Page 88 of Widow's Walk
My soul-scraper. The one who grinds me down to my rawest form and makes me grateful for the pain.
Sinclair never wanted a wedding. She may tear through the room like a tornado, wreaking havoc, but she doesn’t enjoy the spotlight. She would never stand up in front of a crowd, big or intimate, and promise anything. Not to me. Not to anyone. Hell, even in private, she hardly expresses her feelings for me. Not in words, anyway.
She’s afraid of both permanence and abandonment. Terrified of feeling like she belongs to anything that could break her. Even more terrified of being discarded. Of being told she’s not enough. Not wanted. Not valuable in a world that deals in blood, currency, and leverage.
The doubts always lingering in her mind.
So, I gave her something that doesn’t ask her to perform. Just choose.
And she did.
Setting the papers aside, I join her on her lounger. She looks at me, one eyebrow raised. I manage to contain my elation and push her knees apart.
She’s fighting back a smile. The little she-devil is almost as debauched as I. The number of nights she has woken me up with her hand or mouth on my cock as if we didn’t just have sex a couple hours ago. Or like we won’t fuck again in the morning before I get up for work. Plus, however many times in between.
Tugging at the strings tied into bows high up on her hips, they unravel, and the fabric covering her hidden slice of paradise falls slack. My eyes on hers, I peel her bottoms off and lower my head.
I give her sex a sensual kiss and enjoy watching her react instantly. Her head relaxing against the chair, eyes wilting, and lips parting. She reaches down to run her fingers through my hair with one hand and pulls her top to the side to grope her supple breast with the other.
Haroomzade-ye vasvasashi. Fucking seductress.
I sink two fingers inside of her and eat her fucking pussy.Goddamn, I love this fucking cunt. I tongue her little bud and fuck her with my fingers and her hand pulls at my hair, forcing me closer.
I know what you want, baby. My fucking nasty girl.
Curling my middle and ring finger, creating a hook, I remove my mouth and fuck her harder. Slapping my palm against her, and the more her body reacts, the harder and faster I work.
I sit up and watch her face as it contorts uncontrollably, lost in ecstasy. Fighting it, begging for it, wanting to savor it. I see it all. Painted like a fucking masterpiece.
My lips thin, and my nostrils flare as I put more into it. Her jaw goes unhinged on a raspy cry, her back bowing, head back, and cunt gripping my fingers.
Her back slams down and hollows, and her head snaps up. Her eyes watching my hand through heavy lids. She takes in sharp breaths, higher and higher. Then she fucking snaps. Her entire body steeling, and I pull my fingers out to rub her pussyvigorously as she squirts everywhere. Her hips rise and fall as she rides it out.
Before I can pull my cock out, she’s already fully recovered and pushing me to lie back. Her diamond-studded teeth and golden hoop peeking from under her upper lip flash with her grin when she mounts me and sinks down. Taking the breath straight from my lungs.
I grab her shapely hips as she undulates on top of me. With a single tug behind her neck, her top falls effortlessly. I sit up and attack her breasts with my mouth.
This is my fucking life now.
There’s another weight hanging in the air. One I’ve been carrying for several months. And it’s time she knew.
Sinclair settles into the window seat of the jet, toned legs crossed, sun-kissed skin from ten days of temporary peace. A soft glow clings to her, a looseness in her that didn’t exist before. And it fills a piece of me that I was unaware of.
Wine in hand, she flashes me a lazy smirk before turning to watch the sky swallow us on takeoff. She’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t try to be.
I take the seat across rather than beside her. I want to study her every tick, every twitch. She’s impossible to read unless you know where to look. And I do. I can read her face, but I still can’t predict her. With Sinclair, knowing the feeling never guarantees the outcome.
I wait until she’s on her second glass of wine to begin. “I have something I want to show you.”
She turns to me, innocently blinking. “A wedding gift?” she teases.
I crack a smile. “Sort of.” Only because I’m still unsure of it.
“Well? Are you going to tell me, or are you just teasing me?”
I let silence wash over us. This will go one of two ways. She could hate me for this, shoving me ten steps back.
Or she’ll think it’s the most romantic gesture, because that’s Sinclair.
