Page 38 of Make Me A Sinner
He only looks at me when the elevator door closes behind us. The fire in his eyes could torch me alive in a second. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize how fucked up thiswhole thing really is—and how hard I’ve been trying to fight it until now.
But the more I resist, the more pain I bring upon myself. I keep delaying the inevitable, punishing myself for a crime I'm gonna commit anyway.
I can feel his hand twitching around my waist. His breath is shallow, and if he keeps chewing that bottom lip while staring at me, I swear I'm gonna jump him and bite it myself.
Whatever worry was there earlier, is gone, replaced by pure unhinged lust. He’s practically vibrating with the nastiest thoughts a man can ever have. And I want them put into practice—effective immediately.
The elevator doors fly open, and as I step into the penthouse, I brace for him to do something. I'm not sure what, maybe grab my hand, spin around, and claim the rest of my sanity along with my body. But I take a step, and another one follows, and another, and nothing happens. He’s still behind me, but his steps aren't as determined as mine, and he’s not sweeping me off my feet just yet.
I try to look at him, confusion blooming on my face.What is he doing?
He's way too relaxed for my own good, and the fire that was there just a few seconds ago, seems to have extinguished. But I know it's all practiced indifference. I can see the tension still lingering in his body, pulsing through the veins in his hands like they're ready to burst.
This is bad. Really, really bad. He’s caught onto my plan, and there's no way in hell he’s playing along.
I try to reconcile with the thought—but now I don't even know where I'm going anymore. As much as my mind wants to help me calm down, my body refuses to back off. My thighs are clenched, and I can feel the moisture pooling between them. I’m growing weaker by the second around him, and I'm not sure Ican survive the torture of sleeping in his bed tonight with this kind of unreleased tension bubbling inside me.
And he knows it.
Casually, he strolls right past me to plug his phone for the night, while I stand in the middle of the living room, shocked at how this fire between us somehow turned him into an iceberg.
But just as I’m about to back down and reconcile with the thought that this is going to be another night of torture, I feel him next to me, his height looming above me.
"I never go back on my word," he breathes the words into the loose blonde curls framing my face. His fingers slowly brush over my knees, then go up, beneath the material of my dress, climbing all the way to my upper thighs. "Your body weeps for me. Don't think I can't hear it," he says, fingers digging into my flesh, and I swear I'm just about to collapse into his arms. But I know he won't take me. He wants this game played his way, and I already double-crossed him once. He won't let me cheat again. "I feel the tension building inside you. How long before it drives you crazy?" he asks, letting out a low hum as his fingers dance over the curve of my ass.
"You want me to humiliate myself?" I hurry to snap back at him, my voice shaking.
"There's no humiliation. No right or wrong. Just freed cravings, fantasy turned to reality. Don't torture yourself over something you should feel no shame for—no regret. Only pleasure." His voice is husky, like he knows every single word I need to leap that mental hurdle—the one that’s classifying what he's asking of me as depraved. It’s not the thought of letting him watch me touch myself. It’s the thought of accepting the killer in him. Of choosing to show him that I’ve accepted this—him—without hiding behind the mask ofnot having any other choice.The one I’ve been wearing ever since I met him. This time, I dohave a choice. One that doesn’t endanger my life—just my sanity, maybe.
"I want to watch you," he whispers, and my cheeks go up in flames.
He's asking the impossible of me. And I know he's still punishing me for leaving. But this is more than a punishment. This is about me breaking my boundaries.
About letting him have me—one piece at a time—even if he doesn’t even lay a finger on me.
"I—" I want to tell him how fucked up this is, and that he can go screw himself for even suggesting it. But it's just a stray syllable that slips past my lips.
"How long do you think you can deny yourself release? Days? Months? Years?"
Years?My brain short-circuits.
"Don't fight yourself over something that can only bring pleasure to us both," he goes on, his hand abandoning my skin, and suddenly, I feel cold without him there. But as I see him turn to walk toward the bedroom, it feels like an Antarctic blizzard hits me head-on.
He just leaves me standing in the living room, with the suffocating decision crushing my chest.Now? Or a month, forty-nine regrets, and fifteen new ways of torture later?
I watch him walk ahead, the shirt clinging to his back like its sole purpose is to sketch every single muscle in fine detail, while his dark presence swallows the entire space.
Goosebumps still linger where his hand had been a few seconds ago, and the thump in my heart won't stop messing with my head.
I want to cry. Maybe even curl into a ball and hide between the couch pillows. But more than anything, I want to do something incredibly stupid tonight.
I'm shaking like a damn leaf, but I know there's no going forward until I give him what he wants. It's bad enough he keeps me prisoner in this apartment. I won't let him imprison me in my own body.
I wait a few minutes, trying to summon courage, but the longer I stall, the higher the odds I’ll get cold feet... and aching ovaries.
Stepping on the last of my pride, I head toward the bedroom, nearly stumbling on the way, knowing nothing will be the same after I walk through that door.
Set’s lying on his back, eyes closed like he was convinced I wouldn’t come, or at least not anytime soon. The intrigue in his eyes when they flick open confirms it.
