Page 97 of Sinner’s Torment

“I love you,” he said, the words rough and broken and more beautiful than anything I’d ever heard. “God, I love you so fucking much. And I’m never letting you go again. Never. Do you understand me? You’re stuck with me, Brandy. For the rest of our lives. You’re mine, and I’m yours, and nothing—nothing—is ever going to change that.”

A sob caught in my throat, but this time it wasn’t from fear or pain. It was from relief. From joy. From the overwhelming realization that this man—this incredible, complicated, beautiful man—loved me. Actually loved me. Not because of the baby. Not because of obligation. But because of me.

“I’m yours,” I whispered. “I’m yours, Torment. Always.”

His mouth found mine before I could say anything else, before I could form another coherent thought or protest. The kiss was soft at first, achingly tentative, like he was afraid I might break into a thousand pieces beneath his touch. His lips brushed against mine with a gentleness that made my chest tighten. But I didn’t want soft. I didn’t want tentative. I didn’t want him to treat me like I was made of glass. I wanted him. All of him. Everything he’d been holding back for so long, everything he’d been keeping locked away behind those careful walls he’d built around himself.

I kissed him harder, pouring every ounce of pent-up longing and frustration into it, my hands moving to his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark strands and pulling him closer, demanding more. He groaned against my mouth, the sound deep and raw and vibrating through me like an electric current, and suddenly the kiss changed. It shifted into something more primal, more urgent. It became deeper, more desperate, more consuming, like we were both drowning and this was our only source of air. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me, possessing me, marking me as his, and I met him with equal fervor, giving as good as I got, refusing to surrender even as I surrendered completely.

This kiss said everything words couldn’t possibly express. It said I love you and I need you and I’m never letting you go and you’re the only thing that matters. It said you’re mine and I’m yours and forever and always. It was a promise and a claim and a vow and a declaration all wrapped into one devastating, earth-shattering moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity while simultaneously lasting only a heartbeat.

His hands moved from my face to my waist, his fingers digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer with an urgency that bordered on desperation, and I went willingly, eagerly, pressing myself against him until there was no space left between us, until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest, wild and erratic, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. I could feel the tremor in his hands, the slight shake that betrayed just how much control he was struggling to maintain. I could feel the barely controlled need radiating from him in waves, threatening to consume us both.

Without breaking the kiss, he moved us backward toward the bed. Or maybe he lifted me—I wasn’t sure. My mind was too hazy, too consumed by the sensation of his mouth on mine, the taste of him, the way his hands gripped my waist like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go. All I knew was that suddenly I was lying on the soft mattress with him hovering over me, his body caging mine, his weight pressing me down in the most delicious way. The heat of him seeped through my clothes, warming me from the outside in, chasing away the lingering chill that had settled into my bones.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and intense, his breathing harsh. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and I could feel his heart pounding against mine—or maybe that was my own heart. I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began anymore.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, his voice rough, almost broken. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me if you need me to stop.” His thumb traced gentle circles on my hip, a stark contrast to the tension coiled in every line of his body. “I need you to promise me, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it.”

“Don’t stop,” I whispered, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. I reached up to cup his face, feeling the rough stubble beneath my palms, the strong line of his jaw. “Please, Torment. Don’t stop.”

His hands moved to the hem of my shirt, and he paused, waiting for my permission. His fingers trembled slightly where they touched my skin, and I realized he was holding himself back with every ounce of self-control he possessed. I nodded, giving him the answer he needed, and he slowly—so slowly it was almost painful—pulled the fabric up and over my head. The cool air hit my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

His eyes moved over my exposed skin, taking in every bruise, every mark, every injury Stone had inflicted. The purple and black bruises that mottled my ribs. The cuts that were on my shoulders. The finger-shaped marks on my upper arms. I watched his expression change as he catalogued each wound, each reminder of what I’d endured.

His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

“I want to kill him,” he said, his voice deadly calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than if he’d been shouting. “I want to bring that fucker back to life and make him suffer all over again. Make him feel every single thing he did to you, tenfold. I want to⁠—”

“It’s over,” I said softly, cutting off the violent promise before he could finish. I ran my fingers through his hair, trying to ground him, to bring him back to me. “My father made him pay. It’s over, Torment. It’s over.”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, his whole body shuddering with the effort of reining in his rage. His hands unclenched slowly, deliberately. When he opened them again, the rage had been replaced by something softer. Something that looked like reverence. Like I was something precious, something sacred, something worth worshipping.

His fingers traced the bruise on my ribs, so gently I barely felt it. The touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of causing me more pain. Then his lips followed, pressing soft kisses to the discolored skin. The warmth of his mouth against the tender flesh sent shivers through my body. He moved to the bruise on my shoulder, then the one on my arm, then the one on my hip. Each injury received the same treatment—a gentle touch, a soft kiss, a whispered word of love. He was worshipping every hurt, every mark, every imperfection as if they were sacred.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against my skin, his breath warm and reassuring. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Brandy. Every part of you. Every single part. Every bruise, every scar, every inch of you is perfect.”

Tears pricked my eyes again, threatening to spill over, but this time they were tears of joy. Of acceptance. Of finally—finally—believing that I was worthy of this. Worthy of him. Worthy of love. For so long, I’d felt broken, damaged, like something that needed to be hidden away. But the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, made me feel whole again.

He removed the rest of my clothing with the same careful reverence, his hands and lips exploring every inch of exposed skin. His fingers worked slowly at buttons and zippers, never rushing, never demanding. He was giving me time—time to change my mind, time to pull away, time to say no. But I didn’t want to. By the time I was completely bare beneath him, I was trembling again—but this time it wasn’t from fear or trauma. It wasn’t from the memories that had haunted me for so long. It was from need. From desire. From the overwhelming want that was building inside me with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. My body was coming alive in ways I didn’t think were possible anymore.

“Your turn,” I whispered, my hands pushing his jacket off his shoulders. My voice was breathy, almost unrecognizable.

He helped me, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside without ceremony. I’d seen him shirtless before—had run my hands over his chest and abs and shoulders countless times—but this felt different. This felt like discovery. Like seeing him for the first time. Like really looking at him, at the strength in his shoulders, the definition of his muscles, the way his skin stretched over his ribs when he breathed. This wasn’t just physical attraction anymore. This was intimacy. This was vulnerability. This was us, together, with nothing between us but trust and love.

My fingers traced the tattoos that covered his torso, following the lines and curves and shadows of the intricate ink that marked his skin like a roadmap of his past. Each design told a story—some beautiful, some painful—and I wanted to learn them all.

He watched me, his eyes dark and intense, his breathing harsh and uneven as my fingertips explored every inch of him. His muscles tensed and relaxed under my touch, and I could feel his heart pounding beneath his chest.

When my hands moved lower, tracing the defined V of his hips before reaching the button of his jeans, he caught my wrists gently but firmly. His grip was warm, protective rather than restraining.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, like the words were being dragged from somewhere deep inside him. “After everything that happened—after what he did to you—after all the pain and trauma you’ve been through—are you sure you want this? I need to know you’re ready. I need to know this is what you really want.”

“I want you,” I said, meeting his eyes without hesitation, without doubt. “I want you, Torment. Not because I have to. Not because I’m supposed to. Not because anyone expects me to or because I’m trying to forget or move on. But because I love you. Because you’re mine and I’m yours. Because I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone. You make me feel safe. You make me feel whole.”

Something in his expression shifted, softened, and the tension in his jaw released. The vulnerability in his eyes nearly broke me. He released my wrists slowly, reluctantly, as if giving me one last chance to change my mind. But I didn’t hesitate. I unbuttoned his jeans with steady hands and helped him remove them, along with his boxers, sliding the fabric down his powerful legs until he was as bare as I was. His body was perfect—all hard muscle and smooth skin and masculine beauty—and I couldn’t stop looking at him, couldn’t stop drinking in the sight of him. He was gorgeous in a raw, dangerous way that made my breath catch.

He settled between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress, grounding me in the moment. His hardness pressed against my entrance, hot and insistent, a promise of what was to come. But he didn’t move. Didn’t push forward. Didn’t rush. He just held himself there, poised at the threshold, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.