Page 36 of Guilty as Sin

I try again to pull my wrist from his grasp, and this time, he lets me go. Our only remaining point of connection is my palm on his chest. Slowly I make myself withdraw, and yet I can’t stop touching him. I keep my fingertips against his skin, the lightest possible contact, but what my body wants is more, the full press of him against me. I feel Brady’s gaze like a spotlight on my face as I drift my fingers along his chest, tracing the tattoo above his heart, an outline of a three-leaf clover.

“Not four?” I ask. My voice breaks the tense silence between us, but Brady’s muscles remain tight as ever beneath my touch.

“I’m a second son. I make my own luck.”

“Doesn’t it ever bother you?” I ask. “Being stuck in your role just because you were born there?”

“No. I know my place. Unlike some.”

I drop my fingers from his chest. Turning away, I pull out gauze and tape from my bag as a distraction to keep my anger in check. Brady looks ready to argue over whether he needs a protective layer to prevent infection, but he keeps his jaw clenched, the muscles beneath his short beard flexing.

When I’m done, I run my finger along every piece of tape, pressing gently to make sure it sticks. I complete the process, then double-check everything just in case. It’s like I’m mesmerized, and I do it again, leaning in for a visual inspection. Closer, then closer still.

Brady grabs my thighs. He pulls me off the arm of the couch and onto his lap, knees apart so I’m straddling him, mere inches of empty space between our chests. My pulse spikes again. When Brady shifts himself beneath me, I feel how huge he is, and I gasp. Fuck. I pretend not to notice by keeping my attention on his gauze-covered wound.

“He got awful close to your jugular,” I say, as if I can’t feel his hard cock between my legs, as if I’m not desperate to rub myself against him.

“The eejit didn’t know what he was doing.” Brady’s even better at playing casual than I am, irritatingly so.

I remain as still as possible, but my pussy throbs with want. I swallow as I watch him lift his thumb to the hollow of his throat.

“If you have to stab someone in the neck, you stab them here, and you stab them deep.” He waits for me to nod, then drags his thumb in a slicing motion across his trachea and jugular. “Stab. And slash.”

With his thumb on his throat, he levels his gaze at me, the gray-green of his eyes burning with challenge. Last time I reached for his neck, it didn’t go well, yet I find myself tempted to try again. Maybe it’s the challenge in his eyes, or his hard cock beneath me, but I want him to know I understand what he’s telling me, and why.

He’s making sure I know how to protect myself. Stab. And slash.

This time I move slowly, lifting my hand between us, drifting my fingers toward his throat as he watches. He doesn’t stop me, and I lay my finger in the hollow of his throat. It’s a soft touch, almost like a kiss, until I start pressing down. Stab. I bury my fingertip in his neck, so deep I can feel the ridges of his trachea.

His eyes burn hotter. He still has his thumb on the side of his neck, and we both know that if he wanted to grab my wrist again, he would. If he wanted to grab both my wrists, if he wanted to throw me backward onto the coffee table, if he wanted to keep me pinned down, he could.

But all he does is maintain his heated stare as I press down on his throat. If it’s a game of chicken, he wins, because I ease up on the pressure before he calls mercy. I slide my finger from the hollow of his throat to the side of his neck. And slash. It’s me telling him that yes, I know how to protect myself.

My finger grazes his thumb, and he covers my hand with his, stopping my touch from wrapping around his neck. Even though I’m on his lap, we’re roughly eye to eye, so I sit up a little taller. The adjustment shifts my hips, rubbing my clit against his hard cock in just the right way. I moan. I can’t help it. Even through his jeans and my leggings, the feel of him is too good.

With the hand that’s covering mine, he slides my touch down his chest, down the ridges of his abs, down to the deep V above his jeans. Then he lifts both our hands away, guiding me to touch not him, but myself. Instinctively I lift my hips as he cups my hand over my pussy. The pressure feels good, but through my leggings and panties, it isn’t enough.

It’s as if Brady knew what I was thinking, because he pulls his hand away, and then he’s reaching under my sweatshirt to slide his hand down my pants. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate, as if each one is a test. Whether it’s a test for me or a test for him, I’m not sure, but I know I want more. I gasp at the feel of his touch on my bare skin. His fingers tease along the top of my panties, then slip beneath the lacy fabric. When he feels how wet I am, he groans in satisfaction.

“So fucking ready for me,” he whispers.

He pinches my clit, and I yelp in surprise. There’s both pain and pleasure in it, and the combination swirls through me like pure dopamine in my veins. He pinches me again, a little harder this time. My thighs spasm, squeezing tight as I straddle him. With a dark chuckle, Brady pats my clit lightly, as if in approval.

Then without warning, he shoves two fingers inside me, and my eyes go wide. There’s intensity in his expression, so focused on my reactions. As he starts pumping his fingers in and out of my pussy, I have to cling to his good shoulder for support. He’s so firm beneath me, and I am putty in his hands.

When he rubs his thumb against my clit, I’m done for. I let out a low moan as he works my pussy, all of my muscles tensing as the pressure of my orgasm builds.

“Are you ready to beg for my cock?” Brady uses his sexiest growl.

My breath hitches. If this is what his fingers can do, then absolutely yes I want his cock inside of me. But I promised myself I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging. I bite my lip but say nothing.

In response, he rubs my clit even harder, pumps his fingers inside me even faster. A shiver runs through me as all of my pleasure gathers in my core, ready to explode outward. My pussy walls start to clench, but then Brady withdraws his fingers. He pulls his hand out of my leggings as I whimper with the realization of what he’s doing.

He’s going to leave me hanging.

His face is cruelly impassive as he holds up his two fingers between us, my wetness shining on them like a rebuke. He wipes them on my pants, then grips my thighs, stands up, and dumps me unceremoniously onto the couch.

I stare up at him, my jaw open with angry shock.