Page 62 of A Taste like Sin
his skin, defacing him with hairline scratches and finger-shaped bruises.
His thumb finds the bundle of nerves above where we’re joined and rubs. Fire. Sparks. Pleasure
gradually replaces the discomfort and he silences my gasp with heated words of Spanish, his lips
fluttering over mine, coaxing them apart.
I let him in and he lunges, matching each thrust of his hips with one of his tongue. Pinching pain
quickly ebbs, giving way to a toe-curling sensation I can’t name. Something too raw. Too sharp. Too
burning. Toomuch.
My body grips him like a vise, my knees locking around his hips, guiding every move he makes. He
only goes as deep as I let him. As fast as I need him to. It’s a terrible, torturous courtesy, because I
don’t know what I want.
All I can do is move. And shudder. And whimper. And break.
Suddenly, he rips his mouth from mine and sinks his teeth along my jaw. “Mierda,” he snarls,
followed by a rush of grated nonsense. Promises. Threats. Dark things he wishes to do to me. Things
he swears I’lllethim do.
When he rears back for one last thrust, my hips arch to meet him, driving him so deep that I’m not sure
where he ends and I begin.
Everything inside me tightens and releases like a rubber band snapping. My back bows. My eyes
widen. Limp in the aftermath, I lie breathless as sanity returns in slow, fleeting snatches. I’m drenched
in sweat. He has me pinned between cotton and flesh. The storm still rages around us, but his arms
hold me tight, cocooning me from the rest of the world.
“Sweet…sweet girl.” He’s still panting. Startlingly hot fingers trace my cheek, demanding my
attention. “Don’t presume that this negates our agreement.”
He grips me even tighter. Captured. The same way someone might lock his doll away for safekeeping
until he decided to play with her again. A rumble of thunder partially obscures what he murmurs to me
next. Something that should haunt whatever nightmares I dare to have.
“Exquisite. Too exquisite, sweet girl. In fact, I think I shall keep you after all…”
My Egyptian cotton duvet is worth fifteen hundred dollars and it doesn’t compare to the comfort
of being held. Heat, sweat, and Damien combined is a sensation that can’t be packaged and
sold. What a shame. A pleasant ache lingers in my muscles as I stretch my naked limbs, but I should
feel guilt, I suppose. Disgust. Maybe those emotions would distract from the grim realization that has
