Page 9 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

I feel his breath hitch and the tremble under his skin.

The way his body leans unintentionally toward mine.

I drag my fingers from his throat down the center of his chest, grazing the warm strip of skin between the crop top and his jeans.

My knuckles skim over the top button at his fly to hover right above the waistband. He twitches, and I smile wider.

“What are you wearing underneath?” I whisper, my voice thick with threat and interest.

His breath stutters. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would.” I let the back of my fingers trace along the metal button again. “Tell me, Pup.”

“No.”

My hand slides back to his throat, and I tilt his face up until all that pretty defiance has nowhere to hide. “I said,” I murmur, my lips ghosting over his, “what are you wearing under this?”

He grits his teeth. “Nothing.”

Liar. And he knows I know. Because when my other hand pops open the buttons of his jeans and slides under the waistband, what I feel isn’t skin, denim, or anything I’ve ever touched on another man before.

It’s lace.

Fucking lace.

My breath catches for the wrong reason. Not because I’m turned on—though I am—but because of the anger that sparks at the thought of him dressing like this for someone else.

“You little whore,” I breathe, my voice dropping. “You wore lace?”

He doesn’t move or try to deny it, but that little smirk and his silence tells me everything.

I grip the waistband and tug, just enough to let the fabric snap against his hips, and catch a glimpse of it—black lace, delicate and soft, hugging his sharp hipbones, and sheer enough to see through.

“Who were you wearing this for?” I grit out.

His eyes flick to mine, pupils wide, chest rising fast. “No one,” he whispers.

I press harder, my voice deadly soft. “Did you put these on for someone here tonight? Thought maybe they’d get lucky enough to see what you’re hiding under those tight little jeans?”

“No.” He says it too quickly, like the word caught on his tongue and tumbled out before he could shape it into something more convincing.

But I don’t buy it.

“You wore lace. To a party. Under jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. And you walked in looking like a fucking wet dream on purpose—knowing I’d be watching.”

He swallows hard. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me, Nate,” I say and slide my hand deeper under the waistband, the lace dragging under my palm like a dirty little secret, before I squeeze his cock.

He gasps, hands flying forward to grab my forearm, but he doesn’t push me away. No, the little slut clutches tighter.

“You wore these to be wanted,” I growl, dragging my mouth to his ear. “You wore them hoping someone would notice. That someone would take you apart for it.”

He shakes his head, but he’s trembling. His breathing is ragged, and his nails are biting into my skin.

“Who else have you let see this?” I murmur.

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

His breath stutters, and he shakes his head again. “Liam—”

“Did you let someone touch you?” I hiss and squeeze his cock harder. “Did someone else get to fuck you in these first?”

“No,” he says, his tone desperate. “No one touched me, I swear.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but I want to. And fuck, I’m this angry because I hate the idea of anyone else seeing him like this. Dressed up. Pretty. Dripping in sex and mine , even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Tell me you wore them for me,” I demand, thumb grazing his hip.

He goes still, too still; like prey pretending it doesn’t want to be hunted. It’s sweet how he tries to keep standing like he has some dignity left.

He swallows again, then he whispers, “I wore them for you.”

I slam my mouth to his and kiss him so hard I taste blood. No more games, no more fucking questions. I’m simply claiming what’s already mine.

My hands fist in the waistband of those goddamn panties as I push him back against the wall, grinding against him until he moans into my mouth.

That sound rips through me like it’s meant to destroy.

I swallow it whole, drunk on it, on the feel of him arching under my touch, his mouth hot and desperate against mine.

Every part of him hums with tension, with want, and I can’t stop drinking it in. The lace, the defiance, the shake in his voice when he said it was for me—everything tightens around my throat like a noose I’ve wrapped there myself.

I kiss him as if I can carve my name into him through teeth and breath alone. His hips jerk, and he gasps again, his nails dig deeper into my forearm.

I’ve kissed people before. I’ve used my mouth the way I use my voice—calculated, cold, wielded like a knife when I want compliance. But this kiss is nothing like that. It’s not patient. It’s not practiced. It’s not part of the script I’ve written and rewritten a hundred times in my head.

It’s pure need.

Messy, furious need.

My tongue slides against his with no grace, no rhythm, and no finesse. His hands fumble against my shirt as if he’s trying to either tear it off or tear me off, and I don’t stop him. I want him lost. I want him as undone as I am.

Because I am undone. Completely fucking undone by this brat , and that terrifies me. I never let anyone touch me. When I fuck, it’s always from behind, always them on their knees for me.

And now he’s here, trembling in lace, moaning into my mouth, and I—

I want him.

Not just in theory, not just in power. I want this. His heat, his shiver, and his surrender. But that’s not who I am. That’s not the game I was taught to play. This isn’t in my control anymore. This isn’t me pulling strings and watching him fall… this is me falling with him.

And I can’t. I won’t.

I pull back suddenly, the move jerky and too fast. His head chases the kiss, eyes dazed and lips kiss-swollen, mouth parted like he doesn’t understand why I stopped. My touch still clings to his body while his taste still drips from my mouth. And for the first time, I don’t want it.

I want to erase it.

I want to hurt.

“You think you won something tonight, Pup?” I say, my tone cold, lashing out with the only thing I have left—cruelty. “You think because I made you whimper, that you’re special ?”

Nate’s eyes snap into focus, and I see the way my words slap across his face. I see how he straightens his spine and swallows the wreck I left in his throat.

“You’re just another desperate little slut in a crowd full of bodies hoping someone gives a fuck.”

His entire face changes. The breath leaves him as if I punched it out of his lungs, and I hate how my stomach lurches at the look he gives me. As if I stepped on something fragile he didn’t mean to show me.

I force myself to keep going.

“You didn’t wear them for me,” I sneer. “You wore them because you’re easy. Because you’re lonely. Because you want anyone to see you.”

Nate’s jaw clenches. That smug fire’s gone now, but in its place is indifference. He wraps it around himself like armor as he steps away from me. I want to stop, fuck me, I want to stop, but I have to end it now before I fall and shatter. Before I do something worse, like stay.

My hands are still shaking. I shove them in my pockets so he won’t see. “Go back to your frat,” I say, my voice devoid of the fire he’s stoked in me, “before someone else realizes how easy you are.”

He still doesn’t respond; he merely looks at me like I’ve proved every single fear he’s ever had about being wanted. Then he turns away and disappears down the driveway, and I bolt.

I ignore Thorn calling after me from the kitchen. I ignore the music, the noise, the fake laughter. I slam my bedroom door and press my back against it.

My hands are shaking.

Shaking.

I stare at them as if they belong to someone else. Pale fingers, clean nails, and a tremble that doesn’t fucking stop.

No one’s ever done this to me before. I’ve controlled every interaction, every kiss, every moment of breathless silence since I figured out how people worked. I was trained to be a manipulator, raised to be a puppet master, and taught that feelings make you weak.

But now there’s a boy outside in lace and a crop top who doesn’t follow the rules I wrote. Who doesn’t break under pressure—he bends and grins and fucking moans like he wants to be shattered.

And the worst part is, I do want to ruin him, but not how I usually ruin people. Not just to prove I can. I want to tear him down and build him into something that needs me in the way I’m starting to need him.

I can’t do any of that, because if I touch him again, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop. That’s not power, that’s loss.

I move to the mirror above the dresser, catching my reflection, and I see a stranger. Face flushed, pupils blown, hair mussed from his fingers. I close my eyes, press my fists against the dresser, and try to breathe through the ache in my chest.

Outside, the music thumps on.

I can still feel the lace against my palm, and the sound of him saying I wore them for you won’t stop echoing in my skull.

Fuck.