Page 51 of Sin Wager
"I do. You've been trying to protect me, and I've been lying to your face."
"You were protecting your family. I understand that."
"Do you?" I search his eyes. "Because I feel trapped all the time. Sonya threatens Elvin if I don't cooperate, but staying involved puts him in more danger. You want to help, but I don't know what that help costs. And there are things…" I stop myself before I say too much.
"What things?"
I shake my head. The pregnancy is too much, too complicated. Not when he's seventeen years older than me, not when I don't fully understand what kind of man he really is or what I want from life.
"Just… things I can't explain right now."
He pulls back and studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "All right. But when you're ready to tell me whatever you're holding back, I'll listen. And I won't judge you for it."
The promise makes my chest ache. I want to believe him. I want to trust that his protection doesn't come with strings attached, that his feelings for me are real and not part of some larger game.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"Of me?"
"Sometimes. Not because I think you'll hurt me, but because I don't understand why you want to help me. Men your age, with your money and your connections—they don't usually care about stable workers with sick brothers and too many problems."
His jaw tightens. "Maybe most men my age don't. But I'm not most men."
"What are you, then?"
"Someone who sees how brave you are. How loyal. How much you're willing to sacrifice for the people you love." His hands frame my face more firmly. "Someone who wants to make sure you don't have to sacrifice any more."
He leans down and kisses me, soft at first, then deeper when I respond. There's still tension in his body, the coiled energy from our confrontation in the tunnel, but his touch is gentle. Patient.
I let myself pretend that his promises are simple and true, that there's no complexity behind his protection, no agenda I can't see.
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer, and suddenly the gentleness shifts into something more urgent. The fear and adrenaline from the past hour transform into need, into the desperate desire to feel safe and wanted and real.
When he tries to pull away, I draw his mouth back to mine. The kiss is hungry now, demanding, and he responds with the same intensity. His hands tangle in my hair, and mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
We stumble backward until I'm pressed against the wall, hay bales stacked beside us. His mouth moves to my neck, and I arch into him, wanting to lose myself in sensation instead of thought.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs against my throat. His hand slides beneath my shirt, fingers spreading wide over my ribs as though he needs to feel every part of me. His voice is rough, but his touch is slow, reverent. He pushes the fabric higher, baring me inch by inch, then lowers his mouth to my collarbone.
His mouth lingers at my collarbone, teeth grazing lightly as his hands bunch my shirt higher. He pulls it over my head inone quick motion, tossing it aside. His palms return to my skin immediately, sliding over my ribs, holding me still as his mouth closes over the swell of my breast through my bra.
“Perfect,” he mutters, voice low, almost a growl. He tugs the lace down and takes me into his mouth, sucking until I gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
The heat coils sharp and fast, my hips shifting against him.
“More,” I whisper.
He releases me only to capture my mouth again, hard and deep, while his hands drop lower. His fingers work at the button of my jeans, forcing it open, tugging until the zipper gives.
He drags the zipper down, his knuckles brushing my stomach, then grips the waistband and shoves the denim over my hips. The fabric clings stubbornly, and I have to wriggle against the wall to help him push them lower. His growl vibrates against my mouth, equal parts frustration and hunger, before he finally gets them down far enough.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his hand sliding over the curve of my thigh, his thumb stroking where the fabric still clings. “I could look at you like this forever.”
He turns me and pushes me over the feed barrel. My palms hit the wood and his hand presses firm at my back, holding me there. He nudges my knees apart, the denim binding me just enough to keep me trapped.
He drops to his knees. His hands grip my hips and he buries his face between my thighs. His tongue drags over me and I cry out, my nails scraping the wood of the barrel. He sucks hard, steady, forcing me open.
The sound of his belt breaks through the rush in my ears. The buckle snaps. The zipper comes down. He frees himself with one hand and keeps his mouth on me, holding me pinned with the other hand.
