Page 72 of Beautiful Sinners

CHAPTER 25

My heart pummels my chest with excited beats of anticipation when Tristan lifts me in his arms and carries me down the dark hallway toward the bedrooms. Wicked determination glints in his whiskey browns, the need behind them making all my feminine parts tingle with enthusiasm.

Hendrix scoots around us, heading into the bedroom first. Laying my cheek to Tristan’s shoulder, I look back at Constantine, my dark fallen angel. He takes my hand when I reach out for him, his gentle smile soothing my anxious nerves.

This is really happening. Three men. One…me. How does that even work?

I should be frightened out of my ever-loving mind, but I’m not. I want this. I want Tristan’s promise to be thoroughly ruined by them in every carnal way imaginable.

Unfortunately, guilt begins to roll in like a storm front as soon as Tristan lowers me onto the bed. I spoke of truth and trust, and yet, I’m keeping things from them. I haven’t lied, but isn’t my silence almost the same thing? I should tell them everything Aleksander said, not just the censored version I gave them. I should tell Tristan I sent Alana to Ireland and tell Constantine what she said about his father. Damn Aleksander for getting inside my head and filling me full of doubts.

I sit up and fold my legs under me. “I need to tell you something.”

But my confession dies before it’s ever fully spoken when Hendrix materializes from the darkened corner of the room, a men’s belt held in his right hand. The biceps and brachialis muscles of his upper arm contract and tumefy when his fingers flex around the leather. My wide eyes flit from the belt to his face, andholy shit—the implication of Hendrix’s intense, penetrating blue stare has wetness instantly gathering between my legs.

“She’s not ready.”

My head swivels back to Tristan. “Not ready for what?”

Then it dawns on me. The stuff Tristan said Hendrix was into. His sexual proclivities and how he chooses women like Serena to ‘play’ with. Fucktoys, Tristan called them.

I want to be what Hendrix needs but I’m terrified that I’ll disappoint him. Hendrix likes to dominate. He’s a sadist who derives pleasure from giving pain. Loving him means loving every facet of him, especially his darker parts.

Determined, I take a guess about what he intends to do with the belt and kneel on the bed, holding my joined wrists out to Hendrix. His responding masculine groan lets me know I guessed correctly.

In my submission with my hands outstretched as if I’m offering them the beating heart from my chest, I’m giving everything to them. My love, my fears, my strength, my weakness, my dreams and nightmares. My scars. Everything that I am is theirs.

At that moment, I’m more exposed, more vulnerable than I’ve ever been with them before. Not because they can see the ugly trauma inflicted upon my naked body but because Tristan, Constantine, and Hendrix have the power to destroy me in a way my heart would never recover.

“Make me yours.”

“You’ve always been mine,” Hendrix asserts, coming closer but still out of reach.

He hands the belt to Tristan, and I’m disheartened that I won’t get to experience being tied up.

“I’m not afraid.”

I am, but I refuse to show it.

Hendrix puts a knee to the bed and leans in until our mouths are mere millimeters apart. “You’re fearless, firefly, but Tristan is right. We need to explore your boundaries. Slowly.” He bites my bottom lip and pulls. Standing back up, he stares down at me with lust and want and something akin to a dare. “Now be a good girl and finger-fuck yourself.”

I’m shocked speechless for a second time tonight. Doesn’t mean that I won’t do it.

The luxurious comforter cushions me when I lie down, and the energy charging the air shifts into a tangible, palpable thing, like an electric caress across my chilled skin. The cotton duvet feels like silk against my legs when I spread my thighs, exposing my most intimate area, and a small sound escapes me when the pad of my finger presses on the swollen, sensitive nub. My breaths are stolen from my chest as quickly as they’re exhaled when I rub small circles over my clit, the sensation too good.

There’s a hush of movement around me, of zippers being pulled and clothes being removed. Watching them undress while I touch myself heightens my desire. I’m overloaded with a visual cornucopia of hot-as-hell masculinity. Tristan’s lightly bronzed skin and V-shaped swimmer’s body of broad shoulders tapering to a lean, chiseled waist. Constantine’s intricately inked muscular form, exotic features, and the way his inky eyes can see straight into my soul. Hendrix’s deceptively angelic blond hair and blue eyes that are in contrast with the wickedly colorful tattoos that stand out against his paler skin. Each man is unique, yet their soul-deep bond of friendship makes them closer than brothers.

“You are the most beautiful fucking sight I’ve ever seen,” Constantine says in that raspy, broken voice that makes me ache for him.

I absorb every time they say I’m beautiful like parched earth at the first raindrops after a long drought. That one word is part of the thread that stitches the broken pieces of me together.

Spurred on by his praise, my panted breaths singe my throat when I slip a finger inside me and pump it vigorously, chasing the orgasm I can feel building quickly.So close.I don’t try to act sexy and put on a performance. I go after the pleasure my fingers are giving.

As I reach that glorious peak, my hand is ripped from my pussy.

“Wait, I was—Oh, fuck!” I scream when Hendrix slams his pierced, tattooed cock inside me, filling me completely just as my orgasm rips me apart.

I have no chance to prepare for the vicious way he takes me. His larger body engulfs mine, pressing me into the mattress with every punishing thrust of his cock. Constantine makes love to me like I’m precious. Hendrix fucks me like I’m unbreakable.

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