Page 49 of A Taste like Sin

Him kneeling in front of me. His heat on me. Inside…

“Yes,” he grates. “You’re touching yourself again. I can tell. I can practically taste you, even from

here.” He curses. “Stop. Too much—”

But I can’t. Forsaking his order, I perform solely for me, letting my fingers twist and stroke of their

own accord. Harder. Faster. Deeper.

“This is what I wanted for you,” he growls heatedly. “Selfishness. Greed. They all want you, sweet

girl. But you’re mine, aren’t you? Can you sense them?”

I can. They’re staring. Focused only on the image I’m displaying. Only what I want them to see.

A million people may be in this room, but he’s inside my head. Listening. Studying the slick sound of

every stroke of my finger. Imagining himself touching me instead. I bet he can sense the moisture

growing the longer this moment extends. The world may be watching, but none are sensing the same

things he is. Smelling me with flared nostrils. Tasting me in the air.

I picture him interpreting every little sound I make, imagining their cause.

He wanted to know my limits. My wants. My desires.

Perhaps they’re pathetically simple? I need him to see me—to explore me in a way no one else would

dare. Deeper than any other man could. Harder and more intimately than anyone else has the right to.

I want him.

I want him.

I want him to want me just as insanely.

I’m on the verge of something soul-shatteringly destructive when I catch that low, tortured growl

again. It’s a promise, ringing true even as my sharp gasp drowns it out.

He’ll give it to me, those dangerous things I desire.

Whether I’m ready or not.

Somehow, I manage to stand on jellied legs and return to the dressing room. Daphne helps me into

my dress, but when I finally reenter the lobby, Julio is the one waiting for me. Damien is

nowhere to be seen. Not even as we exit the building and enter the car idling out front.

He isn’t in his suite, either. The stale air lacks his trademark scent as Julio ushers me inside while

remaining in the hall. In fact, all I smell is my own sweat, and nervousness rises like a slap, erasing

the thrill from the club.

As childish as it fucking sounds, did I do it wrong? Did I upset him somehow, even though I followed