Page 105 of Sinful Lies

Every line, every scale, every inch stopping just above those dimples on her lower back—dimples I wanted to sink my teeth into.

Her ass?Fuck me. I closed my eyes, gripping the edge of the table as I tried to shove the thought down, but it was already too late.

Six years.

I’d been battling this fucking obsession for six goddamn years.

And until now, I’d kept it under control.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t give in to the pull of Jade Whitenhouse, knowing she was the one who could break me, make me lose every ounce of control I had left.

But for some reason, my mind had stopped working, and my heart was too tired of waiting, too tired of denying what it was feeling.

Jade Whitenhouse wasn’t just under my skin; she was in my blood.

And it was fucking poison.

Exactly why I’d never given in—because I knew the second I did, I’d never let go. I’d force her into submission, make her survive on me, depend on me, until she couldn’t help but feel the same.

For two days, she’d been out cold in my bed, her hands clinging to the covers like they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her skin had been flushed with fever, damp with sweat. I’d cleaned her off every hour—hadn’t been able to help myself.

She’d twisted and turned, tangling herself in the sheets, her face buried in my pillow.

The first night, after the doctor had checked my leg for infection—the bullet wound throbbing like a reminder of all the ways I’d fucked up—I’d tried to keep my distance.

I’d given her the bed, and settled in the guest room.

But past midnight, I’d heard it—her screams, raw and jagged.

I had been in the room before I’d even had time to stop myself.

She was curled into a ball, shaking so hard it made my chest ache, her breath coming in broken gasps.

Her voice was wrecked as she whimpered one thing: “Please don’t kill me too, Angelo.”

I didn’t have time to question her.

She broke down completely, sobbing like her world had shattered.

Without thinking, I climbed into the bed and pulled her against me, locking her in my arms to stop the shaking, to stop whatever the hell was hurting her.

She clung to me. Like it wasn’t a choice—like she needed to. Her head was buried into my chest, tears soaking through my shirt as her breath hitched and finally,finallystarted to even out.

I stayed there the whole night, listening to her breathing steady while my own head spun. By morning, I’d already made the call—Grace could handle things at the office.

I wasn’t going anywhere. I needed to stay beside her.

So, I stayed.

And I fucking shouldn’t have.

The second night, she found her way to me again. Not with words or screams, but with the way she shifted closer, her face pressed into my neck, her leg thrown over mine like she couldn’t sleep without feeling my body against hers.

And by the third night?

She didn’t have to reach for me—I was already there, lying awake, feeling her breathe against my chest, and hating every part of me that didn’t push her away.

Because it had felt… too fucking good.

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