Page 41 of Betrayed By Sin

He sets me on the table, rough and reverent all at once, but doesn’t move right away. He just stares.

His gaze is molten, slow and possessive, like he’s taking his time imagining every filthy thing he’s about to do to me. The fine black shirt he’s wearing clings to his shoulders, every breath stretching the seams.

“You keep licking that lip like you don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, voice thick and dangerous.

My tongue halts mid-swipe.

His mouth twitches, almost a smirk, but there’s nothing playful in his expression. Only intent.

He unbuttons his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up with agonizing patience. He looks like a man preparing for war. Or worship.

“I’ve been patient,” he says, stepping toward me. “All through dinner. Watching you squirm in that tight little dress. Watching your thighs squeeze shut every time I so much as looked at you.”

His fingers tilt my chin up. My breath stutters.

“Say it.”

“…Sin.”

“Louder.”

“Sin.”

That’s all it takes. He descends on me like a storm, mouth hard and hot against mine, tongue sliding between my lips with practiced dominance. I moan into him, grasping at the front of his shirt like it might keep me grounded. It doesn’t.

He pulls back only to rip the dress over my head in one clean motion. No warning. No hesitation. His eyes flicker down my body, like he’s memorizing every inch.

He yanks my bra down, teeth grazing my collarbone as he mutters, “You don’t need this shit. No one sees you like this but me.”

His mouth trails lower, kissing, biting, licking down my chest. I arch into him, already trembling. I’m putty in his hands.

Then he’s tugging my panties down, tearing them from my body like they offend him. The lace rips easily. He tosses them aside and steps back, eyes dropping to the space between my thighs like he’s starving.

“I think about this pussy every goddamn day.” His voice is wrecked. Worshipful. Dangerous. “You walk around acting like you don’t know the kind of power you have. But you do. Don’t you, baby?”

I nod, breathless.

“Say it.”

“I know,” I whisper.

He grins, slow and wicked. “That’s right. And it’s mine.”

When his tongue hits me, soft and slick and unrelenting, I cry out, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as my back bows off the table. He groans into me, licking like he needs it, like I’m oxygen and he’s drowning.

There’s no teasing. No mercy. Just raw, consuming hunger.

His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place as he devours me, his mouth filthy and focused. I squirm, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t stop. Hewon’tstop.

When I try to pull away, breath hitching, he growls - actually growls - and locks his arms tighter around my waist.

“You don’t run from me, Magnolia.”

Then two fingers thrust inside me, curling with ruthless precision. His thumb rolls in circles, making my entire body jerk in his strong arms. The orgasm shoots through me like a bolt of lightning. I scream his name, legs quaking, the room tilting, my world narrowed to the wicked things he’s doing to me.

But he still isn’t done.

He stands, towering over me, hands going to his belt. There’s a metallic click, a whisper of fabric, and then he’s free, thick and hard.