Page 136 of The Sin Binders Ascent

I reach between us, fingers trembling but sure, and find the clasp at his waist. The button slips open under my touch. His breath stutters against my mouth as I slide the zipper down, brushing knuckles against the heat straining beneath. I want to say something smug, something deflective, but the only thing in my throat is a plea I can’t give voice to yet.

He pushes himself up, hands moving to shove his pants down, slow at first, like he wants me to watch. And I do. I can’t not. Every inch of him revealed feels like something sacred being offered. Not polished, not pretty. Raw. Perfect in the way only something dangerous can be.

My breath catches as I take him in. My thighs tighten instinctively, pulse roaring in my ears.

Then I move, dragging my own pants down, the fabric damp and clinging. I wriggle out of them, not caring that it’s not graceful, not clean. I’m filthy. I’ve been bleeding and sweating and running for weeks, and there’s dirt in places I haven’t touched since the fall. But none of that matters.

Because when I look up, Theo is watching me like I’m made of gold.

Like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He breathes out, slow and heavy, and says, “You’re beautiful.”

I freeze.

The words hit somewhere deeper than lust. They land in the part of me that hasn’t stopped mourning, hasn’t stopped waiting for someone to rip this illusion of survival out from under me. My chest tightens.

“You’re not just saying that,” I whisper, and I hate that I sound unsure.

He leans forward, both hands planting on either side of my face, caging me in but not crushing. His body hovers over mine,heat pouring off him, eyes locked onto mine like he’s searching for the fracture point.

“I’ve wanted you like this since the moment you looked at me,” he says, voice low, hoarse. “And now that I have you in front of me, half-wild and perfect and real, nothing else in this world matters.”

His words don’t soothe. They ignite. Something in my chest unravels. My hands slide up his sides again, greedy now, pulling him closer, skin to skin, no more layers between us. The length of him presses against my hip, hot and hard and inevitable. I roll my hips up into his, needing friction, needing contact, needing him inside me like I need breath.

He lowers himself, his weight grounding me. One hand slips down between us, finding that slick ache at the center of me, his fingers moving with practiced ease but reverence, like he’s not just touching, he’s learning.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, and I don’t care how wrecked I sound when I moan.

“Then stop teasing me,” I hiss, arching up.

He grins, but it’s not cocky. It’s reverent. A worshipper at the altar. A sinner begging for permission to taste the divine. And I’m ready to give him everything.

His hand doesn’t move to tease. There’s no delay, no drawn-out torment like I half expect. Just heat and contact. One long finger slips into me, slow and sure, and the breath punches out of my lungs like I’ve been hit.

It’s been too long.

Too long since anyone touched me like I mattered. Too long since I’ve felt anything but grief and survival grinding against each other inside my ribs. Now I feel everything. The stretch, the pressure, the heat of him inside me, and the sharp, perfect ache of it. My body arches instinctively, chasing the feeling, my legs falling open wider.

I moan, raw and low, and wrap my hand around his wrist, holding him there. Not to stop him. To keep him from leaving. To anchor him right where I need him. His hand is warm, fingers callused, thick, pressing just enough to remind me I still have nerve endings and desire and a body that wants.

I grind my hips against his palm, greedy, chasing friction like it’s salvation. I’m already soaked, and he groans under his breath like the wet sound of it gets to him. I slide another finger in myself, pushing his second one inside, curling them together. His sharp inhale is broken, and his free hand grabs the side of my thigh, tight.

“Fuck,” he says, looking down between us.

His fingers are buried in me, glistening, tight and perfect, and the sight of my hand wrapped around his, pulling him deeper, makes him look like he might lose what little restraint he has left. I’m panting now, wild and needy, moving my hips in a rhythm that’s more instinct than thought. Every thrust of his fingers hits something inside me that lights up my spine.

“That’s so fucking hot,” he growls, voice ragged.

His eyes flick up, locking on mine, and there’s hunger there, but it’s not just lust. It’s something darker, something deeper, like I’ve pulled something loose in him and it’s not going back.

I can’t answer. My mouth is open, breath coming fast, teeth dragging over my lower lip as I ride his hand with no grace, no shame. My body is slick and burning, the wet sounds obscene between us, and I don’t care if the trees outside are watching, or if the gods are laughing, or if the sky splits open and swallows us whole.

Right now, I just need him.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper, and I’m not above begging. “Theo, gods, more.”

He curls his fingers, and I cry out, loud and wrecked. His head drops to my neck, breath hot against my neck, and he keepsworking me open, his fingers moving inside me like he owns the place. Like I was made for him. I throw my head back against the stone floor, hips lifting to meet every thrust, lost in the rhythm we’ve fallen into.