Page 91 of Sin of Love
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A kiss—soft,disarming, at the corner of my mouth. A vow to care for me. A reminder that I’m safe. The air hangs heavy with intent and reverence.
Sanctity.
Here, we worship.
The soundproofed room is silent but for our breath and the subtle shifts of our bodies. My feet, arching against the floor, knees spread, pressed tight against the outer corners of the padded bench. My hair, whispering as I toss my head to the side, blind eyes seeking him. His footsteps, muted impact of bare feet on plush carpet. His sigh as my body flushes with agitation and need.
When the door of the playroom opened a few minutes ago, I was prepared for a punch of fear, a blood-soaked echo of the last time I was tied to a bench in this room. Prepared or not, the magnitude of it rocked me. Quivered my muscles. Tickled along my scalp. Brought a spike of nausea into my throat.
Fight. Flight.
But then he spoke and wiped my mind of everything but him.
“Goddess.”
Acknowledgement. Awe.
Now his tongue swirls around a nipple, coaxing the bud into his mouth. Flick, drag. Teasing, shallow sucks. I strain upward, wanting more, but he backs off until I relax with a huff.
“Patience,” he whispers.
“You love this,” I speak through my teeth.
I hear a smile in the words, “So much.”
The other breast—the same maddening, thorough treatment. My throat. Behind my ears. He kisses the inside of my elbows, my palms, and the delicate, warm space beneath my breasts, before moving back south. My stomach clenches when he drags his teeth over my navel. Goose bumps ripple over my body as he nips at my sides, lower abdomen, hips.
I’m suspended between arousal and repletion, whimpering and writhing on the bench, and cursing the silk eye mask and soft cuffs on my wrists and ankles. None are restrictive enough to stop me if I want freedom, but the fact is… I like them. The heightened anticipation after every touch. The surrendering of control, and myself, in the moment.
Letting go.
Soft kisses rain across my inner thighs. My hips jerk, blood fluttering madly, deep and low, a persistent call. I want nothing in this moment but his body driving into mine. Passion unhinged. Unchecked. Dual possession, my body owning his and his owning mine.
Mindless, I gasp his name. He flicks my clit with his tongue, but when I lift my hips, he’s gone. My arousal skirts toward the edge of pain.
“Damn you,” I cry, near sobbing.
He murmurs a question in French that sounds so filthy, I groan. The only word I recognize is chatte—pussy—but the meaning is clear. He wants me to beg.
“Yes, yes, please. Put your cock in me, please. If you love me, stop teasing and fuck me!”
He laughs. “You’re horrible at begging, mon bijou.”
“Gideon, I swear to God—”
Hot, strong hands clasp my feet, shutting me up. He massages the soles lightly, then slides his hands up my shins and over my knees to my thighs. The heat of his body presses close. I feel his gaze, his focus, between my spread legs. It’s not comfortable, but this level of intimacy never is. And comfort isn’t what this is about.
When he blows softly over my aching center, I’m ready to beg in earnest. Before I can, though, he kisses me right where I want him. Just… kisses me. Every fold, within and without, is treated to a soft, loving press of his mouth. And with each connection, each act of tenderness, he does it.
He unwinds the past…
“You have the most beautiful, perfect, deliciously wet pussy I’ve ever seen.”
…in a way that is quintessentially Gideon.
And this time, when his head drops between my legs, he’s done teasing both of us. He fucks me with his fingers, teeth, and tongue. Artful and unrelenting.
