Page 62 of Sinful Desires
I glanced down. His sweatpants were soaked and heavy with sand. A midnight run in December?…?shirtless.
I squinted at him. “You do realize it’s suicidal to run half naked in this weather, right?”
He looked at me like I was the one acting insane.
“Are you some kind of masochist, or just allergic to normal behavior?”
Still nothing. Just that stare. Unbothered. A little wild around the edges.
He slung the towel over his shoulder and crossed his arms, which was a crime in itself. His chest still deliciously glistened with sweat, every muscle flexing in a way that felt downright unfair.
If I looked any longer, I’d need holy water.
“Planning a midnight swim?”
I swayed forward a little. “Why, wanna get wet with me, soldier?”
His eyes dropped to my hand. To the drop of sweat I was tracing down the center of his chest with the tip of one finger.
His breath flared. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “You’re drunk.”
There was no judgment in it. Just frustration barely leashed.
“Anda brat,” I added, smiling like it was a compliment. “What can I say? I don’t do well with?…?you know, command-ystuff.”
“Orders,” he corrected softly, then let go like I’d bitten him.
I rubbed my wrist, gaze crawling up his chest until it met his.
I’d never been the girl who melted over tall guys. But this wasn’t tall—this was towering. Built to block light and common sense. I had to lift my chin just to meet his stare, and every time I did, something low inside me pulled tight, like a wire straining to snap.
“Didyoufollow orders in the military?” I asked, voice syrupy.
“Always.”
I giggled, unsteady on my feet, swaying a little too close, until the space between us started to ache. My hand moved like it had a mind of its own, fingers tracing the ink just below his ear.
À la vie, à la mort.
The letters felt hot under my touch. Or maybe that was just him.
“Did they ever order you to kill someone?”
He stared at me like he was trying to figure out where to place the bullet.
I dragged my fingertip along the curve of the letters, watching goosebumps bloom across his chest. They rose once. Twice.
“More than once.”
My finger slipped from his collarbone to his throat, dragging along the warm skin where his pulse beat steady and deep. I watched it jump under my touch, fully aware of his eyes on me.
My finger shamelessly slid down his chest, then traced the curve of his arm until it reached his bicep. It twitched beneath my touch, a breath catching quietly in his throat.
I wrapped my hand around his arm, needy and curious. It didn’t even reach halfway. I bit my lip, eyes still locked on the muscle under my fingers, wondering what it would feel like around my neck.
Gosh.
I wanted to slap him. I wanted to beg him. I wanted him to hurt me just enough to feel real again.
