31. Petra #2
He senses my anxiousness, and he glances back at me, the candlelight illuminating his strikingly beautiful face.
“Trust me,” he murmurs.
I gulp down.
“Will it . . . hurt?” I whisper.
His eyes widen.
“What? Of course not. I would never do anything to hurt you, sweet Petra. I only want to make you feel good, to give you pleasure.”
I blink at him, trying to rack my brain for any notion of pleasure in the intimate act between a man and a woman. Yet there’s none. His kisses and caresses on my chest might have felt good, but the shushed rumors I’ve heard said the act itself is painful and unbearable for the woman.
Seeing his expression, so filled with desire—for me—I end up just nodding.
His hand now rests between my thighs, awfully close to my most intimate place.
I grind my teeth, waiting for what’s to come.
Yet when he touches me there, a touch so soft, so gentle, I nearly jump out of my skin. He parts my folds carefully, two fingers sliding down my slit.
It’s . . . not painful? But that realization barely registers because another worry takes its place.
There, where he’s touching me, drops of moisture spill out from within me, coating his fingers.
“Sin,” I whisper in embarrassment.
“Ah, fuck, Petra,” he groans. “You’re wet.” The last word is uttered in reverence. “My woman is wet for me.” He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.
“Is that . . . good?” I ask tentatively
“Good? It’s all I’ve ever dreamed about. My sweet, sweet Petra.” He removes his hand from under my skirt and brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers clean. “Sweet Petra with an even sweeter pussy.”
I redden at his use of such a word, but then I find myself growing even wetter at the gesture.
He grins at me as he touches me there again, this time probing, searching, learning. He presses one finger inside of me, and I instinctively tighten my muscles.
“Easy,” he whispers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I nod.
He pushes his finger in and out of me a few times, his expression one of reverence. “You’re so tight. I can’t wait to . . .” He trails off and shakes his head.
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t
Instead, his fingers move slightly higher. I feel a zap of electricity shoot through me, and I lose all train of thought.
“Oh!”
He smiles. “That’s perfect. Tell me everything you’re feeling.”
“It’s strange but . . . good?”
His thumb presses on that spot again, and the same spark ignites within me.
Watching my expression carefully, he continues to swirl his thumb around that pressure center. Each time, the spark gains strength. It slowly builds in my lower stomach, like a matchstick striking against a match safe in search of ignition.
His strokes gain speed, and at the same time, he leans in to kiss me again.
Perhaps it’s his wicked hand movements, perhaps it’s his kiss, or perhaps both. But something erupts within me, my entire body tensing as he swallows my moans.
“What . . .” I whisper, barely able to find my voice. “What was that?”
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs against my lips. “You’re so beautiful when you come undone, Petra.”
“I . . .” I blink away tears. My eyes are moist. My entire body is languid and relaxed. I gaze at him, and warmth unfurls inside me. “Sin . . .”
He removes his hand from between my legs and arranges my skirt back into place.
Pulling me into his arms, he cradles my head to his chest and rocks lightly with me.
“Thank you for giving me this,” he whispers in my hair. “For allowing me to touch you.”
The euphoria from before slowly clears from my mind, and I start to ask myself questions: Why is he suddenly so gentle, so obsequious, when before he would have been fine bartering his soul for a kiss?
Yet just as I want to voice my concerns aloud, a knock at the door fills the silence.
He tenses, his arms tightening around me.
Another knock.
He ignores it; or wants to ignore it.
But on the third knock it is clear that whoever is at the door has no intention of leaving.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He deposits me on the bed and goes to the door. I stare at his retreating back as the door closes behind him.
At first, silence is once more my companion.
But a few short moments after, a raised voice echoes through the tunnel.
Sin’s voice.
“I told you I would do it,” he says. “B.”
Yet the odd thing is that no voice answers back.
Frowning, I tiptoe to the door and fit my eye against the peephole.
The hallway is dark save for a few candles in the periphery. I can make out Sin’s back. He’s talking to someone, gesturing with his hands.
“It was just one time,” he adds, seemingly in anger.
This close, I can hear him perfectly. Just as I can hear the silence that greets him.
“Don’t you dare threaten her!” he shouts.
This time, something knocks into him. He lets out a gasp of surprise and moves to the side, revealing his interlocutor—or lack thereof.
No one. There is no one there save for darkness.
My hand flies to my mouth as I watch Sin’s body levitate, as if some invisible force has taken hold of him.
I stumble back in horror.
A bang reverberates outside the room. Then the door opens, and Sin strides inside. His features are tense and tight, so different from the gentle lover from before.
“I will take you home.”
“But . . . what was that? Who was that, Sin?”
“I will take you home, Petra,” he repeats, this time more emphatic.
So stunned I am by everything that happened, by the intimacy we shared and then the strange occurrence in that dark hallway, that I can only follow along in a trance.
Yet a thought persists.
The devil. He was talking to the devil.