Silent Sins ✓ ( book 1) Editing in Progress

Chapter 43

It was extremely daunting to post this update!

Ps: I'm not sure if I will be posting tomorrow because I spent a lot of time editing this chapter (and reading a court of mist and fury) when I should have been editing Chapter 44 xD

But! if I don't post tomorrow, I will be posting on Friday!
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A man wearing black is enough to set you ablaze. To divert you from the eternal motion of the globe spinning on its atlas. The man before me does not wear black, but the night soaks the colours from his shirt as though he is.

The man before me is faceless in the dark, yet I can make out the lines of his body through the dusty reflection of the moon. When he turns, his face glows as if the stars want to dance upon his skin.

"Why should I be afraid?" I whisper.

"Because you don't know me." He mumbles as if the dust might carry his words to wondering ears.

"I want to," I tell him at last.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know you."

He goes silent, and my heart grows heavy with anticipation. I want to know him. I realise that now. I thought of him to be a monster for so long. I owe it to him to let him show himself. His true self. Not the one he carries when he's around others. There's something deeper beneath that and I don't think anyone has ever discovered it. Something about potentially being the first one is thrilling.

"You won't like what you find." He brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek. "No one ever does."

I glide closer to the edge and rise from the bed, pushing down all my insecurities. "Try me,"

His eyes are reverent and feverish, lost in the temptations of our heated bodies. "Tell me to walk away," he whispers, moving closer.

"No."

"Tell me to walk away."

I shake my head, and his jaw clenches tightly. The need to trail my fingers over his tense, straining muscles overcomes me, but then he plants a kiss on my lips. This time, it is urgent and compelling. "Tell me to walk away." He insists, louder.

When he tries to pull away, I rest my hands on either side of his head and keep him there; holding him until my lips go numb and my palms clam with sweat.

I fall back slowly, and the air escapes me as we dip into the soft curve of the mattress. He fists my hair in his hands and our lips meet again.

Sweet, bitter sin.

His cool knuckles graze my skin and the heady presence of his touch keeps me conscious and lost, dazed and astray. I am aware of him and nothing else. He is doing everything at this moment to make sure I am present, physically and emotionally.

The dark wooden floors and unfriendly furniture doting his entire home make sense now. It leaves no room for imagination, creativity, or childhood memories. I wonder if they conditioned him to be like this as a child. To live in the moment.

I have never felt such intense emotions surge through someone's touch. When I feel the frazzled heat, I know he is lost in desire, but when I feel a distant chill creep in; he is cautious and wary of my body.

Our bodies are buried in the moon dust. But somehow, he knows what I need. Knows where to touch. The small, faint strokes of his hand against my arms can be felt like sparks in my core, but he touches nothing below my waist.