Page 113 of Blindside Sinner

She doesn’t know how the mere sight of her teetering on the edge of an orgasm makes me harder than I’ve been in my whole fucking life.

To be fair, she’s a little preoccupied.

Colin is busy reading messages on his phone right now so he’s ignoring us and LaDuke and Dix are talking, also ignoring us, so I lean down again. “Are you thinking about me licking your pussy?”

She turns pale as a ghost. “Well, I am now.”

“Yeah,” I say as she clings to my thigh for dear life. “Me, too.”

By the time we get to the restaurant and are seated, she’s trembling and her eyes are at half-mast. I give her the occasional zap and she looks at me every single time. She orders a whiskey neat and downs it in one shot as soon as the waiter brings it to her.

And when I see that, I decide: no more waiting.

Maybe that’s what does it—the way she takes the torture I’m dishing out and keeps on ticking. Maybe it’s her toughness, her stubbornness, her fire.

Or maybe I’m just so fucking close to coming in my own pants that I’m as sick of the games as she is. You can only delay the inevitable for so long. At a certain point, things have to goboom.

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

I go first and wait for her in the hallway. This isn’t the kind of place where people are generally found fucking in a bathroom, so I pay the attendant a handful of cash to fuck off for a little while and tell anyone who wanders by that the bathrooms are temporarily out of order.

As soon as she rounds the corner, I grab her hand, drag her into the women’s room, and lock the door behind us.

“Beck, we can’t?—”

But I didn’t come here for “can’t” and “won’t” and “shouldn’t.”

I came to take what’s mine.

So I kiss that protest right off her open lips. Tongue in her mouth, fingers in her bra, my knee grinding between her legs.

She moans and rides my thigh until I can’t take it. I jerk her panties down and snatch the vibrator out while she’s pulling my cock free. And then I push into her, hold her against the wall, and slide myself home.

Holy fucking mother of God.

I see stars.

I see blackness.

I see colors that don’t exist.

Shoving my aching hard cock into Sloan’s wet pussy is the greatest feeling I’ve ever experienced. I know as soon as I’m inside of her that I won’t last long. How could I? This shit is a drug. It’s undeniable.

So, for as long as I can manage to stave off the fireworks, I’m going to enjoy it.

I’m pounding up into her while she’s clawing and crying out, my name on her lips like a mantra. It cost me a thousand bucks to get the attendant out of here—and two minutes inside of Sloan is worth every fucking penny.

She curls her fingers in my hair and jerks my mouth against hers, thrusts her tongue into my mouth and then sucks mine into hers. She clenches her legs around my hips and hangs on while her body jerks and bucks.

When I come, I thrust hard into her and stay there. She cries out. I kiss her to try to absorb the sound—this is reallynotone of those places—but she is loud anyway. She’s moaning and thrashing her body for a few seconds before the dam breaks.

It rocks through her like a tidal wave. Then she shudders and calms, although even once it’s passed, she’s still breathing like we just ran the Boston Marathon.

She’s not the only one.

I set her on her feet, and she pulls her skirt down and smiles up at me. “You’re still an asshole, you know,” she informs me with a saucy glare.

“So you keep telling me. But if being an asshole gets methis”—I gesture at the absolute mess I’ve made of her, her mussed hair,her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks. “—then I’m going to be an asshole for the rest of our lives.”

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