Page 10 of Unforgivable Sins

He leans down, putting his face next to mine as he whispers in my ear, his voice giving away no emotion, “I know what you’re doing.”

The scent of bourbon on his lips is intoxicating and I want to drink it down, right from the source. His hands release their tight grip and trail, softly, down my arms, sending goosebumps racing behind his touch. His fingertips find the edge of my dress and slip slightly underneath the hem, both hands mirroring each other on each side. He runs his fingertips across my thighs, tracing the line of the dress, until his fingertips are brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. He’s so close to my core I know he can feel the heat radiating between my legs. My breath catches at the sensation, and I can’t help the delicious shiver that rockets up my spine. I press into him harder and gasp at the hard length I feel pressing against my ass.

“And the only thing you’re going to succeed in,” he continues, voice hot against my cheek, and fingertips hotter as he runs them under the hem, back across my legs to my outer thigh, “is getting a man sent to hell for fucking touching you.” His voice remains calm, cold, collected, as if he’s not threatening to kill someone…fortouchingme.

As if I belong to him.

As if I’m his to protect.

As if I’m his to control.

His fingers stop moving on both sides of my thighs, as he grips the dress and yanks it down. “Go home,” he orders, harshly.

And before I can wrap my brain around the fact that hedidsee me, hewaswatching me, and his hands are now onMYbody… he’s gone again, just as quickly as he appeared.

He’s gone.

I spin around so fast I almost stumble again. How I manage to stay on my feet with legs that feel like limp noodles is beyond me. I desperately scan the crowd and eye the booth where he sat all night but he’s nowhere to be seen.

And I feel the absence of him way more than I should. Way more than is normal for any man I’ve ever dated much less a stranger. Why do I feel this way about him?

Why him?

Who the fuck is he and who the fuck does he think he is? Saving me from a piece of shit who clearly wanted to hurt me is one thing. Manhandling me, pulling down my dress, and ordering me to go home, like I’m a damn child, is something completely different. Especially when I was clearly having a good time. Ok, I wasn’t really into the guy, but it’s not like he could tell I wasn’t. Or anyone else for that matter.

He had no right.

And then to tease me like that! And then just walk away!

“Ugh,” my irritation finally pushes through my lust filled haze and I stomp back over to the bar, determined to stay until they close just to spite him.

“Go home,” I mock, under my breath. “I’d like to see him fucking make me.”

Instead, I sit at the bar for another two hours and let three different men buy me drinks and I flirt shamelessly with all of them. I don’t dare venture out onto the dance floor again and, even though I feel his simple touch seared into my skin, and even though I scan the crowd every five minutes looking for the tall, brooding, tyrant, even though I swear I feel his eyes on me… he never makes a reappearance.

Sinn

On My Mind by MNQN

I swear to God, she’s going to be the fucking death of me. Or whatever downfall is left for someone like me. At this point, it can’t get much worse than it already is. What more do I possibly have to lose?

My fucking sanity.

Although, I suppose even that’s been in question in recent years, too. Still, as I watch her walk into my bar for the third night in a row, I swear I feel whatever control I have left,s l i p p i n g. I desperately want to feel her soft skin again. I want to feel her body reacting to me. I want to hear her breath catch in her throat. I want to feel her pulse quickening. I want to smell her sweet, natural scent and taste her arousal on my tongue. I want to feel what it would be like to push my hard cock inside of her for the first time. Fuck, having her here, having to fucking look at her, having to feel my cock straining hard against my pants, is making the thoughts harder to ignore.

My eyes greedily roam over her body, over her curves, clearly displayed against another skin-tight black dress, and I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to trace each one with my fingertips and then again with my tongue. Exploring her body must be like driving theTongtian Avenuein China. Or, as it’s more accurately called,Avenue Toward Heaven, because navigating her curves would be the closest to Heaven I’ll ever be. It would be arduous and beautiful, thrilling, and fucking dangerous.

She’s dangerous.

But I’ll gladly take that danger, her version of Heaven, because I have no desire toactuallygo to Heaven. I’m not like my brother.

“Brother!” His boisterous voice booms through the bar as if just thinking about him has summoned him to my side.

I reluctantly drag my eyes away from her and meet my brother’s gaze as he walks up the ramp and approaches my booth. My brother is everything that I’m not. He’s all easy swagger, leather, trench coats, and gaudy jewelry. His long wind and sea tangled hair frames his ruggedly handsome face, a long mustache and beard hide half of it and yet, he emotes every single emotion so clearly. His face is always an open book to his thoughts and feelings. His smile can charm even the angriest and coldest of beasts, well, besides me. And where my eyes are blue from the coldest, deepest, and scariest parts of the ocean, his are the warm, turquoise of theCaribbean.

Even in our younger days I’ve never carried his ease and optimism. He’s always been the light and goodness to my dark. He’s always believed in me, how or why and to what end I’m not sure, but he’s also here, in this place, because of me. Because he always tried to save me and always got caught up in the rip tide of my actions. It never mattered how many times he felt the punishment of my deeds, how many times I tried to push him away to keep him safe, he was always there. Always by my side.

He’s still here.

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