Page 38 of The Bane of a Sinner
A tremor, raw and visceral, shot through me. Reaching up, my fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, the rough stubble a stark contrast to the silken heat of his skin. “I thought... I thought I’d lost you forever,” I breathed, the words choked with a terror I hadn’t known I possessed.
His eyes, obsidian pools reflecting a storm of possessive desire, devoured me. He pulled me against him, his hands branding themselves onto my skin, leaving fiery imprints. “Never,” he growled, the word a savage promise. “You are mine. Utterly, irrevocably mine.”
And in that instant, a fragile hope bloomed into a certainty that scorched away doubt. My nakedness was a vulnerability, a confession laid bare.
I guided him to the bed, the plush cotton cool against my skin, a contrast to the inferno igniting within me. He started to shed his clothes, but I stopped him, a playful cruelty in my eyes. His shoes, his socks—each discarded item was a prelude, a deliberate delay. I wanted him to feel the exquisite torture of anticipation.
Crawling onto the bed, I straddled him, the heat of his body a searing brand against my own. Each button of his shirt was a victory, a conquest marked by a kiss—a fiery brand on his lips, the tender pulse of his neck, the hidden secrets of his earlobe, the burgeoning heat of newly exposed skin. With each kiss, his breath hitched, a rhythm mirroring the throbbing, insistent pulse of his erection straining against his trousers. I ground against him, the friction a raw, electric current, the slick heat of my arousal a deliberate provocation. The shiver that wracked my body was a symphony of pleasure and desperate need, an echo of the storm raging within him.
The snapping of his shirt buttons was a prelude to the storm. His skin, warm and slick with sweat, felt like heated silk beneath my hands as I hauled him up, the kiss a brutal, desperate claim. His shirt followed, a discarded offering to the god of our desire. The damp stain blooming on his trousers—the dark, rich scent of his arousal—was a promise. He’d need a new suit tomorrow; this one was ruined, saturated with the evidence of our transgression.
Each unbuckling, each unhooking, was an agonizingly slow torment. The zipper, inch by agonizing inch, was a prelude to the release. I savored his anticipation, the barely contained tremor in his breath. My own need pulsed, a frantic rhythm against his. His rising excitement was a physical thing, a heat radiating between us, and my own response mirrored it, desperate and restless.
The fall of his trousers and boxers was a final surrender. His hips rose to meet my touch, an offering, a plea. And then he was there: magnificent, throbbing, the pulse of his cock a sight that stole my breath. It sprang forth—a magnificent, hard phallus, the brutal beauty of it, breathtaking. I loved the primal bounce, the wild eruption from its captive state, a perverse Jack-in-the-box of pure, unadulterated lust.
My hands closed around his shaft, the smooth, firm heat of his skin against my palms. The taste of him—the salty tang of his pre-cum—was a fleeting, tantalizing whisper against my tongue. His moan was a guttural sound, a desperate plea that tore through me. He reached for me, his fingers scrabbling, hungry. I moved, a naked predator, leaving him behind on the bed, his discarded clothing a monument to our escalating passion. Standing over him, I surveyed my conquest: a handsome, vulnerable man sprawled before me, his arousal a testament to my power. The urge to devour him, to end this exquisite torture, was almost unbearable. But I held back, a predator savoring the hunt. He had given himself to me completely, and I, in turn, would offer him a night of oblivion, a night he would never forget. This was not just about release; it was about the intricate dance of power and surrender, and the intoxicating knowledge that I held the key to his utter destruction... and salvation.
The rough cotton sheets rasped against my skin as I lowered myself, a predator returning to its kill. His leg hairs, coarse and dark against my flesh, sent a jolt of anticipation straight to myclitoris—a throbbing pulse that echoed the frantic beat of my heart. The scent of his skin, musky and warm, filled my nostrils as I kissed the inside of his thigh, the taste of him both familiar and intoxicating. Then, his balls—heavy, slick, and surprisingly smooth—nestled in my mouth. Each one a separate, exquisite torture, demanding my attention.
My fingers, light as feathers yet firm with purpose, stroked the length of his shaft, feeling the rigid pulse beneath my touch. The taste of him was overwhelmingly male, raw and primal, a stark contrast to the delicate, almost painful sensitivity of his underside. I moved, pressing my knees into the mattress, the rough fabric digging into my thighs as I straddled him. My gaze locked with his; the hunger in his eyes mirrored the desperate need churning within me.
When my mouth finally closed over the swollen head of his cock, his gasp was a choked animal sound, a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated pleasure. The delicate skin of his frenulum, so exquisitely sensitive, vibrated against my tongue. I teased him, a slow, agonizing dance of descent and ascent, savoring the way his breath hitched with each agonizingly slow pull. I could feel the precipice, the edge of his release, so near—but patience was a potent weapon in my arsenal. The thrill of control, of delaying his release, fueled me.
The scent of his sweat mixed with the already potent aroma of his arousal made my head swim. A low moan escaped my lips as I ground my own swollen heat against his leg, his thigh muscles tightening around me, pressing me closer, harder against him. I felt his leg tremble beneath me, the pressure a delicious agony. His eyes, dilated and wild, devoured me—a primal hunger mirroring my own. The taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him—a perfect symphony of sensation leading us both to the brink of oblivion.
The air crackled with anticipation, thick and humid with the scent of his arousal. His breath hitched, a ragged rhythm against my ear, a primal drumbeat counting down to our personal rapture. The pulsing vein in his neck throbbed, a frantic counterpoint to the obscene swell of his pride, a monument to my power. I could taste the saltiness of his sweat, a promise on my tongue. I teased him, drawing back just as his frantic need reached a fever pitch, the silken skin of his shaft slick against my lips. His moan reverberated like rolling thunder, a desperate plea I ignored, savoring his torment.
The slow, deliberate rhythm began again, my mouth a furnace around his hardening flesh. Each stroke was a calculated torment, a dance on the precipice of release. My tongue whipped against his sensitive tip. His hips bucked, a wild, desperate animal thrashing against the cage of my control. I moved with him, a predator guiding its prey to the slaughter. His breaths, once frantic, slowed, a chilling calm before the storm.
Then, the frenzy. A whirlwind of motion, a desperate surrender to the consuming need. “I’m going to come,” he rasped, the words raw, a confession of utter defeat. I met his climax head-on, plunging deep, his length swallowed whole, my nose buried in the mat of his pubic hair, the rough texture a jarring contrast to the slick heat of his flesh. His groan was a primal scream, echoing the release that shook his body. Shuddering spasms wracked him, a violent tremor under my mouth.
When the tremors subsided, I lifted my head, leaving him spent, drained, utterly reliant. The taste of him lingered—raw, potent, and intoxicating. I rolled away, the damp heat of his body imprinted on my skin. His arm, corded with muscle, snaked around me, possessive and demanding. I felt the frantic thump of his heart against my back, a riotous drum solo in the aftermath of the storm.
He turned, his eyes dark, feverish, filled with a dangerous, worshipful intensity. “Oh God,” he breathed, the words thick with awe, “that was... beyond anything. Now it’s my turn.”
Chapter Twenty
Diana
The hunger in his voice, the raw, unbridled possessiveness, was a challenge, a promise, a delicious invitation to the next round of our brutal game.
His touch, feather light, grazed my breast, my nipple a pinpoint of fire under his thumb. I flinched, then a low moan escaped my lips as his hand, rough and possessive, cupped my swollen belly, the skin taut and fragile beneath his grasp. His fingers, like predatory spiders, descended, each movement a violation, a promise. My body throbbed with a savage anticipation, a hunger I hadn’t known existed.
His lips, hot and demanding, fastened onto my nipple, a brutal suction that drew a choked gasp from me. His fingers, meanwhile, were a relentless assault on my most vulnerable point, teasing, tormenting, probing. First one, then two, invading my core, each intrusion a spike of pure, unadulterated bliss. I arched, desperate, my hips thrusting against his hand, begging for more, for the release that threatened to consume me. His mouth, leaving a trail of fire across my lower abdomen, found the sensitive skin between my legs, each lick a searing brand. Then, the ultimate violation: the fleeting touch of his tongue against my clitoris, a single, agonizing spark that ignited a scream trapped in my throat. I was a volcano on the brink of eruption, the molten rock threatening to consume me. If he didn’t stop this exquisite torture, this maddening dance of pleasure and pain, I swear I would kill him.
August, his eyes shadowed and intense, parted my legs, his gaze lingering on the slick, glistening flesh between them, savoring the sight, the scent—a heady perfume of arousal. This slow, deliberate unveiling, each moment a meticulously crafted torment, had wound my nerves to a breaking point. Then, the first lick of his tongue, a feather-light caress that ripped through me, shattering my composure. It wasn’t just a touch; it was an invasion, a possession. The next stroke was deliberate, brutal, his tongue a whip lashing across my labia, each brush against my clit a fresh wave of unbearable pleasure that left me breathless, desperate, utterly undone.
A gasp tore from my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The sheer knowing in his touch, down there, sent a jolt of surprise through me. It wasn’t just skill; it was an instinct, a primal understanding. August’s tongue, a seasoned instrument of arousal, found its way to my core, igniting a fire that dwarfed any I’d ever known. This wasn’t just good; this was divine. And I should have seen it coming. He’d possessed a similar mastery in everything this night had brought. Each touch, perfectly placed, was a calculated escalation that left me trembling on the precipice.
His tongue, a teasing phantom, circled my clit, a slow, tightening spiral that promised oblivion. The warmth, the slickness, the insistent pressure—it was a symphony of sensation. His groan, a low rumble against my flesh, sent spasms through me, a prelude to the storm about to break.
My legs, instinctively, wrapped around his shoulders, surrendering completely. The urgency, the exquisite torture of wanting, overwhelmed me. Desire became a physical force, a tidal wave threatening to consume me. My breath hitched; each pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The orgasm swelled, a monstrous crescendo, imminent and inescapable. His tongue, hot and insistent, found my clit again, lapping, flicking,driving me toward the edge. I raked my nails across my breasts, the sharp pain a counterpoint to the exquisite agony below. My hips bucked, a desperate offering to the god of pleasure at my feet. My fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles bone-white, the fabric crumpling beneath my desperate grip.
Then, the explosion. August’s mouth clamped down on my clit, his tongue a whirlwind of friction. The tension coiled so tightly that it finally snapped. The orgasm ripped through me, a primal scream tearing from my lips. My back arched, my body a taut bowstring releasing its arrow; my pussy pressed against his face, a desperate, involuntary offering. My toes curled, numb with the intensity; my grip on the sheets unrelenting; my body trembling in the aftermath. The world dissolved into a white-hot vortex of sensation; I was frozen, speechless, breathless, utterly consumed. It was more than pleasure; it was annihilation.
His tongue, a relentless predator, ravaged me even as my body convulsed, each spasm a white-hot explosion. I was drowning, utterly lost in a sea of pleasure, a desperate plea caught in my throat—more, more, more—but the words wouldn’t form. My thighs clamped down, a vise around his head, a desperate attempt to anchor myself to this exquisite torment. Another brutal lick to my clitoris, another shattering climax, a raw, animalistic scream tearing from my lips. My fingers dug into his hair, a desperate, possessive clutch as I yanked him away, his head collapsing onto my stomach, my legs still splayed around him like a sacrificial offering.
My breath hitched, ragged and shallow, the tremors slowly fading, leaving me damp and trembling. He watched, a smug conqueror basking in his victory, his lips glistening with my essence—a trophy, a testament to his triumph. God, the arrogant bastard, but oh God, how I wanted him. I leaned down, kissing him, the taste of myself, sharp and sweet, a forbidden elixir on his lips. With my face buried in the warm curve of August’sneck, I inhaled his scent—a musky blend of sweat and something darker, wilder.
