Page 61 of A Taste like Sin
irritation for not having complete control.
He is a toxin more potent than my dying oleander.
His fingers, dangerously soft, smooth over my hips, positioning me against him. The width of his knee
starts to nudge my thighs apart and shock pierces through the fog in my brain.
“Easy, sweet girl.” Before I can even tense, his mouth teases a moist trail from my jaw to my ear,
nipping all the way. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs against my earlobe.
His body advances where his mind shows restraint, however. Grasping hands drift between my legs,
stroking a searing path along my inner thigh. When he slides his thumb along my core, air escapes my
lungs in pitiful gasps. I writhe, drawing my knees together, easing them apart. I’m exposed to him like
this, with no blindfold or distance to hide behind.
I have a first-row seat to how his nostrils twitch. My parted lips capture the hiss escaping his
clenched teeth as his fingers find me slick and ready. The next kiss holds no mercy. No sanity. He
gives. Takes. Bites.
“Mine,” he growls, cupping my waist, urging me against him. “I knew you’d feel…Mine.”
With my eyes closed, I find his ear again, brushing my lips against the lobe. Words escape between
pants. “Please—Please—”
He’s gone. I blink, finding him on his knees, wrestling with the front of his trousers, tugging them off
completely. My eyes go directly to the part of him I’ve only felt until now.
My lips part in awe. He’s beautiful. He’s terrible. A thickened ridge of flesh jutting to attention.
Pulsing. For me. I reach out, curling my fingers around the swollen tip—but nothing could prepare me
for how he feels: silk over steel.
“Lie back.” With harsh, unsteady motions, he fishes a square silver package from his pocket.
“Something told me to always be prepared when it comes to you,” he says as if in answer to my
questioning look. Upon bringing the wrapper to his teeth, he tears it open and slides the sheath along
his length. Then he cups my ass in both hands and drags me to him.
My nails pierce the flesh of his shoulders and he sinks into me with the fervor of someone ripping
open their collector toy, forsaking its value.
I cry out, flinching at the unexpected burning pressure as I’m spread open around him, forced to
accept every inch. All of Damien Villa.
He’s in my head, shutting out the world, and the storm, and memories, and everything but this. I’m in
