Page 31 of Make Me A Sinner
"I can handle it," she smiles, chopping some fresh herbs.
Oh, she’s independent.Let's see if she can really handle it. I walk behind her, looking over her shoulder at what she's doing. "What are you making for me?"
"Meatballs with sauce and parmigiano," she says sheepishly, and I get the feeling I'm her lab rat today. Doesn't matter, though. I don't want to scare her into backing down.
"That sounds delicious," I say, brushing the tip of my nose along her neckline to inhale her perfume. And I can't help myself from sneaking my palms beneath the loose straps of the tank top, cupping her voluptuous breasts, gently squeezing them, massaging them until she almost cuts herself.
Shit."Careful there. You wouldn't want to chop off a finger." I inhale her scent again, deep enough for her to feel it, and judging by her hardened tips, she's one second from losing a finger if I go on. "As much as I’m a sucker for blood, let me." I grab the knife from her hand and start chopping the onions.
I hear her exhale in relief, putting a little space between us, still watching me out of the corner of her eye. She gathers the rest of the ingredients and adds them to the bowl along with the onions as soon as I'm done.
I need to back off, but there's this pounding in my chest that won't let me do it, especially as I look at the way her breasts bounce beneath the material as she stirs the chopped meat into the rest of the mix. If I don't get out of here right now, there's no edging. I'll just go straight to fucking her raw.
"I'll go clear up the table and set out some plates." I get out of there as fast as I can, hoping I can talk myself out of going back in too soon. Though I already know that’s wishful thinking.
I'll try to occupy my mind by responding to a few urgent emails, yet before I get a chance, my phone rings. The informantI met the other night at the club has news about who took the contract—the guy’s already skipped town—or so he thinks. "Yeah, he took the subway," I say flatly—code fordon’t bother, he’s already ten feet under.
Incompetent, he came up with news only after I’d already handled things. I need to find better snitches.
Still, this doesn't take my mind off what's going on in the kitchen.
I even try answering an email or two, but when I realize I've wiped down the tabletop ten times, I know it’s useless. I have to go back into the kitchen.
Serena’s still dancing when I walk in—her ass doing slow, sinful swirls as she takes out some meatballs from the pan and throws them into a bowl. And I swear, watching her body move to the music is the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
I can't stay away. She's like a fucking magnet and before I know it, I'm glued to her. "You're back," she chuckles, pouring some tomato juice into a pot and setting it on the stove. All of this with me pressed right up against her. "I smell like food," she warns, like that would ever stop me. “You smell good enough to eat,” I whisper, grazing my teeth on her shoulder, taking in her outfit again. "Out of all the clothes you could’ve picked, you had to choose this, didn't you?" I ask, already playing with the strap of her tank top.
"You see me naked when you change me... when you wash me. I don't see the problem," she says in a certain tone—one that tells me this was all premeditated.
"You fucking know what's wrong with this," I mutter, pulling her back against my chest as my hand reaches between her legs.
"What... What are you doing?" she quivers, her voice fading, same as her resistance.
"I touch you when I change your clothes, I touch you when I bathe you. So I don't see what's so different about this," Iwhisper, my fingers moving slowly.... agonizingly slow... and I don't stop, even when I see her struggling to focus, forgetting what she’s supposed to put in the pot for the sauce.
But her hips start moving again—this time, against my crotch. "You're interrupting my dancing," she whines, though not to really complain about it. Then there’s a swirl of her hips against my cock and her arms lift above her head, hands wrapping around the back of my neck. "Or maybe you want to dance with me," she says, as a new tune starts, and she uses me like her personal dance pole.
Next thing I know, I'm throwing everything off the counter, I don't even care where the chopping board or the knives land. All I care about is getting her ass on the butcher block countertop while I strip the top half of her oversized tank off. The fabric just curls around her waist in a wrinkly mess that covers absolutely nothing. Just how I like it.
Her tits are my weakness, her nipples, the fucking icing on the cake. I can't stop myself from marking them. The purple shades I left two days ago are already fading, and I need fresh ones. I need my presence on her body. One day, I plan to make it permanent.
She greets me with a moan, that tells me I can do whatever the fuck I want with her. She's so ready to have me, so damn eager, and I know she's been waiting for this moment all day.
If I had an ounce of self-control left, I would stop and leave her just like this to totally fuck with her mind. But I don't, the way she's grinding against my cock, like she wants to fuck me through my pants takes away any drop of logic I’ve got left.
Fucking hell.
Fuck, teasing and fuck foreplay, I’m done waiting.
I shove my sweats down and line my cock up to her entrance, moving slowly along her soaked core so I won't totally ruin her when I'll slam into her tight cunt.
She pants, looking at me like she's begging me to hurry up before she comes just from the friction.
I’m losing at my own game, and I don't even give a damn.
But just when I am ready to feel her stretched for me there's a damn knock at the door. My eyes close, taking a second to register what the hell just happened. Anyone else, and I’d let them rot out there. But I know who it is. The only bastard who’d probably come bursting through the door anyway if I don't open. Whiro.
Guess the trick's on her this time. "I have to get this. He won't leave," I mutter, pressing my forehead to the center of her chest in quiet defeat.
