Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)(73)

To stop lying.

For the first time, I wanted her to invite me in, not to be the one to burst through her door.

“No,” she said, smashing my fantasy to pieces.

“No?” I lifted one eyebrow. “Then I guess I’ll have to chew them off of you.”

“Be careful,” was all she said, nodding.

Stupid tattoo.

I lowered myself to the bed, grabbing the hem of her red sweater and slowly peeling it off of her, inch by inch. Every sliver of skin was important. Like a blunt at the end of a stressful week, like a meal after days of starvation.

I. Was. Going. To. Savor. This. Woman.

She moaned when her sweater fell to the floor, and I licked an arrow straight to her belly button. I used my teeth to get rid of her stupid leggings and cotton panties while she watched me in awe. Then unsnapped her bra between groveling kisses.

She was naked.

She was mine.

This was happening.

I got up, standing on my knees on the bed, and simply stared at her for a few seconds, taking it all in. I was going to fuck this girl until there was nothing left for the next guy who came after me.

Hell, just thinking about it made me want to kill him.

I crawled onto the bed between her thighs and placed my groin over hers. Grinding slowly, building pressure, I kissed her mouth deep and licked her neck, her shoulders, the hollow at her throat. She sighed and grabbed my ass through my jeans, kneading, before unbuttoning the denim and pushing my jeans down along with my boxers. My flesh met her hot skin, and she was smooth, smoother than I’d imagined all these years. When she grabbed my shirt, I clasped her little hand in mine and bit her wrist softly.

“I don’t do shirtless,” I whispered. It was the truth. No shirtless. No dates. No relationships. These were the rules.

She shook her head no. There was something almost violent about that movement.

“You’re not going to have me unless the shirt comes off.”

I didn’t budge. I didn’t want to tell her to fuck off. For once in a very long time, I didn’t want to deal with the consequences of being an asshole. But I didn’t want to take off my shirt either.

“I don’t care about your scars, Vicious,” she stressed, searching my eyes. “They make you you.”

A moment ticked by. I took a deep breath. I’ve never fucked a woman with the lights on. Ever. By the time I started having sex, my skin was already so stained with Daryl’s abuse, I couldn’t bear it. The shame. The weakness it conveyed. Letting her fingers run freely against the bumpy scars was like giving up something that was completely mine.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” she insisted, cupping my cheeks and pressing our lips together. I frowned, breathing her in, my eyes squeezing shut, but Emilia continued.

“We’ve waited a long time for this. I want the real thing. Not the watered-down version. And the real thing is not only beautiful. It is also ugly. I want your truth.”

The head of my cock was already poking at her entrance, so I tried to convince myself I didn’t have any other choice.

Yes, I hated my scars. They were pink against my white skin, impossible to miss and loud, so fucking loud. But my need to be inside her was louder, to the point I was going to go deaf. I groaned and pulled the shirt over my head in one fast movement. Like removing a Band-Aid. I was about to push into her when she stopped me again.

“Condom,” she warned.

Right. Right.

I reached for the nightstand and patted inside the first drawer, knowing Dean kept them there. It was the first time I’d forgotten about wearing a condom since I started doing it, and I didn’t like it at all. My mind was not in the game when Emilia’s pussy was involved.

After tearing the wrapper and sheathing my cock properly, I closed my eyes, finally sinking into Emilia Leblanc. Her nails clawed into my back softly. I tensed when I felt the scape on my old wounds, but I let her. I was sinking into her, while she was sinking into me.

“Breathe,” she whispered into my ear.

I thrust once, surprised at how surreal it felt. I never gave two shits about what women thought of me in bed. But with her, it somehow mattered.

She moaned, encouraging me to go on, stroking my marred flesh. Yet she didn’t make me feel like a freak. Not Emilia. She never made me feel that way.

I thrust again, picking up the pace.

She writhed under me, arching her back, asking for more. We were compatible. I knew we would be. Her skin warm and soft. My hard body enveloping hers perfectly. She was sweet and wet for me, and tiny, but not so tiny for it to be painful for her.

I thrust again.

“Vicious,” she cried out, digging her fingers deep into my skin. Creating new, temporary marks that I loved. That I wanted to exhibit proudly. To wear like fucking trophies. “Oh my God.”