Page 61 of Pride
He wasn’t a man. He was a master. A god. Parker-fucking-Lazarus.
Through the haze of her desire, she managed to hold him against her sensitive flesh, to maintain some sort of agency. For someone who never gave an inch, Parker gave everything she asked, touched her in every way she needed. When she made a sound of pleasure, he increased his intensity. When she grunted with annoyance, he changed his methods. With his fingers, his lips, his tongue, he was there.
His wild scent took her to a feverish place full of ecstasy. She was his world until she felt herself tightening, until he rumbled in approval and worked her harder, until her orgasm crashed into her like a freight train, obliterating all sense.
In the languid aftermath, he kissed up her body, beard scratching over her stomach, her neck, until he nuzzled around her ear.
“Next time,” he promised. “I’ll have you in our bed.”
A flash of when she was last there, of the ropes and bolts she’d seen above the bed, of the sensual artwork on the walls.
“Inyourbed,” she breathed, correcting him.
“In knots.” He kissed. “Beautiful, perfect knots.”
She imagined him working over her body, attentive and tender, equal parts passion as surrender. A low, drawn-out moan of anticipation escaped her lips.
“Now?” she gasped, already feeling her body heat.
“No,” he clipped, surprising her. Reality jerked her heart. Still sprawled in tattered lingerie, she blinked uncontrollably at the ceiling.
“Why not?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
“Because, my sweet little assassin,” he said, grinning as he slid his palms up her thighs. “What happens in that room is about trust.”
“And you don’t trust me.”
“No—it is you who doesn’t trust me.”
He supported her as she lifted into a sitting position. The sensation of one hand, cool as marble, and the other rasping from callouses, distracted her. She’d forgotten about her back.
Too late.
Parker’s thumb paused over a ridge on her skin and then stroked, testing curiously. He glanced over her shoulder and couldn’t hide his disapproval. “What the fuck happened?”
Panic engulfed her. She shoved him away, hard.
“None of your business.” She scrambled to find the discarded shirt and put it on, covering the mess on her back—her penance. “I should go.”
He took her hand. “You’re staying here.”
She twisted out of his grip. “Don’t—”
“Alice.”
“Parker.”
They squared off. She refused to back down. It was stupid of her to think she could hide it from him. He was always going to find out. She’d just not prepared herself. She’d only wanted the adoration in his eyes to last a little longer, to pretend he truly worshipped her.
“Alice,” he said. “That wasn’t from the car accident.”
She blinked. He knew about the accident? “Mary told you about that too?”
Clever eyes assessed her. “Why wouldMarytell me about it? I ordered the background check myself.”
So he didn’t know about the connection to Flint? It didn’t matter. None of it did. He’d been right. The scars on her back weren’t from the accident. They’d come after, at the Sisterhood. But she wasn’t alone in them. Every Sinner had them. They were from the whip that purged them of their shame, the one that absolved them of sin, that gave them the thinnest chance of getting into Heaven.
He took a step closer, expression already forming into defensive mode. “Tell me.”
