Page 30 of Two Sides of Sin

My physical reaction was instantaneous—a sharp, frenzied, thrum of heat that tightened my chest and made my pulse roar in my ears. It wasn’t just desire; it was a territorial hunger so loud it felt like it should wake her up.

Without a hint of hesitation, I reached down. I was as steady as a surgeon as I hooked the hem of the soft cotton and began to lift. Slowly. Methodically.

I watched the fabric retreat, exposing the pale, unmarked skin of her stomach, the dip of her navel, and finally, the heavy, soft weight of her breasts. They were beautiful—perfect—rising and falling with the steady rhythm of a dream I wasn’t part of. Yet.

I leaned over her, my shadow eclipsing her entirely, my breath catching as the scent of her hair filled my nostrils. I wanted to see her eyes open. I wanted to see that dilation again—that moment where her fear and her need became indistinguishable.

She didn’t wake. Not fully. But as I took the weight of her breast into my mouth, her body betrayed the mind that claimed to hate me. Her nipple hardened against my tongue, and a soft, broken moan escaped her lips—a sound of subconscious surrender that tasted better than any lie she’d told me.

Her legs parted, a slow and inviting action that gave me the access I’d been craving since she fell face-first into my office. I let my hand slide down, my fingers circling the delicate fabric of her underwear. She twitched under my touch, her breath catching, her body arching, almost instinctively towards the heat of my hand.

I should have felt the weight of Julian’s presence in this room. I was playing with my brother’s favourite toy, treading on the sacred ground he’d been so careful to protect with his poems and his “gentle” boundaries.

But Julian was weak. He was a slave to his heart, drowning in a sea of guilt. I, on the other hand, knew exactly where the lines were. My control was concrete, a fortress he’d never be able to build. I knew when to push and exactly when to stop; I knew when things had gone too far and when they were just beginning to get interesting.

There was no fear of the lines blurring for me. At the end of the day, I still knew what had to be done. I knew the Ritual required her blood, not her love. But as I watched her chest heave and felt her heat through the thin lace, I decided I might as well enjoy her while I can.

I continued the slow torture, my fingers circling the damp lace of her underwear as she arched into me, her breathing fracturing into broken stutters.

She was right on the edge—I could feel the frantic heat of her, the way her muscles coiled like a spring about to snap. I watched her face, mesmerised by the way her features softened in the throes of a dream that was clearly turning into a masterpiece of my own making.

Then, her eyes shot open.

They were wide, frantic pools of blue, reflecting the silver moonlight and the dark silhouette of the man hovering over her. Before she could let out the scream that would wake her grandmother and ruin the sanctity of this haunting, I slammed my hand over her mouth.

“Shhh,” I hissed, my mismatched eyes locking onto hers. “Don’t wake the neighbours, little bird. This is nothing they need to be part of.”

Shock rippled through her, but as the seconds ticked by, the fear started to mutate.

Her hand flew up, smacking my palm away from her mouth, her other hand shoving uselessly against my chest to clear the space between us.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Cain. Get out,” she snapped, her voice a defiant whisper.

I didn’t budge. Instead, I drove my finger firmer against her pussy, pinning her in place and forcing a soft gasp from her throat as the pressure anchored her to the bed.

A dark smirk tugged at my mouth. “Oh, little one… I’m not here to talk. And I could care less about what you have to say—unless it’s how much you want to sit on my cock.”

Before the last word even fully left my lips, I slammed my hand back over her mouth, cutting off any chance she had to reply and smothering her defiance right back down her throat.

I didn’t stop. I kept my hand moving, circling her with a practiced pace that made her pupils dilate until the blue was almost gone. She didn’t fight me for long. Instead, she let out a shaky breath against my palm, her eyes fluttering shut as she gave in, reached down and placed her hand over mine—guiding me, pressing me harder against her as she chased the peak she was so desperate for.

“We’re going to regret this in the morning,” I muttered, the warning thick and rough in my throat.

She didn’t flinch. “Then give me something worth regretting,” she purred against my palm, her eyes burning into mine. “Keep going.”

She was reaching for it, her body trembling, her head tossing back against the pillow. And then, a sound slipped past her lips. A name, whispered so faintly it was barely a breath of air, but it hit me with the force of a physical blow.

“Julian.”

The word acted like a bucket of ice water over a wildfire.

Rage.

I stopped. Immediately.

I pulled my hand back from her underwear, leaving her suspended at the very edge of the cliff. Her eyes snapped open, clouded with a dazed confusion. She looked at me, heaving for air, her gaze pleading with me to finish what I started—to give her the release her body was screaming for.

But bad girls don’t get to finish. Not when they’re thinking of him.