Page 70 of Sigma

His mouth seizes mine, and I pull him down to make the kiss hotter, wilder, deeper. “I do not fucking know, and I wish to god that I did.” His hands skate down my back and under the elastic of my leggings and under the stretch of my underwear to cup my bare ass. Squeezes. “But I can’t ignore it. Damned to hell for it I may be, but I can’t.”

I cup his jaw, the stubble rough and delicious under my palm. One hand still buried in his hair at the back of his head, the other caresses down from his jaw to his throat, and I feel his pulse hammering wildly there; from his throat to his chest, over his shoulder, down his ribs. We kiss and we kiss, and our tongues tangle and taste and drive and probe and tease, and the impetus drives from him to me and back, Apollo taking over and then ceding to me. His hands cup my ass, kneading and lifting with equal reverence as he’d shown my breasts.

And god, is that touch intoxicating. If his kiss is drugging, his touch is something else yet. I lean against him, breasts flattening against his chest, the smattering of dark hair across his chest rough and scratchy in a heady sort of way that has me shuddering.

I’m leaning fully against him, and I can feel his cock between us—it’s thick and fully erect, straining against the zipper and button of his pants. I remember the way it looked, bare and bold—the way it felt, brushing against me. A few quick movements of my hands and it would be free, and I could discover how he feels in my hands.

What choice will you make next?

I’m choosing this. I’m throwing myself down this hole, into this inferno.

I know I’m going to get burned, but yet I choose to soar toward the sun.

What choice, next?

It’s made for me.

He spins me, presses my back to his front, the thick ridge of his cock against my ass, his big hard hands softly and gently cupping my breasts—there is a small wicker-and-cushion couch tucked between the orange trees, near the table where our lunch lies forgotten, and he drops back into it, laying on it with me on top of him. He lounges partially upright, my legs supported on his, his hands caressing my breasts.

His lips are at my ear. “Have you ever had an orgasm, Corinna?”

Yes,” I whisper.

The fingers of one hand traipse down my belly to my navel, pausing to circle there before walking down further to the waistband of my leggings.

“You think so?” His voice is amused and hot.

“I have.”

Words flee my brain, then, as he walks his fingers across my sex, over the thin stretchy fabric of the leggings and the thin silk of the underwear. Too many layers between his touch and my flesh, and not enough. I gasp when he tucks his touch between my thighs and traces upward, following my seam. His other hand still cups and toys with and fondles my breasts, one and the other in turn, tweaking my nipple and caressing the weight of the breast and tweaking again before moving to the other side.

I close my eyes in anticipation as he lifts his fingers upward over my sex to where the fabric ends and my skin begins. Those fingers dig under elastic, and I suck my belly in, knowing I’m going to let him touch me—wanting him to touch me. I know I’m going to let him. And if he were to try to stop, I’d ask him to keep going.

Ask? Shit, I’d beg.

I’m sold out to this, consequences be damned.

He slides his fingertips down, his touch now between layers, sliding over the slick silk of my underwear. He traces downward, now, and his index finger finds the shallow channel of the seam between my nether lips. Down, and down, until my pressed-together thighs and the prison of my leggings prevent him from going any further, and then his touch glides back up, again following the seam of my sex…until he reaches the apex. He pauses there, pressing in.

A gasp flees me, and my thighs clench.

“You want it?”

I can only moan.

He presses his hand flat against my belly. “Do you, Corinna? Do you want me to touch you?” A brush of his fingers over me, above my clothes. “Do you want me to touch you here?”

He’s invoking that sorcery again, the words like needles slicing into me, words which penetrate my defenses and puncture my misconceptions and deflate my excuses, words which strip me bare, poisoning my mind and my body with knowledge of my own irrevocable, insatiable need. His sorcerous words show me my own lecherous lust, my own pulsating desire.

“Tell me yes, Corinna, or tell me no. Tell me yes and I’ll show you things you’ve never even dared fantasize about.”

“And…” I swallow and gasp. “If I say no?”

“Try it,” he dares me. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.” His fingers slide against my skin, teasing under both layers of material now.

I growl, because I know I won’t. I know I can’t tell him I don’t want him to. I won’t tell him no. Not now.

He nips the shell of my ear. His voice is barely a murmur, but it’s loud in my ear, hot and breathy and rasping and soaking me with dark power. “What will it be, Corinna?”