His mouth devastates mine, tasting of adrenaline, desire, and something uniquely him that makes my head spin.
The waterfall thunders around us, but only the heat of his skin against mine matters.
I bite his bottom lip, and he growls—actually growls—his fingers marking my thighs.
Good. I need evidence.
Proof I chose chaos over control.
A sound tears from my throat—desperate, wanting—as his hands slide up my spine.
“Fuck,” he whimpers against me, one hand winding into my hair, pulling just enough to arch my neck. “You’re killing me, Reese.”
I surrender to his hungry, desperate mouth, and for once I believe. Believe I’m as untamed as he sees me, that our inferno could reduce the world to ash.
That I want that smoke again.
I want it scorching my lungs.
His grip tightens—possessive, demanding. The world shrinks to sensation. Muscles flex beneath my exploring hands. My teeth in his shoulder, tasting water, salt, him.
My existence has been restraint incarnate. Perfect posture, perfect smile, perfect sound bites served for mass consumption. Always responsible, reliable, the good girl failing at the impossible game of being woman enough but never too much.
I’m sick of her.
Sick in my marrow, between heartbeats, in every swallowed rage that poisons me like arsenic.
I choose mess. Choose the unlidded fire within.
Dante’s teeth graze my bottom lip, pulling a gasp from me. I welcome the pain. Crave it. His hands slide up my rib cage, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through wet leather. I rake my nails down his back, feeling muscles ripple beneath.
He pulls back just enough to see me, his breath hot against my lips. Water streams down his face, catching in his lashes. For a moment, we stare, our chests heaving.
He’s so beautiful—dark and certain of himself. Being with him makes me feel magnificent.
Then he kisses me again—slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing my taste.
Dante’s fingers tangle in my wet hair as the waterfall mists around us, the slight sting of pain delicious. The heat of hismouth ignites my nerve endings. I press myself against his chest, feeling how strong and solid he is.
He tastes sweet, and my lips tingle from the force of our kiss. My thighs shake around his torso, but he holds me up effortlessly, as if I weigh nothing.
I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Never in a way that made me feel simultaneously unmade and completely myself.
I want that.
I want him to remind me that I can exist as pure instinct, desire, and freedom.
Time liquefies. Each kiss becomes rebellion. Here, under thundering waters, in Dante Hastings’s arms, I shed my carefully constructed image.
There’s vicious pleasure in murdering your curated self—the one packaged in acceptability and tied with desperation’s ribbon.
I’m finally Reese Sinclair with a capitalSin.
Chapter 22
Reese
“Any update?”I ask Heather, pacing my trailer. The anxiety coils in my chest like a living thing.
