Page 20 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

JULIAN

God fucking damn it.

Why the hell did I say that?

Why the hell did I let him see that?

Stop looking at me like that, you smug, manipulative bastard.

Every time his eyes land on me, my body betrays me. My muscles tense, my breath catches, my blood roars in places it shouldn’t. And he knows it. He drinks it in like wine.

This doesn’t happen to me.

I’m the one who’s supposed to be in control. I use emotions like weapons, wear masks so well they’ve started to feel like skin. I make people feel things so I don’t have to.

But with him, it all comes crashing down.

My brain short-circuits the second he gets too close, and suddenly all the rules I’ve lived by stop applying. My instincts don’t know whether to run or beg. And I fucking hate him for it.

I hate how weak I feel around him. Raw and exposed like he’s got a mirror shoved in my face and he’s daring me to look back.

It’s pathetic.

And why the fuck is it so hot in here?

It feels like the air’s been turned up to a hundred goddamn degrees. My skin’s burning, every nerve is standing on edge, and I swear, he does it on purpose. He likes watching me fall apart.

I clench my fists and drag in a breath, trying to get myself back under control.

But even as I do, all I can hear is his voice in my head, whispering truths I never gave him permission to find.

And I think deep down, some fucked up part of me wants to be seen by him. Wants him to strip everything down until there’s nothing left but the ugly truth, even if it ruins me.

“Are you feeling alright?”

His voice cuts through the haze, sinking straight to the pit of my stomach.

I force myself to nod, even though my skin is burning under the collar of this goddamn suit.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, tugging at the silk tie like it’s choking me. I rip it loose, my fingers dragging down to the top buttons. My hands shake a little. Fuck. I undo the first few, exposing my throat, the edge of my collarbone.

Nico watches every movement like it’s a strip tease meant just for him.

“Why is it so hot in here?” I mutter, barely catching my breath.

He smirks, his eyes dragging slowly from my chest to my throat, like he’s already undressing me in his head.

“It’s the same temperature it always is,” he says.

My skin prickles beneath his stare. My pulse is hammering now, too loud in my ears. I scoff, trying to push him back with attitude alone.

“You always stare like that?” I ask, forcing bite into my voice. “Or is it just when someone’s about to pass out in your designer suit?”

He stands up from the table and takes a step closer, closing the space between us inch by inch.

“Only when they look like they’re about to fall apart,” he says.

I try to laugh, but it comes out shaky.

“Arrogant bastard.”

His eyes drag down my throat, lingering at the part of my shirt still clinging to damp skin.

I should move. I should say something sharp, something cruel to regain the upper hand, but I don’t.

Because when he leans in close enough that I feel the heat of his body against mine, I can’t think at all.

“You’re sweating.”

His fingers ghost just above my chest, not touching, because that would be too merciful.

“Tell me,” he breathes, his eyes locked on mine. “Is it fear, or is it something else?”

My breath stutters.

“Fuck you.”

He smiles like I just said yes.

“You keep saying that,” he whispers. “But you keep looking at my mouth.”

My spine hits the wall behind me, hard. When did I back up? I don’t remember moving.

He presses one hand beside my head, caging me in. The other hovers at my jaw, just a breath away.

“You’re trembling,” he says. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

My whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“What do you want from me?” I rasp, hating how raw it sounds.

He leans in until his lips brush my ear, so soft it feels like a kiss.

“Everything,” he murmurs.

Then he pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. “But I’ll settle for hearing you beg.”

“Was this your plan from the start?” I murmur, trying so damn hard to look anywhere but those eyes. “Dragging me here just to fuck with my head? To seduce me?”

A slow smile curls across his mouth.

“Who said anything about seducing you?”

God, I want to kill him.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me right now, and he’s enjoying every minute of it. He loves watching me suffer.

“If you’re gonna do it,” I bite out, my chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, “then fucking do it already.”

His laugh is low, almost cruel.

“Do what, exactly?”

My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.

“Don’t make me say it, you sadistic bastard.”

He leans in, maddeningly slow, his hand ghosting up my thigh, avoiding where I need him most.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, piccolino,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

My body is on fire. My breathing’s shot to hell. I’m so hard, it hurts, and this fucker has the nerve to look calm. Like he’s not throbbing under that expensive suit. Like he could drag this out for hours just to hear me snap.

Fine then. If he won’t touch me, let’s see how long he holds out.

I reach for his cock, straining beneath the fabric. But before I can touch him, he grabs my wrist and slams it back against the wall.

“No.”

That single word lands like a slap.

“I want to hear you say it,” he rasps. “I want to hear you fucking beg, Julian.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Fuck.

I can’t stand it. I can’t stand this fucking heat. And this psycho’s not going to do anything about it until I tell him what he wants to hear.

“Please…”

I hate the way my voice breaks. Hate it more when I feel him lean in, his lips brushing my throat.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” I say through gritted teeth.

He hums against my skin, low and satisfied, like I’ve already given him everything he wanted.

“You sound so pretty when you beg.”

His hand closes around my throat, just enough pressure to make my pulse stutter. Then he crashes his mouth against mine.

Holy fucking hell.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s kissed me, but it might as well be. It feels different now. It isn’t just hate, it’s need. And it scorches.

He tastes like wine and violence and something that should be poison but feels like salvation.

It doesn’t calm the fire in me; it throws gasoline on it. My whole body aches. Being kissed by him feels like a mercy I don’t deserve. Like a cruel fucking gift.

Like a sip of water in the middle of the desert, just enough to remind me how goddamn thirsty I am.

“More,” I breathe, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, dragging him closer like I’ll die if he pulls away. “Give me more.”

His mouth curves into a smirk against mine.

“So needy,” he murmurs. “I like you like this.”

He sinks his teeth into my bottom lip, just enough to sting, before crashing back into my mouth like he owns it. Like I owe him this.

I’m already breathless, drunk on him, and holy fuck, I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.

His fist twists in the collar of my shirt, dragging me forward with that unrelenting grip until my back slams into the edge of the table. He lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing, setting me down between crystal glasses and silverware.

“Are you insane?” I hiss, my eyes darting toward the door. “What if someone walks in?”

He just laughs, low and dangerous.

“No one’s walking in.”

“And what if someone hears?”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Then you’ll just have to be a good boy… and stay quiet.”

My heart stutters. That shouldn’t turn me on, but it does.

He leans back slightly, loosening his tie, and with practiced ease, unbuttons his shirt.

My breath leaves me in one harsh exhale.

Across his chest, there’s this massive tattoo of a golden snake winding around his ribs, its body wrapped in thorned red flowers. But beneath it is the real story: a history written in scars. Knife wounds. Bullet holes. Faded burns. Every one of them a silent threat.

“You’re staring,” he says, that wolfish smile tugging at his lips.

“No I’m not,” I lie, hoarsely.

He steps in between my legs and reaches behind me, plucking one of the remaining strawberries from the silver tray. Then, scooping up a dollop of whipped cream with two fingers, he drags it across my chest in a slow line.

“Let’s see if you taste sweeter than you act.”

His mouth follows the trail of cream, his tongue hot and slow.

I moan before I can stop it, clawing at his belt.

“Nico—”

He lifts his head, eyes gleaming.

“Desperate already?”

Then he smears another line of whipped cream down my stomach, tracing just above the waistband of my pants. He doesn’t lick it clean this time, not yet. He just lets it sit there, sticky and cool against my burning skin.

He feeds me a strawberry and watches as I bite into it, juice running down the corner of my mouth. He catches it with his thumb, then pushes it between my lips.

“Don’t waste it.”

I suck his finger clean.

Something shifts. His gaze sharpens, his lips part slightly.

His hands dip to my hips… and then he freezes.

Shit.

His fingers wrap around something cold and hard, tucked into my back pocket. Slowly, he pulls it free and lifts it between us.

The knife.

Small. Compact. Matte black.

Fucking stupid.

“You brought a weapon to dinner?” he asks, amusement curling in his voice.

“It’s for protection,” I mutter. “Old habit.”

He flips it open with one smooth motion, holding the blade between two fingers. Then softly, with maddening control, he presses the flat edge against my jaw. My breath catches.

He slides it down my throat to my chest. The cold bite of steel sets off every nerve in my body.

He brings the tip of the blade just beneath the waistband of my pants. My hips jerk.

“Nico, I—”

“Shh.”

He cuts the whipped cream-covered button open with the tip. He doesn’t nick me, just lets me feel the weight of how close it is.

“I could carve you up,” he whispers. “Make you mine for real.”

“Do it,” I say before I can stop myself. “Make me bleed.”