Gentleman Sinner

‘Izzy,’ Theo rumbles, my name sounding like an enticing plea as he kisses his way over my dress, up my throat to my chin as he stands. ‘We’re worlds apart but so fucking close.’ He nibbles up to my lips. ‘Lift your arms.’

I raise them, no thought or hesitation, and he pulls my dress up over my head. I go to reach down to his trousers to feel the hardness, bold and daring, or more like desperate. But he seizes my hand in a harsh grip, stilling me.

‘I crave a controlled environment,’ he reminds me. ‘That means you make no movements without my say-so.’

I groan, not liking the prospect of no free rein over his body. ‘Please,’ I try.

He shakes his head against my lips. ‘Trust me.’ Picking me up, he carries me to the bed. ‘Are you clean?’ he asks, and I nod my head. ‘Are you protected?’ I nod again, hoping he’ll confirm what I need to ask in return. ‘Me too.’

I study him as my head comes to rest on the soft pillow. His face is the softest I’ve seen it, his eyes the bluest, as he removes my bra and knickers painstakingly slowly, casting them aside. He swallows hard as he spends a few rapt moments taking me in.

Waiting as patiently as I can, fighting to keep my arms by my sides, I watch, breathless, as he starts to strip down. His shirt buttons are unfastened one by one, slowly revealing the chest I’ve imagined constantly. The tattoo I’ve only had a peek of is nowhere to be seen when the two sides of his shirt hang open, but I can see taut skin. Biting down on my bottom lip, I hold my breath and bend one leg, bringing the sole of my foot up and pushing it into the covers, squeezing my thighs together. Liquid fire surges into my core, my nipples pebbling. His eyes drift slowly from my breasts to my thighs, back and forth as he rolls his shoulders and shrugs off his shirt, letting it float down to the floor.

Awe slams into me, tangling my mind, and my held breath chokes me. ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper, trying to comprehend the sculpted lines of Theo’s torso. Every muscle is sharp, to the point I’m sure I would cut myself if I were to trace one. Definition so clear, skin so tight, and swells of muscle so hard. My mouth dries as my eyes roam the planes of him in wonder, drifting down to his stomach and the perfect V that leads neatly to his groin. His trousers hang low, a sliver of the waistband of his boxer shorts peeking out. My sights fall on to his hip, where more ink spans the narrow area, and I cock my head a little, trying to fathom what I’m looking at. My eyes shoot up to his when I realize what it is. Praying hands. His face is straight, the muscles of his neck pulsing, and there, cascading down on to his shoulder, is another piece of art. Rosary beads. They drip down his skin, on to the top of his thick arm, and dangling from the bottom is a delicate cross. Theo is still, letting me take it all in, and when he slowly turns away from me, I suck in air. Spanning his wide shoulder blades and sinking down the centre of his spine is a crucifix, encrusted and intricate. It’s beautiful, yet almost haunting. The praying hands, the rosary beads, the crucifix. Is he that religious?

I shift on the bed a little as he comes back to face me, unbuttoning his trousers and pushing them down his thighs, taking his boxers with them, before stepping out. His cock springs free, stiff, thick and long, as stunning as the rest of him. I’ve never seen anything like him. He’s the finest example of God’s creation. There’s not one ounce of fat anywhere to be seen. He’s solid, inconceivably so. One of his thighs is probably thicker than my waist, his legs long and powerful. He looks lethal but beautiful, hard but soft. My body is in chaos, my nerves burning, all in response to what I’m faced with. My want has gone through the roof and desperation is now crippling me. He looks like a warrior, raw and primal. A fighter.

I look up to him, and he nods a little, as if he knows and accepts what I’m thinking. And then he dips and collects something from the bedside and starts unravelling it in his hands, coming closer to the bed. He gently claims one of my hands, brings it up to the headboard, and starts weaving the silk material around my wrist, secure but not too tight, before connecting it to the post of the bed and tying it, pulling my arm taut above my head. I don’t even fight. Don’t protest or have a smidgen of worry. He needs a controlled environment and he’s going to achieve that by rendering me incapable of movement. You can’t get more controlled than that. He repeats on the other side, all the time gentle, all the time focused. I watch him in fascination, every move he makes, every flick of his eyes to mine to check that I’m okay, and every ripple of his chest as he bends. When he moves down to my legs, I have to lift my head from the pillow a little. He takes my ankles and pulls my legs apart, and I gasp, feeling need dripping between my thighs. His eyes are glued there, his breathing noticeably changing.