Page 45 of Brutal Sin
He remained quiet through her long yawn, hoping she fell asleep and brought an end to the ocean-deep conversation.
He watched her from the corner of his eye, her hair splayed across the pillow, her blinks closing for longer and longer, until finally they closed for good. Tiny moans escaped her, the barely audible sounds sinking under his skin. His cock twitched again, the softened length making a comeback with renewed enthusiasm.
If she didn’t stop, his ability to sleep would sit somewhere between not-likely and never-going-to-happen.
Not unless he took the edgeoff.
He stared at the clock, passing the whimper-filled minutes as he glared at those numbers. Each second provided a new rush of blood to his dick and a renewed sense that something was seriously off-kilter in this situation.
She hadn’t tried to seduce him. She hadn’t even stayed awake past ten o’clock.
He let out a silent puff of laughter. This woman was the best damn distraction he could ask for. But he couldn’t stay here. Not in her bed, lusting over her with perversion while she slept. Nope, he needed to get up and disperse the blood pooling in his groin.
He slid from the mattress, his dick leading the way as he escaped down the hall, in search of…something.
There were innumerable offerings to appease his interest—the television remote, the magazines on the coffee table—and still, he found himself back at the bookshelf, his fingers skimming the spines of medical texts.
Even with the grim reaper hovering over his shoulder, his dick remained adamant. A trooper. The fucker had no plan to give up the fight.
He pulled the books from the shelf, one by one, and stacked them near the front door. She didn’t want the reminder, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Apart from her. So, he kept going, his cheap workout continuing until every book on cancer sat waiting for him to leave.
And he shouldleave.
He hovered at the door, his issues resembling those of a teenager trying to sneak out for the firsttime.
“Fuck this.” He wasn’t a pussy. He could handle a sleepover. Especially when there were no claws sinking into his balls. She was asleep, for Christ’ssake.
He padded back to the bookshelf, his attention snagging on the top shelf and the photos spaced evenly along the wood in silver frames. All the images were stereotypical happy families. Mother, daughter, and sister, in varying degrees of happiness.
Would their bubble ever burst, like hishad?
He shook his head at the stupidity.
He’d never had a bubble to begin with. The script of his life had the fairytale set with a cast who never showed.
He slid two of the frames to the side and grabbed a shiny pink album stashed behind. He opened the cover, the pages flicking through his fingers, highlighting Ella in all her beaming glory. Her mother and sister played a leading role in the documentation of her life. But it looked like she’d hidden the shots of her husband. Or maybe those were reserved for the privacy of her bedroom.
There were birthday photos. Holiday happy snaps. More images with her sister. With Animals. At different locations. With sexy clothing. Then a fucking bikini.
He slammed the album shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. With every breath, he could taste her, smell her. His limbs tingled with the need to walk down that hall and give her what she’d askedfor.
The one-fuck rule must have started to take its toll. The quality-over-quantity diet had turned him bat-shit crazy. So crazy he had to clench his fists to keep from palming hisdick.
Alcohol. He needed alcohol.
He strode for the kitchen and grabbed the almost-empty wine bottle from her fridge. The lid was thrown aimlessly, the liquid contents sliding down his throat like the first taste of water after a year of dehydration.
He gulped. He chugged. He downed that motherfucker until the bottle was dry and he leaned against the sink, sucking in breath after breath. And still, his erection wouldn’t admit defeat.
His mind was in on the act, too. Images of Ella flashed before his eyes. He could see her ass swaying as she dropped dishes in the sink. Could see her bending over to place food in the fridge.
He gripped the counter for grounding and pressed his erection against the cupboards, hoping to discourage the growing pulse.
The pressure increased.
He couldn’t fight the need to palm himself through the thin material of his underwear, his fingers clutching tight. Every time he blinked, she was there—in the Vault, at the lockers, splayed beneath him on her bed. He heard her words, too. All those rasped pleas to be fucked. Hard. And the whimpers.
Jesus Christ.
