Page 123 of Blindside Sinner

I want him. I always want him, but I especially do right now, because here is the one place in the world where I feel safest. I don’t know how to say thank you properly with my words, so I do it with my lips instead.

This next kiss is deeper and more profound, although I refuse to give it a name. Not now. Not when my mind is so full of him that only one word is springing to mind. A word that’s extremely off-limits for two confused souls like us.

But Beck isn’t a man who simply lets a woman kiss him. He devours and controls and rolls me to my back, blankets my body with his and strokes my skin, caresses my face, tweaks my nipple while he brands me with his mouth.

He moans when I cup his erection and it’s probably the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. And then he slides on top of me, inside me, and my hips arch up to meet him while the kiss goes on and on, each swipe of his tongue against mine electric and more potent than the last.

“Beck…” His name isn’t anything more than a whimper.

He slows and looks down at me, eyes clear, a half-smile on his parted lips. When I close my eyes because the pleasure is more than I can take, he grabs my jaw in one rough hand.

“No, baby, look at me. I want to watch you.”

That’s all it takes to push me over. I fight it for as long as I can, but that feral note of possessiveness in his voice is too much to resist. The choice isn’t mine: I’m just spiraling, crying out, clinging to him while he pushes deeper inside me and makes me come so hard I see the darkest black that exists.

He throws his head back and groans from low in his chest. His body goes rigid for a few seconds before his wave crests, too. He unleashes himself in me and I take all of it because I’ll always take anything he’s willing to give me. Every drop of his cum and his love alike.

And then he relaxes and smiles. Still sheathed inside me, he says, “You’re so fucking incredible, Sloan.”

“I’m yours, baby.”

He grins and kisses the tip of my nose. “I like that. I like when you call me ‘baby.’”

He gives me one more quick kiss, then rolls away to stand at the edge of the bed. When I said there’s nothing better in the morning than Beck’s smile, I was wrong.

There’s nothing better in the morning than a smiling and very naked Beck.

He pads to the bathroom. The shower kicks on. I could join him, but then neither of us is going to get very clean and I’m still tired. So I go back to sleep.

I don’t bother dreaming. Why would I?

Reality is so much better.

61

SLOAN

By the time I wake up, Beck has gone to his morning skate and I’m alone in his room. Alone enough that I’m thinking about last night. What if I’d been home?

Which also begs the question—why me?I’m not rich. Not famous. Not ransomable. I have to wonder what’s the point.

When I can’t come up with an answer, I use his shower and change into a pair of his sweats and a t-shirt from his closet. I look like a little kid playing dress-up because the clothes could fit at least three of me inside. But my clothes are in the apartment, soaked with an acid bath of bleach and the invisible fingerprints of a monster I can’t see or find or fight back against.

The house is all quiet, but when I look out the window, I can see activity. A bolt of fear shoots through me. I don’t know those people.

Although, come to think of it, if this stalker is someone I’m acquainted with, maybe I should be more worried about who I know rather than those I don’t.

In any case, I’m not going outside until whoever they are is gone.

Downstairs, I find a note on the kitchen counter.Mi casa es su casa. Make yourself at home. Your stuff is in the room next to mine upstairs.

I’m surprised he’s giving me my own space, but I’m glad. As much as I like sleeping with Beck, when I’m in his room, not a lot of sleeping gets done. I don’t mind it, but sometimes, a girl just needs her beauty rest.

I go back upstairs to poke around. The room next to the master is roughly the same size as his, just without the monstrous closet attached. The bathroom has a clawfoot tub and walk-in shower, and on the bed, there is a basket of blankets—the soft, cozy kind I’d told him about—along with a pair of jeans in my size, a gift card to a boutique downtown, and a couple t-shirts with another note.

Just to get you through until you can go shopping. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. —B.

I always thought “swoon” was a silly word. I picture Victorian era damsels in corsets so tight they can’t breathe, fainting while fanning themselves at the sight of some pimply-faced duke.

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