Page 173 of The Sin Binder's Chains

“You’re not off the hook yet,” she whispers.

“Good,” I breathe. “I like it here.”

She quirks her eyelid at me, just one, just enough. And it’s unfair. It’s criminal. That tiny lift, that slow drag of lashes like she knows what she’s doing to me. Because she does.

Then, without ceremony, without permission, without a single fucking ounce of mercy, she pulls off her shirt.

Just peels it over her head, arms lifting, back arching, and I forget what language is. She’s not even looking at me when she does it. Just folds it and tosses it onto a boulder like her bra isn’t sculpted by warlocks with a vendetta against my sanity. Black lace. Barely-there straps. And her tits,

Gods.

I forgot what her tits looked like. I’ve seen them. Touched them. Kissed them. Worshipped them like they were carved by something divine and cruel. But somehow I forgot. Somehow, my brain wiped the memory to protect me, and now it’s flooding back in 4K detail and I am not okay.

I stare. And stare. And stare some more.

I don’t mean to. But she’s standing there like a vision conjured out of my most inappropriate dreams, skin flushed, eyes sharp, arms stretching up as she adjusts her hair, making her chest lift and,

I make a noise. It’s not human. Definitely not Sin-worthy. Possibly a whimper. My knees buckle. I drop to the ground like the unworthy worshipper I am.

“Okay,” I say aloud, voice cracking. “Okay. Alright. Yep. Good.”

“You alright, Silas?” she asks, voice all innocence and subtle ruin.

I try to answer. My mouth opens. Nothing happens.

She takes a step toward me.

Her boobs bounce.

My soul leaves my body.

“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just, uh. Forgot. About... physics. Gravity. And, your chestal area.”

She pauses, amused. “Chestal?”

“That’s a word,” I lie.

“Mhm.”

Another step closer. I start to sweat. She crouches in front of me, arms resting on her knees, which means she’s even closer. Her face inches from mine. Her tits right there. I could reach out and, I dig my fingers into the dirt instead.

“I’m gonna be cool,” I whisper. “I’m gonna be so cool.”

She leans forward just enough that I catch the edge of her breath on my cheek.

“You sure?” she murmurs. “Because you look like you’re malfunctioning.”

“I’m thriving,” I croak.

She reaches out, runs one finger down my jaw. I almost combust.

“You’re red,” she says. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” I say instantly. “Yes. Probably. My body’s betrayed me.”

She laughs. It’s soft. Real. Warm in a way that guts me.

“I should put the shirt back on,” she teases.

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