Page 91 of Beautiful Sinners

I did. Any chance I could get, I would jump onto his back and have him cart me around.

Sweeping a hand down from my head to my stomach like a game show hostess, I inform him, “I’m not a little kid anymore and about a hundred pounds heavier.”

More like a hundred and twenty, if I’m being honest, and all of it went to my boobs and ass.

With an impatient eye roll, he replies, “You’re a feather. Now get the fuck on.”

Once I climb on, he circles his arms underneath me, locking his hands together at his wrists. I keep my grip loose around his neck—don’t want to choke him—and enjoy the ride as he carries me to the house.

“Hold tight,” he says, stopping at the patio steps.

I’m tilted almost upside down when he bends over and picks up a rock half buried in the mulch of one of the plant beds.

“Spare,” he says, showing me the detritus-covered silver key he retrieves. “You don’t want to know how many times Hendrix forgets his.”

“You can install a biometrics panel—Ow!” I shriek when he pinches an ass cheek.

“Not funny. We were stuck in that godforsaken place for two hours before Keane finally showed up.”

“I really am sorry.” I stifle my giggle when he pinches me again.

Unlocking the back door, he says, “Memorize this.”

Propping my chin to his shoulder, I pay attention to the sequence of numbers he enters to turn off the alarm.

“You hungry?” I ask because I’m starving. The air still carries the buttery smell of the croissants Hendrix had made.

“Yes.” But he walks us right out of the kitchen.

I look up at the stained-glass windows perched above the front door. Their patterns are haphazard and don’t create a coherent picture. More like a collage of colored glass.

“I can make us something,” I offer, as he climbs up the stairs. “Tristan,” I say when he doesn’t answer me.

Going into his room, he lets go, and I slide off his back until my feet hit the floor.

“Will you please say something?”

Shutting the door, he turns unexpectedly, and the air gets knocked out of me when he shoves me against the pressed wood.

“Don’t ever leave us again.”

The man in front of me looking like danger and filthy promises is the Tristan from the thunderstorm.

“I won’t—”

I lose my breath once again when his mouth goes deep over mine, shutting me up. Hands possessively bracket my face, angling my head to control the kiss. When I reach for him, he pins my arms above my head.

“I don’t want your fucking apologies. Now keep your hands up and don’t move,” he commands, tugging at the collar of my shirt. The material falls away with one hard yank, and my nipples instantly bead at the rush of cool air.

His gaze heats with a predatory hunger as it roams over my exposed skin. “You’re mine, Aoife.”

His roughened fingertips brand a trail along my collarbone, and I tremble with excitement. If this is how he wants to punish me, I’m all for it.

My breathing grows labored as those fingers quickly caress their way between my breasts, over my stomach, and under the hem of my jeans. With a flick of his fingers, the button comes undone, as does the zipper. He pushes the denim down to just above my knees and cups my pussy, sliding a thick finger through my folds to find me already wet and needy. Bringing his finger up to my lips, he paints them with my essence, then kisses me.

My arms are beginning to numb but I don’t dare move as I watch him pull the zipper of his jeans and take out his cock. The head glistens with pearls of precum, and I lick my lips, only to taste myself when I’d rather be tasting him.

Tristan’s hungry eyes never leave mine as he moves closer until our bodies are flush.

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