Page 70 of A Taste like Sin

He succeeds in lifting my skirt, finding my thigh without preamble. Featherlight caresses track his

progress upward, nearing the space between my legs. I stiffen. He pounces, plunging a finger beneath

the gusset of my panties.

“Sí,” he croaks, inhaling the air while curling his finger in the same cruel motion. “It’s like you were

designed for me. To entice me. To challenge me. To humble me… You’ve punished me, haven’t you?”

He practically hisses the words. “Every sin. Every transgression. You’ve made me repent.”

His thumb roughly encircles me—my only warning before he plunges the tip between my folds. My

sharp cry almost drowns out his next words.

“Dulce niña.” He slides his hand around to my back and the faint hum of a zipper sounds as the fabric

of my dress loosens. Falls. Exposes.

Trembling knees threaten to collapse beneath me. I grab his shoulders tighter, marveling at the ease

with which he supports me. One hand braced against my ass allows him to steady me while guiding

my hips against his at the same time.

A gasp rips from my throat at the dangerous pressure kicking against my belly. He returns his attention

to exploring my body, his touch bolder. He spreads my legs apart, tracing soft, nonsensical patterns

into my inner thigh. The gentleness with which he does so sends my already drifting thoughts

scattering further. There’s reverence in his touch and I have an uncomfortable inkling why so many

women have been willing to strip naked for him in the first place.

Someone else could never offer this level of intimacy. A vulnerability found only by having a stranger

peer beneath your skin with every stroke.

I close my eyes, savoring the small nuances he can’t disguise. The low grunts interspersed with his

breaths. The pulsing heat. The thick fingers tangling in my hair, making knots and chaos in the strands.

Eyesight would only be a hindrance to him—because without it, he has no trouble sensing the secrets

within I’ve hidden from myself. Sex extends to more than physical pleasure where he is concerned.

It’s knowledge.

It’s power.

It’s primal.

“You wanted to be kept, and I’ve decided…that I’m keeping you.” He slips an arm around my waist,

wrenching me even closer.

My legs part as he muscles in between them. My knees capture his waist, holding tight—and I’ve