inflicted on women. I can’t fathom the thought of hurting you the way I hurt them. I won’t. Every instinct inside me demands I protect you.” His mouth inched closer, coating my lips with the warm taste of whiskey. “I respect you.”
“You didn’t respect those other women?” I placed my palm on his hard chest. “The women you were with, the ones who let you hurt them?”
“No. I didn’t have an ounce of respect for anyone. I never felt possessive of a woman. Never cared about what they needed or who they fucked. I was never monogamous. Never emotionally available. I was a monster. Evil. Dead inside.”
Beneath taut muscles, his heart drummed wildly against my hand, a frantic rhythm that felt too alive for a man who believed he wasn’t.
“But with you?” He spoke against my throat. Lips like warm velvet. Voice like cold steel. “I am viciously, reprehensibly possessive of you.”
CHAPTER 25
MAGNUS
Tinsley in her glittery gold gown had been a jaw-dropping sight to behold. But Tinsley now? Standing before me in nothing but milky white skin?
God help me.
“You’re more exquisite than I ever imagined.”
She strained toward my raspy whisper, lifting on toes, fingers stretching across my shoulders.
I was a bastard, making her wait for that compliment. I wasn’t one to readily offer praise, but with her, I would spill the verities of my soul.
“My boobs are, uh…” She stared down at her chest and laughed at herself, her eyes dancing with mirth. “There’s a committee for what they are.”
“They’re elegant.” I rested my palms on her ribs, just beneath her perky little tits. “Beautifully proportioned.” Heat rushed to my groin as I swept my thumbs over flawless skin and dainty nipples. “Soft as satin, tipped with immaculate beauty.”
“Magnus.” Her breath shivered.
The tiny buds hardened beneath my touch, stiffening my cock.
God, forgive me.
I lowered to my knees and caressed my lips along the divine shape of her figure. She was a fantasy of flexible limbs and graceful curves. Angelic. Malleable. Slender shoulders. Narrow hips. Porcelain complexion. Not a freckle or blemish to be found.
While I learned her body, her hands traveled north along the back of my neck, exploring, teasing.
“I’ve wanted to feel your hair for so long.” She tangled her fingers in the strands.
Her flat stomach quivered beneath my mouth as I nipped and licked lower, lower, my pants growing tighter, tighter.
She shouldn’t be here. I needed to stop, but my hands and lips kept moving until I arrived at the ultimate forbidden destination.
The apex of her legs, the golden hairs neatly trimmed, the scent of her painfully enticing, crippling, robbing my brain cells. I raked my fingers through the soft curls and edged toward her clit.
She gasped, held still. Then she canted her hips into my touch, seeking friction, demanding. Sexy. So damn naughty.
I snatched my hand away, letting her know it wasn’t her decision.
Her pouty bottom lip pushed out. A gleam lit her eyes. Then she slid her fingers down her abs and sank them between her legs.
My cock ached to be where her hand was, encased in her heat, submerged in her wetness. I gripped her arm and moved it to her side.
“Do you masturbate?” She started to reach for her pussy again. “Are you allowed?”
I knocked her hand away. “Masturbation is forbidden for all Catholics.”
“For me, too?”
“You’re Catholic now, Miss Constantine, so no more touching yourself. Lust of the flesh is a worldly sin.”
“Oh, really? Then you should change the name of the school. Instead of Sion Academy of the Sacred Heart, it should be Sion Academy of the Dry Vaginas and Flaccid Penises. I mean, come on. No masturbating?” A laugh burst from her lips. “You can fuck right off with that.”
“I do.” I hid my smile.
“Wait. So you…?” She tilted her head, looking too gorgeous and tempting to be resisted. “You do touch yourself?”
Every day.
Over the past three months, I’d become a chronic, just-one-more, oh-fuck-I-need-her masturbator.
“Yes.” I leaned back and reached for the tampon on the vanity to occupy my hands. “In matters of lust, I’m not a tedious model of priesthood.”
“Sinner.” She grinned.
She was perfect, like no other woman. It didn’t matter that she didn’t fit the female construct I’d pursued in my youth. Maybe that was what made her so incredibly appealing. I’d never been with anyone like her, and unbeknown to me, I’d been waiting forty years for her. She was made for me. Intelligently, impeccably designed. For me alone.
Mine.
And here were those feelings again.
This predatory, possessive, kill-anyone-who-touches-her state of