Page 146 of The Sin Binder's Vow

His mouth hovers just above my skin, lips parted, exhale deliberate. His hands roam upward, slowly—over my stomach, ribs, the underside of my breasts—until he’s cupping them with a reverence that makes my knees threaten to buckle. And still, nowords. Just the rhythmic, controlled slide of his thumbs over my nipples, teasing them into tight, aching peaks.

I shift back against him, needing more, and that’s when I feel it—his cock, hard and heavy, pressed between us now, the friction barely dulled by the water. A low sound rumbles in his throat, not quite a growl, but something feral. It vibrates down my spine.

He finally moves his mouth—kissing the spot just beneath my jaw, then lower, trailing down the curve of my neck with slow, wet drags of his tongue. One hand slips lower, between my thighs, and the way he parts me with just two fingers makes me gasp, the water suddenly irrelevant.

His fingers move with infuriating precision—circling, dipping, retreating—never giving me exactly what I want, always toeing that line. And when I arch back, needing more, grinding shamelessly against his hand, he finally speaks—low, gravel-dark.

“Greedy.”

It’s the first word he’s said since stepping into the room, and it hits harder than any moan.

I reach behind me, palm skimming the lines of his thigh, higher, fingers curling around the thickness of him. The hiss he lets out against my shoulder is broken glass wrapped in velvet. He thrusts into my hand once, sharp and controlled, before he grabs my wrist again—firm this time, pushing it away.

“Not like that,” he mutters, turning me.

His hands are on my hips now, guiding me—not gently, not cruelly, just with a certainty that leaves no room for resistance. My back hits the cold tile, and I shudder, not from the temperature, but from the contrast. Because he’s still warm. Still pressed against me. His tattoos gleam in the low light, water tracing the lines like they mean something I’ll never be allowed to understand.

Ambrose drops to his knees.

Just like that.

No ceremony. No warning.

He parts my thighs with both hands and stares up at me like he’s about to unravel something sacred. And when he leans in, tongue sliding against me with slow, devastating focus—I forget how to breathe.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t perform.

He devours.

He licks like he’s memorizing, sucks like it’s strategy, and when I fist my hands into his hair, he groans into me like the sound is involuntary—like this is the only thing he’s ever craved that might actually ruin him.

I try to hold the wall. But when he pulls my clit between his lips and flicks his tongue just right—sharp, fast, perfect—my legs give out, and he catches me. One arm braced around my thighs, the other holding my ass, lifting me just enough to keep me where he wants me.

He keeps going. Keeps licking. Until I’m trembling against the tile, thighs clenched around his head, eyes wild and unfocused.

And when I come—it’s not quiet.

It rips through me like lightning. My hips buck. My fingers clutch at his shoulders. And Ambrose just holds me there, tongue still working me through every aftershock, like he’s feeding on it.

His mouth glistens with me, eyes locked to mine now, and they’re green—not just green, but fevered, fractured, that deep, gleaming jade that only surfaces when something inside him breaks through the surface. Not lust. Not hunger.

Possession.

He doesn’t give me time to recover.

He stands in one smooth motion, hands still hooked beneath my thighs, and in the same breath he lifts me. My back slams against the wall, water pouring over us, streaming down our bodies like we’ve stepped into some ancient rite and chosen to drown in it.

I gasp, arms flung around his shoulders, and he’s there—all of him, pressed against me, the head of his cock sliding into me like he’s already memorized the way I fall apart.

“Ambrose—” It slips out without thought, more breath than sound.

His mouth crashes into mine before I can finish. It's not a kiss, not really—it’s claiming, lips parted, teeth grazing, tongue sweeping deep like he needs to taste every part of my denial, every second I didn’t think he’d take me up on that offer.

Then—he thrusts.

Hard.

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