Page 19 of The Bane of a Sinner
Then it hit me—a shuddering, earth-shattering release. Not a gentle wave, but a seismic convulsion that ripped through my core. My muscles clenched, spasmed, each fiber screaming in exquisite agony and pleasure. With my eyes squeezed shut, the darkness was a blessed refuge from the overwhelming intensity. My whimpers morphed into guttural moans; primal cries ripped from the depths of my being. His fingers, slick and relentless, invaded the aching cavern of my pussy, the invasion a symphony of pain and pleasure so exquisite it stole my breath. I was drowning, lost in the storm of sensation, every nerve ending singing a hymn of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The world narrowed, focused solely on the searing, pulsing pressure, the relentless rhythm, the exquisite torture that was pushing me over the edge, again and again and again... until I finally shattered.
My eyelids fluttered open, a sluggish rebellion against the darkness. The world swam into focus, a blurry landscape tilting precariously as my knees threatened to give way. His arms, a vise of steel and warmth, braced me. A dazed smile touched my lips as his mouth found the juncture of my thighs, his fingers a frantic calligraphy against my slick skin, each touch a jolt of pure, exquisite agony. Then, the pressure released, and I was left with a sudden, desperate emptiness.
He trailed kisses upward, blazing a scorching path across my body. My leg, heavy as lead, crumpled from his shoulder, therough texture of his beard a sharp contrast against my sensitive skin. His satisfaction was palpable—a predator’s knowing smirk reflected in the gleam of his eyes. This time, he couldn’t resist the swell of my breasts, a brutal caress, his lips a hungry fire against my aching flesh.
My body screamed in protest—a furnace of aching muscles and burning lungs, a testament to the ferocious intensity of the encounter. The scalding water of the shower was a balm, offering a slow, agonizing rebirth under his unwavering gaze. His touch—still possessive, still fierce, rekindled the embers within.
Pressing my face into the warm, solid expanse of his chest, my voice, barely a whisper, trembled against his skin. “God help me, August,” I choked out, the confession a raw, desperate plea, “because I love you... too much.”
Chapter Ten
Diana
I groaned and rolled over in bed to see August sleeping peacefully. He was so handsome, so beautiful, and he had the gentlest heart. Everything about him screamed perfection, and he was exactly what I wanted. But like most things in my life, sometimes I didn’t always get what I wanted.
August and I had only been seeing each other for a few short months, and in that time, he’d become my world. My happiness. And while I gave him everything I could, I still held a small part of myself back. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because once he learned who I truly was, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me. There were rules, even in the Biker Federation, that couldn’t be broken, and the longer I ignored the truth, the harder it would be to walk away. Even I knew nothing lasted forever, no matter how much I wanted it to. Yet, I wanted so much to ignore the world, forget about rules, the clubs, the truth, and never leave this room.
As the morning sunlight crept along the edge of the curtains, painting golden stripes over the tangled sheets, a quiet dread pressed against my ribs. I watched August’s chest rise and fall with each tranquil breath, envying his peace. My secrets pulsed beneath my skin, a rhythm only I could hear—a distant thundercloud on this otherwise perfect dawn.
Was it wrong to want him? To crave the warmth of his arms and the promise of his laughter? I tried to memorize the shape of his sleeping silhouette, as if doing so could preserve this fragile happiness against the weight of truths I dared not speak.The space between us felt impossibly close and yet filled with everything I hadn’t told him.
I wondered, not for the first time, how long love could survive in the shadows of things unspoken. In the hush of our shared mornings, hope and fear danced quietly, waiting for the day when I’d have to choose which one I’d let win.
Slowly sitting up in bed, I combed my fingers through my hair when I heard him whisper, “You’re thinking too hard. I can hear you.” I looked over at him to find him staring at me when he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Never play poker, Diana. Your face gives everything away,” he groaned, stretching his arms in the air before placing them behind his head. “Just tell me.”
I hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t betray me. “I guess I’m just... thinking about how good this is,” I offered, my voice softer than I intended. “How easy it is to get used to something good.”
August smiled, crooked and radiant. “Then don’t fight it,” he said simply, his tone so sure it almost made me believe. I wanted to reach for him, to let that certainty anchor me, but my hands remained clasped in my lap.
“It’s not that simple,” I whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “Life doesn’t always let you keep what you want.”
He sat up and the covers fell away, exposing the tattoos that mapped his skin—the stories he wore in ink, open and honest, unlike mine. “You know,” he said, drawing me back to him, “I don’t care what anyone else wants. You’re mine. From the first moment I saw you, I knew you belonged to me.”
For a moment, the world outside faded, and the only truth was the warmth between us. I let myself drift closer, pressing my forehead against his, closing my eyes to the chaos that waited beyond our door. If I could hold on to this—this now—even forjust one heartbeat longer, I’d be brave enough to face whatever came next.
“I love you,” I replied, finally letting myself breathe.
August pulled me into his arms, and the morning settled around us in a hush, as if promising that sometimes, a single moment of happiness could last a lifetime.
A few hours later, we were lounging on the couch watching a documentary on the television when August asked, “Babe?”
“Hmmm.”
“Is this a tattoo of Asclepius, the God of Medicine?”
Not realizing what he was asking, I nodded. “It is. My family is big on mythology.”
August’s fingers traced the lines of the tattoo with gentle reverence, as if he could read the myth stitched beneath my skin. “Why him and not Diana, the goddess of the hunt?” he asked softly, his thumb pausing over the curve of the snake.
I smiled, a little shy, a little proud. “It’s for my favorite uncle. When I was little, he would tell me I could do anything, be anything I wanted to be. That my strength came from within and to never be afraid to go after what I wanted.”
August leaned in, brushing his lips against my shoulder, warm and grounding. “He was right.”
I let the words settle, quiet and true. The documentary murmured on in the background, all static and history, but I was caught up in the present—his touch, his voice, the subtle certainty that came with being seen.
