Page 216 of Sinister

I swallow hard. “I don’t remember that being so . . . large?” I mutter before I can stop myself.

He laughs, amused. “Yes, well, it seems I made a deal with the devil to give me a very large cock.”

I can’t help myself; I burst out laughing, remembering my foolish comment from earlier. The shared laughter eases my nerves and settles my fears.

But then his expression suddenly changes. The good humor from before is replaced with a ravenous look that makes the hair on my body stand up. I wet my lips, waiting for him to fill in the silence.

His body is tense, his jaw locked tight as he stares at me.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle, Petra,” he admits in a ragged tone. “I want you so much. I’ve wanted you for far too long.”

I swallow hard. “If that is what you want to offer me, then I don’t want gentle. I want you, Sin. And I want you to show me your truest self. I don’t want you to hold back because you think you’ll hurt me. You’ll hurt me more by doing so. So please, show me. Show me everything you want to do to me.”

My admission seems to surprise him. At the same time, he looks like he’s battling himself, a storm of emotions crossing his features. He doesn’t know what to do.

He’s still holding back, and I hate that. I hate to see him limit himself just because he’s afraid of shocking me—perhaps even of scaring me.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask him.

I’m still rather embarrassed by my naked state, but the more I look into his eyes, the more I lose myself in those stormy blue irises that promise to love and worship me in equal measure, the less I care.

His lips tighten into a line.

“Tell me,” I repeat when he makes no move.

He’s standing there, gloriously naked, his body rippling with every breath. Broad shoulders. Muscles carved like stone. A chest and abdomen so well-defined, it’s like looking at a sculpture brought to life.

And then there’s that part of him I’m still hesitant to linger on with my gaze.

By now, he’s fully hard, his shaft angled toward his stomach, ready.

He pins me in place with his gaze.

“Run,” he says finally. “I want you to run.”

62

PETRA

“Run?” I blink in shock. Of all the things he could’ve said . . . “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“I want you to run, Petra. Run from me as if I were a monster chasing you. Run from me as if your life depends on it.”

“But—”

“And when I catch you,” he continues, “I want you to beg me. I want you to beg me not to take you, and I’ll take you anyway. I want you to beg me not to touch you with my beastly hands, and I’ll touch you anyway. I want you to plead with me to leave you alone, even knowing I never will.”

“Sin, that’s—” I stammer, blinking rapidly. I don’t understand. Why would he want me to run from him, to fight him, to tell him I don’t want him . . . when he knows all too well how much I do? How much my body aches for him?

“Don’t you see, Petra?” he says, taking a step closer. His hand comes up to my chest and circles my neck, not roughly, but firmly. “I’m fucked up. I am so fucked up. I can’t imagine taking you any other way than with you fighting me, hating me. I want you to fight for your life—even while knowing you’re at my mercy.

“Does that disgust you? Does it scare you?”

“I just . . . I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” he whispers, caressing my cheek with his free hand while tightening the other slightly at my throat. He brings me closer until his lips brush across mine. “You awaken such a wild need in me, Petra. A need so raw, I don’t know how to control myself. I don’t know how to stop myself from taking and taking. I want to own you, even knowing that I don’t deserve you.”

I’m still in shock over his demand. I keep wondering what prompted this. We were doing so well—he was opening up to me, being so gentle and comforting. And now he wants me to run away from him?