Brutal Sin

by Eden Summers

  The lust-filled decision to throw the bet was a mistake. And now he was staring down the barrel of an overnight stay in a barely-known woman’s home.

  He pasted on a fake smirk, needing to dissolve the blissful state of her features. “Are you ready to apologize for doubting my skills, Ella?”

  The daze didn’t fade. Instead, she smiled, those ruby lips making his dick twitch. “Hmm?”

  He removed his fingers from her body and fought the need to lick away her arousal. “I’m waiting for you to admit you were wrong.”

  She chuckled. Breathy. Barely audible.

  She was a pliable kitten.

  He felt the same.

  “I was wrong.” She pushed to her elbows, then her knees. She straightened before him, putting her bra back in place, then glanced over her shoulder. “But it’s five past nine. You didn’t win the bet.”

  He could’ve talked his way out of it. Probably could’ve convinced her she’d been lying in a trance for more time than she had, but again, that amnesia had him questioning why he wanted to leave in such a hurry. “I guess I’m not quite as good as I thought I was.”

  She tilted her head, blinking up at him. He itched to loosen the top button of his shirt, to adjust his cock. She had him in all sorts of discomfort, and he’d be damned if he showed it.

  “Are we done here?” She raised to her elbows.

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  She’d come. He’d felt it. Her pussy had spasmed around his fingers. More than once.

  She’d bucked.

  Writhed.

  Shit. He needed to get the memory out of his head.

  Her smile increased, her lashes still batting in a lazy, content rhythm. “It was a subtle way of asking if you were done.” She pushed to her elbows, her thighs closing slightly. “I mean, can I return the favor?”

  “No.” God. No. The last thing he needed was to be force-fed more temptation. “This isn’t a favor. This is…”

  Torture. Pure and simple.

  She stiffened, and finally that daze fled the scene like an Olympic sprinter.

  He wanted to fuck her in so many ways he’d be able to publish a sex guide to rival the Kama Sutra. But before he did all that, he wanted to spank the look of rejection off her face. “Fucking you is a bad idea, that’s all.”

  She nodded, sat up straight, and then swung her legs off the bed. “Don’t elaborate. I’ve already taken the hint.” She reached for her bedside table, pulled open the top drawer, and removed a large expanse of shiny black material. A robe.

  In seconds, she was covered, her beautiful body hidden from view. She tied the thin belt around her waist with jerky movements, then clutched the lapels to hide her cleavage. “I’m going to freshen up. You don’t have to hang around. I’m not going to hold you to the bet. Feel free to leave whenever you’re ready.”

  He nodded, remaining silent as she strode for a door at the side of the room and closed herself in.

  This was what he hated. The bullshit. The ping-pong match of hurt feelings and expectation. His dick didn’t seem to care, though. The rock-hard part of his anatomy soldiered on, determined not to stand down until it glimpsed the front line.

  He should leave.

  It was the sensible option. He should walk out of here before she returned. No explanation. No goodbye.

  He wouldn’t have even contemplated his options if it were any other woman. He’d be out the door, down the hall, and driving back home without a second thought.

  A toilet flushed, followed by a rush of tap water.

  Leave or stay, Bryan? Leave or stay?

  Shit.

  It wasn’t like she was an emotional threat. She had no interest in him. But why the fuck was he considering staying, anyway? For the bet? Maybe. He’d never backed out on a wager before. Problem was, he didn’t know if it was more than that.

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was overthinking this when he shouldn’t be thinking at all.

  A cupboard closed in the adjoining room. The water stopped. The door reopened and the light spilling in from behind created a flawless silhouette. Her hair sat against her shoulders, the thin robe pulled tight at her waist. She looked like a model. One with beautiful curves and slightly faltering confidence.

  “You’re still here.” She switched off the light and padded into the room.

  He didn’t bother fighting the laugh that escaped. “Yeah, sweetheart. Still here. I want to clear up the reason why fucking you is a bad—”

  “Please don’t.” She held up a hand as she approached the bed. “I think I’m at my quota for your honesty.”

  He growled. If she didn’t wipe the backslap of rejection off her face, he was going to do something he’d regret. Something they’d both regret. “The reason fucking you is a bad idea,” he grated, “is because I can’t sleep with a woman more than once.”

  Why the fuck had he said that?

  She rolled her eyes and pulled back the coverings. “I also don’t need a refresher on your rules. Shay gave me the Cliffs Notes.”

  He ground his teeth and wished he was the brute she thought he was. At least then he wouldn’t feel obligated to give her an explanation.

  “An incapability,” he clarified. “Not a rule.”

  Her brows pulled together, the pinch of her forehead taking seconds, if not minutes. “You can’t…”

  “Get an erection? Wood? A hard-on? Whatever you choose to call it, I can’t get it more than once for the same woman.” He let the information sink in. The private, close-kept secret he’d never told a soul.

  “Wow… So, you haven’t slept with a woman more than once for how long?”

  “Over twelve years.”

  “Holy. Shit.” She drew out the words as she stared at him with a mix of fascination and concern. “Have you been to see anyone about it?”

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Don’t go thinking there’s something wrong with my dick. There’s no problem as far as I’m concerned. It’s a skill. A talent that took years to master. It’s my insurance policy.”

  “Insurance,” she repeated slowly.

  “Yeah, to protect the commitment phobia you seem to think I have.”

  “Seem to have?” Her lips quirked. “Is there really any doubt? You’re seriously messed up.”

  “You won’t hear a denial from me. But the reason for the explanation is to set things straight. The lack of fucking has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me needing to remain interested for the demonstration night.”

  She climbed onto the bed, her brow regaining its furrow. “You know, Bryan, I never took you for the it’s-not-you-it’s-me type.”

  Because he wasn’t. Never had been. She inspired anomalies. “And I never took you for a woman who could come with a mere twist of my fingers. I guess we both made inaccurate assumptions.”

  He kicked off his shoes and placed his socks inside them.

  “You’re still staying?”

  “We made a bet. I’m not a sore loser.”

  This was a mistake. A huge mistake. His dick stood rigid as fuck. His restraint was equally vulnerable. Yet, for some unknown reason, he wasn’t sprinting for the door.

  He undid the top button of his shirt, moving down, one by one. Her hungry gaze ate up each new inch of exposed skin. He could practically feel those eyes sending their laser beam of fascination down his chest. The distraction should’ve made him stop and throw this upcoming train wreck in reverse.

  “Want me to turn off the living room lights before I climb in?” He shoved the material off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s early. I just want to lay here a while.” She pulled the covers to her chin, snuggling farther into her pillow.

  The entire scene before him seemed like a parallel universe. He didn’t do this shit—not the sleepovers or the dinner. Definitely not the wine. And, Jesus Christ, if he thought about throwing the
bet one more time, he’d probably throw his cookies, too.

  But every time he blinked, he appreciated the sight he opened his eyes to. She looked natural. Relaxed. She didn’t attempt to seduce him. She was just a woman, without flaw, and he was just a man, with many.

  “So, who was she?”

  He paused in the middle of unbuckling his belt. “She?”

  “The woman who turned Bryan to Brute.”

  “There’s no woman,” he lied. “Like I said, I haven’t been with anyone more than once since my school days.” He released his belt, undid the zipper, and shoved his pants to the floor. “You really need to stop searching for excuses to explain who I am. There aren’t any.”

  She made a noise. An mmph of disapproval. “We’re all shaped by our experiences.”

  “If you say so.” He averted his gaze, unable to look at her while he climbed into bed beside her. Out of all the sexual things he’d done over the years, this, by far, seemed the strangest.

  Then again, it wasn’t sexual.

  This part was due to the bet.

  A bet he’d thrown.

  “If there’s no woman, then tell me about your upbringing. Have you lived in Beaumont all your life? Do you have family here?”

  Well, that was a sure-fire way to instigate a limp dick. “Grew up in Florida. Had a good education. Excelled in math and science. Hated my parents, like every kid my age.” Problem was, his parents had hated him back.

  “Do you go home often?”

  “Not at all. A while ago I bought an apartment in Tampa, thinking I’d eventually revisit where I grew up. But…” What the fuck? This wasn’t a shrink session. He didn’t need to rehash the past to fill the silence. “I have no plans to go back now.” He cleared his throat, rested back against the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. “How ’bout you? What are your issues?”

  “You already know mine.” She released another noise, this time a tired moan. “Dead husband. Kinky proclivities. Inability to orgasm.”

  “You orgasm just fine.”

  Her chuckle was a puff of breath. “Spoken by the only man capable of making it happen.”

  “You’ll figure yourself out soon enough.” With another man. Maybe in another club.

  “Yeah… I know.”

  He remained quiet through her long yawn, hoping she fell asleep and brought an end to the ocean-deep conversation.

  He watched her from the corner of his eye, her hair splayed across the pillow, her blinks closing for longer and longer, until finally they closed for good. Tiny moans escaped her, the barely audible sounds sinking under his skin. His cock twitched again, the softened length making a comeback with renewed enthusiasm.

  If she didn’t stop, his ability to sleep would sit somewhere between not-likely and never-going-to-happen.

  Not unless he took the edge off.

  He stared at the clock, passing the whimper-filled minutes as he glared at those numbers. Each second provided a new rush of blood to his dick and a renewed sense that something was seriously off-kilter in this situation.

  She hadn’t tried to seduce him. She hadn’t even stayed awake past ten o’clock.

  He let out a silent puff of laughter. This woman was the best damn distraction he could ask for. But he couldn’t stay here. Not in her bed, lusting over her with perversion while she slept. Nope, he needed to get up and disperse the blood pooling in his groin.

  He slid from the mattress, his dick leading the way as he escaped down the hall, in search of…something.

  There were innumerable offerings to appease his interest—the television remote, the magazines on the coffee table—and still, he found himself back at the bookshelf, his fingers skimming the spines of medical texts.

  Even with the grim reaper hovering over his shoulder, his dick remained adamant. A trooper. The fucker had no plan to give up the fight.

  He pulled the books from the shelf, one by one, and stacked them near the front door. She didn’t want the reminder, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Apart from her. So, he kept going, his cheap workout continuing until every book on cancer sat waiting for him to leave.

  And he should leave.

  He hovered at the door, his issues resembling those of a teenager trying to sneak out for the first time.

  “Fuck this.” He wasn’t a pussy. He could handle a sleepover. Especially when there were no claws sinking into his balls. She was asleep, for Christ’s sake.

  He padded back to the bookshelf, his attention snagging on the top shelf and the photos spaced evenly along the wood in silver frames. All the images were stereotypical happy families. Mother, daughter, and sister, in varying degrees of happiness.

  Would their bubble ever burst, like his had?

  He shook his head at the stupidity.

  He’d never had a bubble to begin with. The script of his life had the fairytale set with a cast who never showed.

  He slid two of the frames to the side and grabbed a shiny pink album stashed behind. He opened the cover, the pages flicking through his fingers, highlighting Ella in all her beaming glory. Her mother and sister played a leading role in the documentation of her life. But it looked like she’d hidden the shots of her husband. Or maybe those were reserved for the privacy of her bedroom.

  There were birthday photos. Holiday happy snaps. More images with her sister. With Animals. At different locations. With sexy clothing. Then a fucking bikini.

  He slammed the album shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. With every breath, he could taste her, smell her. His limbs tingled with the need to walk down that hall and give her what she’d asked for.

  The one-fuck rule must have started to take its toll. The quality-over-quantity diet had turned him bat-shit crazy. So crazy he had to clench his fists to keep from palming his dick.

  Alcohol. He needed alcohol.

  He strode for the kitchen and grabbed the almost-empty wine bottle from her fridge. The lid was thrown aimlessly, the liquid contents sliding down his throat like the first taste of water after a year of dehydration.

  He gulped. He chugged. He downed that motherfucker until the bottle was dry and he leaned against the sink, sucking in breath after breath. And still, his erection wouldn’t admit defeat.

  His mind was in on the act, too. Images of Ella flashed before his eyes. He could see her ass swaying as she dropped dishes in the sink. Could see her bending over to place food in the fridge.

  He gripped the counter for grounding and pressed his erection against the cupboards, hoping to discourage the growing pulse.

  The pressure increased.

  He couldn’t fight the need to palm himself through the thin material of his underwear, his fingers clutching tight. Every time he blinked, she was there—in the Vault, at the lockers, splayed beneath him on her bed. He heard her words, too. All those rasped pleas to be fucked. Hard. And the whimpers.

  Jesus Christ.

  He increased the severity of his hold, gripping his dick like he was trying to choke a snake. Damn thing wouldn’t die. The harder he squeezed, the better it felt. The pain was the best part.

  One day, he’d return the favor. He’d torment her like she currently tormented him.

  The tight grasp became a stroke, the first glide of friction bringing a heavy dose of pure relief. He bit his lower lip to stop a groan escaping and closed his eyes to concentrate on the childishness of his actions.

  The darkness didn’t help. Within seconds, he’d wrenched down his boxer briefs, leaving them to cup his balls as he spat on his hand. The first slide of his saliva-slicked palm was hell—pure torture and defeat, rolled into a package of fucking bliss.

  Fighting was pointless. Instead, he squeezed his eyes tighter and punished the shit out of his dick, jerking it with harsh strokes, squeezing it with a tight fist. Back and forth he worked the length, each glide getting shorter. Sharper.

  He growled through the pressure building in his balls, wanting to get this over and done with. He raised on
to his toes, disgust turning his stomach as he blew his load in the sink. Burst after burst of white liquid shot from him, and still she didn’t leave his mind. Pulse after pulse of release splattered the stainless steel, increasing his self-loathing, and all the while, she was still there.

  Those eyes.

  Those whimpers.

  Those pleas.

  He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to.

  “Fucking hell.”

  He rammed his softening dick into his underwear and washed his lack of restraint down the sink. This was Tera’s fault. His family had shoved their way back into his life, destroying all the barriers he’d tried hard to erect. Annihilating his sense of worth. His focus. Maybe even his confidence.

  Bet or not, he had to leave.

  If Ella woke and gave him another whispered proposition, he’d cave. He’d buckle like a cheap belt. And he didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into this regression.

  He stalked into the living room, found a piece of paper and a pen, then scribbled his cell number in large font along with the message—Next Thursday. 8 p.m. The Vault.

  He dropped the note beneath her glowing bedside lamp, tiptoed around the bed, and grabbed his pants off the floor. The loud clink of his buckle was a major “fuck you” from the universe. The noise shot through the silence and she whimpered in reply. He froze, pants halfway up his thighs, his dick beginning to reawaken like an energetic puppy.

  “You’re leaving?”

  He tugged his pants to his waist, zipped, buttoned, and secured the belt. “Yeah. It’s too damn early for me to sleep.”

  “Sorry.” She turned toward him, cuddling her pillow as she blinked with lethargy. No woman had ever looked so feminine. So pliable. So breakable.

  He only had to say the word and she’d be on her back, arms open, thighs spread. The thought should’ve been enough to turn him off.

  Why didn’t it?

  Why was his blood rapidly regrouping in his dick?

  He snatched his shirt off the floor and stabbed his arms through the sleeves with enough force to rip the material. Every second that drew closer to her proposition made his pulse quicken with anticipated relief. She was going to beg him to stay. She was singular breaths away from transforming into another groupie. Just like everyone else.