Page 91 of Sinners Atone
She’s so quick to invade my space, I don’t expect it. There’s no time to sidestep or bark at her either, so I just stand there, frozen, as she closes her eyes and places her hand on my chest.
Now I’m not breathing at all. Every muscle in my stomach tenses. It’ll take only one, two,threeseconds until the heat of her palm soaks through my T-Shirt.
I knew it’d get under my skin too; she already lives there. It poisons my nervous system and works its way south, stirring up shit it shouldn’t.
I glare at her long lashes resting on her cheeks, self-loathing chasing the spark, like thunder after lightning. And yet, I still don’t fucking move—can’t. She’s too still, too perfect.
Her touch doesn’t belong to a man like me.
I’ll be damned if it belongs to another man either.
“Huh.” She frowns, opens her eyes, and steps back. “That’s strange.”
My heart beats even faster. “What?” I snap.
“You don’t have a heart at all.”
She flashes me a cavity-inducing smile and flounces toward the tender.
I let out a bitter laugh, a tremble in my hand as I drag it over my jaw.
This will be the longest boat ride in history.
Itug the zipper down just enough to see the panic in his eyes. “Move a muscle or say a word, and I’ll drag this out for another week,” I growl. “Got it?”
I zip the bag back up on his frantic nod and kick the body bag down the tender until its hidden deep beneath the back bench. He’s one of Dante’s more vocal lackeys, and two layers of duct tape doesn’t muffle his cries well enough. I’d tack on a few more strips, but there’s no time. I told Her to give me a couple minutes to start the tender, but clearly, she can’t count, because after thirty seconds, she’s on the swim platform, gazing down at me. That goofy smile hasn’t left her lips, and it has me even more on edge than the ghost of her hand on my chest. Something about her… is different. She’s brighter, sunnier. If that’s even possible. Her eyes follow me around like she knows something I don’t. I don’t know what that look is, but I know it doesn’t match the shakyyou’re scaring methat rushed out of her mouth the night I strung her up in my garage.
Great. Now I’m thinking about her body again.
Blood rushes to my dick, and I turn my back to her, because even with mirrored sunglasses on, I don’t want to risk looking at her legs in that skirt again.
“Get in,” I grit, stabbing the key in the ignition.
“Ah-hem.”
I turn my head and find her fingers wiggling in front of my face, nail polish sparkling in the sun.
I lift my gaze. “What?”
“It’s very ungentlemanly not to help a lady onboard, you know?”
For fuck’s sake.
I flex my hand, then grab her by the elbow like I’m helping an old lady cross the road. Resisting the urge to tug her onboard and then throw her over it, I let her go the second she finds her footing.
“Sit.”
But she’s not listening. Instead, she tugs out her cell and flashes me her palm. “Uh-huh. Give me a sec.”
She zones in on her cell screen, fingers flying, sparkly pink ‘W’ phone charm swinging. My eyes narrow into slits on her smirk and glassy eyes, and my disbelief hardens into something hotter.
Who thefuckis she texting?
Before I can act on the impulse to snatch her cell from her hand, she locks it, drops it into her purse, and glances up at me.
“Sorry!” She huffs out an exaggerated breath. “Okay, I’m ready when you are.”
It takes every ounce of self-restraint to keep my mouth shut and turn around. Doesn’t fucking help when she joins me at the helm, like the little space invader she is.
