Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(46)

“Diem?” She doesn’t acknowledge me, and her head dips further, preventing me from seeing her. “Are you crying?”

“No,” she sniffs.

I ease down on the floor next to her. Taking her chin in my hand, I turn her head to see black streaks running down her pretty face—her mascara staining her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t meet my gaze when she answers. “I’ve got a girl crush.” She frowns as two more tears fall freely from her eyes.

“A what?” I ask, confused as f*ck as to what she’s talking about.

“A girl crush, Zeke. I got a girl crush on the woman who had you . . .” That must be some good weed.

“What woman?”

“That woman you were with earlier.” She wipes her nose with her hand. Damn she looks pitiful. Who knew with a little bit of pot, Diem could transform into a normal girl who has feelings and shit.

“I wasn’t with a woman,” I say, forcing her to look at me. “I wasn’t with a woman, Diem.” I tell her again when her eyes finally land on mine. At my admission, she cries harder.

“I’m crazy, Zeke. I’m totally losing my f*cking mind. I’ve never been jealous in all of my life, but you . . .” She pokes her finger in my chest, her lips quivering. “You make me want to feel that way. You make me want to possess something that’s not even mine.” I take the blunt from her fingers, taking a much-needed drag before stubbing out the fire in the ashtray.

“You’re not crazy, Diem.”

“Why would you want me to hear the sound of some bitch choking on your cock?”

“That was a long time ago,” I say in my defense.

“What about today? Was that a long time ago too?” She’s hurt. I’m an *. And I’m feeling every bit of the side effects from that title too.

“I didn’t want that girl, Diem. Not then and not today.”

She searches my eyes, looking for truth. She’ll find it. Monica was convenient, but I never really wanted her. And I never gave those bitches today a second glance.

“Prove it,” she challenges, finding her backbone.

“I will.”

“Now, Zeke. Prove it now.”

Bringing her hand to my lips, I kiss her fingers. “I never kissed her . . . I couldn’t kiss her,” I admit, a little ashamed. For a man like me, kissing a woman was more intimate than f*cking one.

“Why?” she whispers, just as the song starts over again.

I run my thumb across her bottom lip. “Because these are the only lips I want.” She closes her eyes, and my knuckles graze the tear streaks on her cheeks. “I didn’t touch her either.”

She leans into my touch. “Tell me why.”

“Because I knew she wouldn’t feel like you.” My words are directed toward her, but it’s like as I say them out loud, the truth of them is registering for the first time with me too. “She didn’t smell like you. She didn’t taste like you.” I pause, narrowing my eyes at my own confession. “She wasn’t you, Diem.” Dropping my voice, I place my forehead against hers. “None of them were you.”

“You mean that?” she whispers, still sniffling.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t even like me.”

I smile. “You don’t like me either.”

She laughs, and I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound. We just sit a minute, both of us looking down at our intertwined fingers in her lap. “I can feel my control slipping, Zeke,” she says, her head leaning a little heavier against mine at the admission.

“What are you so afraid of?”

After a long pause, she finally answers. “Weakness.”

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Diem. You can let go. With me.” She raises her head to look at me, her eyes guarded as she studies the sincerity in my expression for a long time.

“Don’t treat me like your whores, Zeke,” she says, and the warning can be heard loud and clear. “You told me I was different from them. I was different from my mother. Make me feel that way.”

Unsure of how else to prove it, I kiss her. Not a fast kiss to hurry up and get the ball rolling, but a slow, torturous kiss that has her melting in my arms. She doesn’t taste like cinnamon or tequila or ice cream. It’s just her mixed with a hint of smoke—the perfect concoction.

I wrap my arm around her waist, flipping her until she’s beneath me—not on her knees in front of me or between my legs, but to where I’ll have a full view of her face when she falls apart. Her hands fist in my hair, and I easily grasp them both in one of mine and hold them over her head. She struggles with the loss of control, and I drag my lips to her ear.

“I got you.” I run my hand under her shirt, lazily dragging my fingers up her side until she relaxes. I squeeze her hands, letting her know to keep them there, then release them and fist her shirt in my hands. I pull it over her head, to find her not wearing a bra. It’s only been two days since I’ve seen her tits, but they’re better than I remember. Her nipples harden with the intensity of my gaze. “They’re f*cking perfect,” I say, watching them pucker further when my breath blows over them.

Her back bows off the floor when I take one in my mouth. She whimpers in need and I massage her other breast with one hand, using the other to unsnap the button on her shorts. My tongue trails down her stomach, where the bruises have almost completely faded. I kiss along the hem of her shorts and in the wake of my lips, I leave a path of goose bumps.