Chapter 883: The Sins of Sarah~ 2 (r-18)

She was shaking violently now—legs threatening to give, back arched off the wall, fingers pulsing in my hair in time with her heartbeat.

Hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles, smearing wet heat across my lips, my chin. A thin thread of saliva and her slick connected my tongue to the cotton when I pulled back for a breath. Filthy. Beautiful.

She saw it—eyes fluttering open just long enough—and the sight pushed another broken sob out of her.

We were still in the hallway. Door inches away. Voices and floorboards quiet somewhere deeper in the house. But neither of us moved to open it. Not yet. This—this trembling, filthy, reverent edge we were balanced on—was the best part of the walk.

And neither of us was ready to step over it. Because once we crossed that threshold, the princess would be gone. Only the corrupted little devil would remain—wet, wrecked, and finally free.

****

He carried her to the bed.

Excruciatingly slow.

One knee sank into the mattress first. The bed sighed beneath his weight—a soft creak of springs, the intimate rustle of Egyptian cotton giving way.

He never once let her feel unsupported: one arm locked strong behind her back, broad hand splayed high between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the backs of her thighs, fingers sinking just deep enough into plush flesh to brand the message into her skin—

she was held, cherished, desperately wanted.

Sarah’s breath caught as the mattress dipped and welcomed her body. Her ass settled first, then the graceful curve of her lower back, shoulders following, until she lay half-reclined, legs still wrapped possessively around his hips.

Her thighs squeezed tighter on instinct, heels digging into the firm muscle at the backs of his thighs, silently begging—

pull me closer, don’t you dare stop.

He obeyed without a word. Lowered himself over her in torturously measured inches—his chest brushing hers first, the hard, heated planes of him sinking her softer curves deeper into the sheets.

The weight of him was

perfect

: heavy enough to pin her in place, light enough to let her breathe, solid enough to make every untouched inch of her skin scream for contact.

Forearms braced on either side of her head, he caged her gently, heat pouring off him in slow, rolling waves that made her shiver.

Their faces hovered, breaths colliding—hot, ragged, unsteady. Her lips fell open on a trembling exhale; his eyes—black with hunger—locked onto hers like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

She moved

first.

Fingers speared into his hair,

tugged

—not gently, not anymore—dragging his mouth back down to hers. The kiss was raw, consuming, tongues sliding deep and languid, tasting everything still clinging between them: salt from his skin, the lingering musk of her arousal he’d licked from the insides of her thighs earlier.

A low, throaty

moan

spilled from her straight into his mouth—vibrating down his spine, making his cock jerk hard against the soaked cotton still separating them.

He answered with a broken groan of his own. One hand glided down her side—tracing the dramatic dip of her

waist,

the

generous flare of her hip

—until his palm cupped her ass again, lifting her just enough to grind their hips tighter together.

The thick ridge of him dragged against her clit through fabric; she gasped sharply, nails raking lightly down his scalp, urging him

deeper

,

harder

.

He tore his mouth from hers only to map lower—open, wet kisses along her jaw, lingering at the tender spot beneath her ear that made her whimper, then down to the frantic pulse at the side of her throat.

He sucked—

gentle at first, then harder

—leaving faint, blooming red marks she would press her fingers to tomorrow and remember exactly how his mouth had claimed her.

Her neck arched, offering more. Chest

thrust

upward. Breasts strained against the thin tank, nipples tight and shamelessly visible.

His free hand slipped under the hem of her top. Palm flattened against quivering bare stomach—feeling every tiny flutter, every quick breath.

He pushed the fabric higher, inch by torturous inch, exposing skin to cool air and his far hotter mouth.

Kisses chased the path he uncovered: the delicate sternum, the soft undercurve of one breast, then higher—tongue flicking once over a peaked nipple through cotton before he finally yanked the shirt up and off.

It vanished somewhere behind them.

Sarah’s hands were already frantic on him—clawing at his shirt, desperate for skin-on-skin. He rose just enough to tear it over his head and throw it aside.

Then he was back—bare chest crashing into bare breasts, heat slamming together like a struck match. Her legs hooked higher around his waist; heels dug into the small of his back, grinding slow, filthy circles that dragged matching shudders from both of them.

His mouth returned to her breast—no barrier now. Lips closed around one aching nipple, tongue circling lazily before he sucked—

hard

.

A soft, broken

"ohhh"

tore from her throat; her back bowed sharply off the bed, fingers twisting in the sheets. The sound was raw, intimate, echoing faintly in the quiet room like a secret only they would ever hear.

He gave the other breast the same slow, deliberate devotion—sucking, laving, teeth grazing just enough to make her hips jerk—while his hand wandered lower. His palm gliding over ribs, dipping into the sensitive hollow of her navel, then lower still—fingers tracing the waistband of her shorts, feeling the damp heat already soaking through, the way her body trembled in anticipation.

She whimpered—high, needy, completely undone. "

Peter...

" His name left her on a shaky, pleading breath.

"Please."

He lifted his head. Eyes met hers—dark, blazing, utterly focused.

His free hand slipped under the hem of her top. Palm flattened against the quivering bare skin of her stomach—feeling every tiny flutter, every shallow, excited breath.

He pushed the fabric higher,

inch by torturous inch

, exposing more of her to the cool air and the furnace of his gaze.

He paused when the shirt

bunched just beneath

her breasts.

Peter pushed the shirt higher—

so slowly

it felt like time itself had thickened. The thin cotton dragged against her skin in tiny, deliberate

increments,

catching first on the soft lower curve of one breast, then the other.

Each millimeter of exposure revealed more flushed, trembling flesh—

firm, youthful teardrops

rising proudly,

untouched

by gravity, the skin already blooming with guilty heat from throat to sternum.

Her nipples—

dark, painfully erect

, quivering like they were trying to reach him—stood shamelessly forward, betraying every shallow, panicked breath she took.

Peter paused when the fabric was bunched just beneath the peaks. Let it rest there. Let her feel the cool air kissing the newly bared undersides while the cotton still teased the sensitive tips. He watched—

motionless

—as her chest rose and fell faster, as those stiff little

buds

tightened impossibly harder under the weight of his stare alone.

The Eye

burned behind his gaze:

desire-lines

flared brighter, hotter, tracing obscene glowing paths across every inch he’d uncovered—

pulsing

fiercest

around her nipples, spiderwebbing along the tender curves, spiking in crimson waves with each frantic heartbeat.

Arousal levels climbed in slow, merciless surges; the faint stress-knots at her shoulders simply dissolved, overwritten by pure, helpless want.

He stared longer.

Much longer.

No words. No movement. Just the

low rasp

of his breathing growing rougher in the silence, drinking in every tiny tremor that ran through her.

Sarah couldn’t stand it.

Shame scorched

her

from the inside out. Her arms jerked upward again—reflexive, desperate—trying to shield those aching, exposed peaks from his unrelenting eyes.

Fingers trembled so violently they barely obeyed her.