SWNOVELS Sinners Consumed: Chapter 9
an itch I can’t scratch. A disease I can’t cure.
Sighing, I drop my forehead against a porthole and watch the raindrops as they race to the bottom of the glass. Is this what it feels like to be a fool in lust? It’s maddening.
My body hums with an excited electricity, as though I’m forever plugged in at the mains. My mind keeps finding new Rafe-related things to obsess over. As I wait for this stupid lasagna to bake, it’s his possessive grip on my hips as he came inside me an hour ago. Before that, it was how he licked me from clit to nipple in one desperate swoop of his tongue.
Shuddering, I pad over to the oven and crack the door to check on my creation again. Cooking isn’t what I’d planned to do with my afternoon, and not because I’m shit at it. No, I was meant to go dress shopping with Rory for the staff Christmas party, but the weather is too bad to drive the speedboat.
Shame. I needed that shopping trip like I need air. As if filling my lungs with something other than this man would make the world stop spinning. Throwing the oven mitt on the counter, another more rational thought comes to mind. Maybe I’m so light-headed because the weight of Martin O’Hare was heavier than I’d realized. Of course, I’m going to look at the man who took that burden from me through rose-tinted glasses.
Within our mahogany-clad bubble, we’ve slipped into somewhat of a routine. We fuck all morning, then Rafe cooks eggs and sourdough toast while making angry Italian phone calls. Afternoons are lazy and lust-fueled, a blur of reading For Dummies books and endless games, where the loser succumbs to the mercy of the other. Nights are spent on the mainland in the warmth of Rafe’s car. He conducts business while I fall asleep to the low hum of the heater, full of burgers and deliciously sore.
I rise to my tip-toes to grab two plates from the cupboard, and as the inside of Rafe’s hoodie grazes against my bare nipples, they tingle from the friction. Breathless, I drop to my heels and lean against the counter, trying let the heat pass without me doing something stupid, like stomping into his office and demanding he puts his mouth on me again.
Fuck, I don’t know about love, but lust burns. All this fucking is a gateway drug and now I need something more, something more potent.
A kiss.
Not enough to pay him a million dollars I don’t have, of course, but still. It’d be nice.
As I’m dishing up the food, my cell buzzes on the counter with a text message.
Rafe: Hot tub.
Jesus, for such a smooth talker in person, he sure is stunted over text. But I decide against sending back a sassy message, because he locked himself in his office for the last hour, and I’m just happy he’s finished working. I grab the plates and wobble through the yacht, trying to keep upright as the storm rocks the corridors.
When I kick the door open to the sky deck, my heart lurches at the sight. Behind a thin veil of steam and in front of the raging storm, Rafe sprawls in the hot tub, a vision of ink and muscle. His wingspan is ridiculous. His arms stretch out along the back rest, and just out-of-reach from his busted hand sits a glass of vodka. I glance at it, then at the cigar clenched between his teeth.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Me losing four million dollars in a racehorse investment.”
“Is that my fault?”
“Of course.” He glances down to the hem of the hoodie. I’m wearing nothing underneath but a thong and his belt marks on my ass. “Get in.”
The rain beats on the awning above our heads. The wind whistles past Rafe’s broad shoulders and lashes my skin. “It’s freezing!”
Smirking, he takes a slow puff on his cigar, the cherry glowing red like a warning sign. “I’ll warm you up.”
With a shiver entirely unrelated to being near-naked in a December storm, I drop our dinner on the side bar and slide the hoodie over my head and my thong down my thighs. Rafe’s wolf-whistle is light-hearted, but ill-intentions swirl in his irises like slow-churning lava.
Under the weight of his molten attention, I step into the hot tub. The heat is like a hug, soothing the ache between my thighs and the bruises on my skin.
In an attempt to play it cool, I settle on the bench across from him, sliding down so everything below my shoulders is submerged in water. “If it’s any consolation, you’re not losing everything. You’ve won every game of Mario Kart we’ve played.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Yes, but you’re so bad I’m surprised you’re allowed to have a driver’s license in real life.”
I scowl. “Fighting talk for a man who owns casinos yet can’t grasp the basic rules of UNO!”
Biting back a smile, he drops his gaze to my collarbone. “I’m not concentrating on the rules, Queenie. Come here.”
Letting out a tense breath, I swim into his orbit, coming to a stop when my knees brush against his. Steam rises from his body, like I’ve opened the door to a sauna. I resist the urge to run my hands down his wet chest and dip them under the water to see whether my fingers find swim trunks or not. Instead, I slide forward onto his lap and find the answer between my thighs.
As I let out a strangled sigh, he studies me with amusement over the length of his cigar. He takes a slow puff, then tilts his head up to blow the smoke over my head.
“Let me try it.”
Before he can protest, I take it from him and put it in my mouth. I take a drag, like I would a cigarette, and immediately start spluttering at the dry smoke filling my throat.
Large hands palm my back, and his chest vibrates against mine. “Don’t choke,” he says.
Opening my eyes, I’m met with the same humor-filled regard as I was the first time he said that to me—in the bar, after I slammed a shot of hundred-dollar whiskey. That feels like a lifetime ago now, and if you’d told me then that I’d be sitting on my mark’s mega-yacht, in his hot tub, with his semi-hard dick nestled between my thighs and his watch still on my wrist, I’d have thought you were crazy.
“Here,” he says softly, spinning me sideways so I’m tucked into the crook of his arm. One hand rests heavy on my thigh, while the other slips the cigar back between my lips. Fuck, he makes me feel so small. “Try again, but this time, close the back of your throat. You want to suck, but not inhale.”
My cough is less violent this time, but his laugh still rumbles against my shoulder. I reach for his vodka and wash away the tobacco taste. “Still grim.”
“Mm,” he says, running his hand up my thigh and over my stomach. “Tastes better with whiskey.”
I stare at the glass in my hand, flustering with a sudden bout of nervous energy. “Damn, still drinking vodka?” My eyes crawl up to his. “You must really want to kiss me.”
Hot, heavy seconds pass. My heart stills when he glances to my lips, but the look is over as quickly as it arrived. He puts the cigar in an ashtray and turns his attention to the plates on the side and changes the subject.
“And what is this?”
I give our dinner a careless glance. “Slop.”
He smirks. “Please tell me you didn’t attempt to cook a hot-blooded Italian man a lasagna?”
But I’m barely listening. My mind is still stuck on the idea of kissing him, and suddenly, I can’t concentrate on anything else.
Fuck this. The art of persuasion has gotten me six-figure timepieces and bulging wallets, and I can’t persuade this one man to commit the modest act of putting his lips to mine?
Time to amp up the pressure.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I twist around so I’m straddling him. His eyes narrow in suspicion, but when I lean back just enough for my breasts to bob out of the water, his expression melts into something more pliable.
“I kiss better than I cook,” I whisper, rolling my hips so my pussy glides over the length of his dick.
My skin dances as he palms my thighs and grips my ass cheeks. “Yeah?”
I lean in, bringing my face so close to his, our lips are a hair’s breadth apart. “Yeah.”
When he closes the gap even more, my breathing shallows. My ears roar with a mix of heavy rainfall and my racing heartbeat. He’s really going to do it.
His lips graze against mine. “Prove it.”
We breathe in each other’s air for a moment, the sparks of what if’s and maybe so’s dancing between us.
I’m buzzing off the anticipation, but I feign enough nonchalance to say, “Okay.”
He leans back against the side, spreading his arms out like a fucking king. There’s that satisfied smirk again, the one I’ve grown used to over the last week. I see it every time my Princess Peach avatar crashes out of the race. “Okay.”
Letting out a shaky breath, I follow his retreat, pushing in between his thighs. I slide my fingers into the nape of his hair. The last thing I see before my mouth moves to his is the darkening of his gaze. Before our lips touch, I veer off course and plant a soft kiss on his dimple. Because of his own sleazy tactics, I know full well a kiss anywhere but the lips doesn’t count.
His stomach tenses against mine, then releases with a sardonic chuckle. “You’re a fucking tease, you know that?”
Instead of replying, I turn my attention to his throat. Tugging on his short hair just enough to pull his head back, I kiss his pulse how I want to kiss his lips. Slowly, sloppily. A soft lick with my tongue and a hard suck with my mouth. As his hot hiss coasts over the shell of my ear, I make a porn-like noise, one I’m not sure is only for theatrics.
His cock stirs between my thighs, and the thought of him getting hard off a school-girl trick makes me drunk on a cocktail of lust and power. I pull away to tease him about it, but his hand shoots out and grabs my neck. He watches me in silence, a tightness to his jaw and a fire in his eye. When he speaks, his tone is calm.
“You’re fucked, Queenie.”
Shit.
He chases me to the other side of the hot tub, grabbing my ankle and pulling me back into the water when I try to escape over the side. He pins me against the bench with his hard body. When I make a pathetic attempt to push him off, he grabs both my wrists, holds them above my head, and presses his nose against mine.
Despite the chill coasting down my arms and breasts, I’m hot all over. Flashing me a look of pure venom, Rafe’s head dips between his shoulders and his mouth latches onto my breast, giving it an angry suck before scraping his teeth over my nipple. All the nerve endings in my pussy flare up, desperate for more.
I push my tits against his face in a silent plea, receiving his groan of approval. His grip tightens on my wrists, and as I throw my head back, the sight of his muscles and tendons flexing in his forearms as he restrains me drives me crazy.
Before I can think about it, I wrap my legs around his waist, lick up the length of his bicep, and sink my teeth into his muscle.
“Fuck,” he hisses, letting my arms fall. “Did you just bite me?”
I look at him seriously. “You know what they say. Eat the rich.”
He stares at me in disbelief for a beat, then his eyes spark violently. His hands grip my hips. “That’s it, Queenie. Turn around.”
My body reacts before my brain can. Before my brain even knows what the fuck I’m doing, let alone why. I tighten my thighs around his waist, but when he twists me harder, I slip off him. The only way I can stop myself from turning is lifting my foot up and slamming it into his chest. My ass slides off the seat and my head dunks under water.
Rafe’s hands slide under my armpits and put me back to rights. His amused expression melts into realization when he meets my eyes.
“Turn around, Penny,” he says quietly.
When I don’t reply, he tries to twist me again. I put my foot back on his chest. His gaze slides down to it, then flicks back up to me.
“No,” I whisper.
My voice is calm but the insinuation screams.
I don’t want him to fuck me like the others. In fact, the very thought makes me want to set the world on fire. At the very least, hunt down those other girls and do things to them that’ll put me in prison.
With every silent second that passes, vulnerability rolls off me in waves. The fire between my thighs simmers to a tepid heat. I’m moments away from donkey-kicking him and biting out a nasty remark to protect my ego when he pushes my foot off him and closes the gap between us. With a rough grip on my wrist, he yanks me off the seat and takes my place, then pulls me onto his lap so I’m straddling him.
My high is shaky and impossible to conceal. I let out a ragged sigh and swallow the dryness in my throat. As Rafe’s hand dips below the water and gently parts my thighs, he looks up at me with a lazy smolder.
“Is this what you want, Queenie?” he asks, so softly that I can barely hear him over the storm. He cups my jaw, running his thumb over my cheek as he studies my reaction. “For me to fuck you like this?”
My stomach churns. I feel like I’m standing on the very edge of a cliff, inviting this man to push me off. I protect myself by stepping back from the edge.
Dropping my hand between his thighs and wrapping it around his length, I say, “Getting railed from behind is getting a little old, don’t you think?”
His lower stomach tenses against my knuckles. For the briefest of moments, his eyes blacken with irritation, but they cool to indifference as he releases his grip on my jaw.
He leans his elbows back on the side, as if settling in for a lap dance. “Show me what you’ve got then,” he says in a bored tone.
His sudden apathy stings, but in the long run, I know it’s better than anything warmer. Anything that’d be harder to forget when this is all over.
With a flutter in my stomach, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never been on top, and in the cold light of day, I can’t bury my inexperience in a pillow. I swallow my nerves and lift my ass up just enough to grind down on his erection. Fuck. It’s so hard, so smooth, the sensation spreads from my clit through my veins. He drops his head back against the side, watching me through a lethargic, half-lidded stare as I roll my hips against him. I grow slicker, more sensitive, more desperate for friction.
He hisses when I dip my hand under the water and grip him at the base. He whispers a tight “fuck” when his tip pushes inside of me. But every inch I take stings a little more, the pain expanding up into my stomach and denting my confidence.
Fuck. He’s so much deeper in this position, and I don’t think I can take it. My eyes are watering by the time I’m halfway down. He regards my fingernails digging into his shoulder and his gaze softens.
“You haven’t done this before.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but I still tense with the urge to deflect it. Before I can, he puts his hands on my hips and slowly pulls me down onto him. “Relax,” he murmurs, nuzzling into my neck. “Let me inside of you, Queenie.”
I’d laugh if I thought it wouldn’t come out bitter. Truth is, this man is so deep inside me already that I don’t know how I’m ever going to get him out.
I wrap my arms around his neck, tilting my head to the storm-ravaged horizon as he rolls my hips for me in slow, cautious movements. The pain simmers to a delicious heat, the wet friction against my pussy making my muscles weak.
Now adjusted, I start moving my hips on my own, chasing my own pleasure. Rafe’s groan rumbles against my throat. His hands move to my back and he rakes his thick fingers down my spine, stopping to swipe a thumb over the heart at the small of my back.
“This fucking tattoo,” he hisses, grazing his teeth against my collarbone and kissing a path down my breasts. “What I’d pay Tayce to ink it on you permanently.”
There’s a sarcastic retort about my next enemy-with-benefits probably not being happy about that somewhere at the back of my mind, but it doesn’t come to fruition. Instead, I thread my fingers through the back of his hair and pull his face into my chest. My tattoo. Us. I don’t want to think about temporary things right now.
I pick up the pace, trying to fuck reality away. Rafe adapts to my rhythm, taking over by gripping my neck and fucking me, hard. The scrape of his teeth against my nipples. His chest sliding against mine. He’s so warm and large and intense. Every thrust feels like a stoke of a fire; I want to keep poking it until I burst into flames.
His lips press against the space behind my hair. “Want to know a secret?” I can only nod in response. “I’ve never done this, either.”
His confession slides up my spine and chokes me. I pull his head back and drop my forehead against his. Our mouths are so close, I can taste his last drag on his cigar. “Really?”
Meeting my gaze, he slows his thrusts. The tiniest slither of unease mars his features. “Yeah,” he murmurs back. “Guess I just can’t stop breaking rules for you.”
My skin dances in ecstasy. The idea that this is new for him too sends a smug satisfaction through my bones. Feeling a weird need to reward him for his honesty, I push myself down on him and hold myself there. His eyes flutter shut, and when he opens them again, they’re filled with a new violence. With a grunt, he carries me over to the other side of the hot tub, slamming my back against the side.
His thrusts are sharp and unrelenting. His grip on my throat inescapable. He braces himself with a hand by my head and grits his teeth.
“I can’t stand you, baby. Look what you do to me.” His next thrust feels like a punishment. “You turn me into a fucking animal.”
When his eyes drop to my lips, I smirk. “There you go, looking like you want to kiss me again.”
He rasps out a laugh. “Nah. Just wondering what they’d look like wrapped around my cock.”
Flustered, I try to twist my face from his grip, but it only tightens on my jaw. I’ve never done that before, and the thought of being shit at it for him makes me cringe. It’s clearly written all over my face, because his eyes narrow and his hips slow. “You haven’t done that either?”
“I’m saving blow jobs for marriage,” I blurt out.
His eyes flash black, and he slams into me a little harder. “Liar. You don’t believe in marriage.”
“True,” I breathe out, lifting my knees so he can get even deeper. White sparks fly behind my eyes. I’m so close. “Marriage is a losing game, darling.”
His dark laugh skitters over my lips. “Yeah? What would you lose?”
“My freedom. My dignity. My pride.”
He shakes his head again, smirking in disbelief. Glancing at my nails digging into his bicep, he drops his hand to my clit, rubbing in small, taunting circles. My toes curl up, and if it wasn’t for his iron-clad grip on my face, I’d tilt my head back and cry to the pouring heavens.
Instead, I can only lock eyes with him as he picks me apart at the seams. His stare is different now, something pensive dampening the lust. “And what would I lose?”
I swallow. “If…we got married?”
Christ, even in a hypothetical situation, those words taste weird in my mouth.
He slides into me, but halts then holds himself there. Stops teasing my clit. Still and silent, he nods.
I breathe out shakily. “You’d lose half your shit when I take it from you in the divorce.”
He stares at me for a moment, before grinding out a laugh of disbelief. “I suddenly remembered why I prefer your head buried in a pillow when we fuck,” he growls, “You talk too much.”
His hand moves from my jaw to my mouth, muffling my moans with his palm. I struggle against his restraint, only because he watches me with fascination when I do. The unadulterated lust in his expression and the hot, heavy weight of him against me sends me over the edge.
My orgasm is aggressive and bone-shaking, sweeping through me like a hurricane that doesn’t care about the destruction it leaves in its wake.
When I float down, my senses sharpen enough to realize he’s completely motionless. My next breath wets his palm. He removes it and runs a finger across my bottom lip, his eyes tracking the motion. When he looks back up at me, his expression is somber. Something about it tightens my chest. I don’t dare breathe, let alone crack a joke.
Just as the tension starts to scorch, he thrusts into me again, slow and searing. He falls into a rhythm but doesn’t pick up pace. Not when I tilt my hips, nor when I tighten my thighs around his waist.
He fucks me slowly. Fucks me steadily. And as his fingers skim a gently path down my side, an awful realization settles on my chest: we’re not fucking at all.
There’s another name for what this is, and it doesn’t belong to us. It’s permanent to our temporary; serious to our casual.
By the time his stomach tenses against mine and he fills me with his warmth, I’m biting down the emotion in my throat. And when his breathing slows back to normal, the realization seems to hit him too.
He glances out at the storm. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. He pushes away and, despite feeling sick, I reach out and grab his wrist before he disappears completely, because somehow, that seems worse.
His gaze hesitates on the watch on my wrist, then skims up my arm and lands on my face.
I swallow. “Bet you a hundred dollars I’ll beat you at Mario Kart.”
We listen to the hammering of the rain. Finally, he nods. “Make it two hundred and you have a deal.”
I watch his inked back flex as he jumps out of the hot tub and grabs me a towel from the side.
We both know I won’t win, but I’d rather lose that game than this one.