Page 34 of Hymns of the Broken
His fingers trail along my cheek, unbearably slow. With the lightest touch, my pulse reacts as if he just pinned me by the throat.
“Tell me what you want, Sawyer,” he murmurs, leaning in so close I can feel the tip of his nose against mine and the whisper of his breath brushing my jaw.
God, he’s beautiful. Not the beautiful that feels safe, but the kind that leaves blood on the altar when you’re done worshiping.
I exhale slowly, mouth twisting with another fight.
“I want you to let me go. You’re ridiculous.”
“Hmm. I’ve been called worse, Little Sin.”
I should shove him away. I should say no in a tone sharp enough to cut through his arrogance. I should look anywhere except at his mouth, because the sight of it is already a problem.
But I don’t.
He stays close, breathing me in like I’m something he’s been waiting for. His breath brushes my cheek again, and he’s looking at me as if he’s savoring the way I freeze when he’s near.
“I thought I told you not to lie to me.”
His fingers drift lower, ghosting over the base of my throat. It’s not a choke, not even a hold, but every nerve under my skin ignites. My eyes flutter, thoughts scatter, ripped apart by the idea of those fingers gripping tighter.
“You don’t really want me to let you go, do you? You keep pretending I’m not under your skin,” he says, tone rougher now. “But I’m the itch you can’t scratch. The ache you’re trying to outwork.”
He’s not wrong and that makes it worse.
Unholy thoughts are the only thing on my mind, and when I finally find my voice, it’s a whisper, and my last defence.
“You know I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes fixed on mine, “and I have a soul somewhere too. Doesn’t mean I use it.”
His hand wraps around the base of my throat. Soft and teasing. A warning dressed as a caress. He leans in closer—his lips now just a breath from my jaw, his presence crowding out the rest of the world.
“Let me ruin you, Wicked Thing.”
Ruin used to mean hurting me. With him it sounds like worshipping.
My stomach flips as if it’s caught between fear and something far more dangerous. My thighs squeeze together on their own as soon as the heat pools low.
His palm stays there on my throat. Just enough to tell me he owns this moment.
If he squeezed the hand on my throat, I’d be a goner. It would be game over.
And you’d let him.The thought is a spark and a siren.
“Still think I’m ridiculous?” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of my ear.
"Even more so.”
His hand begins moving. Sinfully tracing the curve of my side like he’s writing fire under my skin. My breath hitches when his fingers reach the dip of my navel. And then lower.
Say stop if you mean it.But I say nothing.
My body arches like it’s been waiting for this exact pressure, this exact moment.
He leansin, his nose brushing my neck like he’s testing the limits of how far I’ll let him go. Instinct betrays me—my head tilts for him. Voluntarily. His lips don’t touch me, but I feel the heat of them hovering, like a dare against my pulse.
“See?” he whispers. “Your body’s a worse liar than your mouth.”
