Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

“Tell me.” He strokes my thigh, urging me on.

“The night in the barn wasn’t fate exactly, but it fulfilled something important. Something that was stolen from us when we were sixteen. It was meant to be, you know?” I lick dry lips. “Had I known it was you that night, had I known you were giving me your virginity…”

I drop my hand to his chest, my insides constricting with heartache.

“Keep going.” He covers my fingers with his.

“I resent you for not telling me. I resent the years that came after. My relationship with Miles. Your…whatever with whoever has a vagina. That wasn’t meant to be.” I pull my hand from his and curl it into a fist against my midsection. “I can’t stop picturing you with those women, and I’m sick to my soul with jealousy. I don’t know how to get over that. You were mine, dammit.”

“I still am.” Conviction burns in his eyes.

I look away, focus on his lips, and think about all the women who have tasted him. And it hurts.

“Conor. Give me your eyes.”

I stare at the sculpted perfection of his torso and think about all the acrylic nails that have passionately scored his skin. And it hurts.

“Conor.” The command in his voice compels my gaze to his. “I love you.”

He watches me with a deafening look, his hands resting on my thighs, our bodies an impulse apart. My heart pumps so loudly I’m certain he hears it.

We’re not going to have sex, but he can sure tempt the hell out of me with his unshakable attention. Lying there on his back, all stretched out between my thighs, he seems content with just looking at me. He always does that. Always stares at me like I’m the only view in the world.

It moves something inside me, a fluttery pull through my gut, revealing a turn-on I wasn’t aware of before. His assertive, uninterrupted attention on me makes my skin hum and my pulse race. It arouses me.

I don’t trust him, but I feel things for him. I feel this moment, the wonder in it.

Slowly, the knot around my heart loosens, and my breathing becomes arrhythmic.

His eyes seek mine, and his hand reaches for me. I catch it and redirect it to the shoulder strap of my camisole.

He stops breathing.

I don’t think about what I’m doing as I use his fingers to slide the strap to my upper arm and let it fall. Then I release his hand and give him leave to roam.

His touch on my chest is tentative, so achingly slow and cautious as the pads of his fingers reveal a hairbreadth of skin at a time. Such a contrast to the hand squeezing my thigh.

We watch each other through the unhurried descent of my top. As the elastic edge meets my nipple, we both look down.

He unchokes his held breath when he sees the freckle. His mouth parts. His nostrils flare, and his smoldering gaze scorches my exposed breast, melting me there and everywhere.

He sits up, his voice gravel and smoke. “Lift up on your knees.”

With a shiver, I obey, straddling his lap. The position puts my chest level with his face. His nearness is unbearable, inviting a needy ache to gather and throb between my legs.

He teases my top down with prolonged tenderness, his fingers featherlight, reverent, as they brush over the swells of my breasts. By the time the camisole slouches around my waist, I’m trembling, panting, and wet. Soaked through to my cotton shorts.

Covering my chest with his hands, he caresses and cups and molds my flesh. Every touch pulses a wave of heat to my pussy. I wobble on my knees and grip his shoulders.

He feels so warm I slide my palms down his chest, tracing the shape and texture of him while he does the same with me.

The room echoes back the whispers of our movements. The stroke of hands, shortening breaths, shifting legs, rustling sheets, vibrating moans—the sounds of two souls stitching back together.

It’s a moment of alarming realization. The instant I lowered the strap of my top, I opened the door. Everything will change after this, and given the predatory look in his eyes, he knows.

“Jake.” I move my hands back to his shoulders. “I didn’t intend to—”

“Just a few more seconds.” His arms wrap around me, bringing my chest to his lips.

Then he kisses me there. Mouth open, breaths panting, he sucks and nuzzles the vicinity of my freckle until my back bows and his whiskers burn my skin.

I stab my fingers in his thick tousled hair, holding on, pulling him closer, and pushing him away. Reason battles need, distrust rivals hope, and confusion wins.

“We can’t do this.” It’s a protest on my lips and an invitation in my head.

“I don’t deserve you.” Anguish crashes across his expression. “After all the pain I caused you—”