t even get a chance to speak.
His hands grabbed behind my knees and lifted me straight off the floor. His mouth crashed into mine, hard and hungry.
I moaned into it, lips parting wider, tongue sliding against his, messy and wet. I clutched his face, dragging him closer, and scratched my nails down the side of his neck.
My tits were crushed against his vest. The fabric caught on my nipples, cold and heavy while I was burning everywhere else. He hadn’t taken off a single thing. Fully dressed. Still in control.
And I was naked. Spread open in his arms. It was disturbing how much I fucking loved it.
That was the moment I knew.
If he wanted me like this again, completely naked, legs wrapped around his waist, moaning into his mouth—I’d say yes. I’d let him ruin me. Every fucking time. Over and over, as long as he kept touching me.
His hand clamped on my ass as he carried me to the couch. His chest thudded against mine, heartbeat loud, breath ragged. He held me tightly, but his body was shaking.
He dropped down, dragging me with him, my legs straddling him before I could catch my breath.
