My Sinful Valentine (A Beautiful Sinners Collection) by Elena Reyes (black authors fiction .txt) 📕

that glorious man loves you, thank the Lord above because there is no one walking this earth that is as loyal as he. No one is as warm or giving.

“You’re quiet.” Casper muses, opening the door to our hotel room while holding our coats and scarves in one arm. We could’ve gone to our home here for privacy, but this is more fun. The walls can only hide so much, and there’s a part of him that likes the world to hear me scream his name. To cry out for his touch and give in to the pleasure only my husband can give.

Just like I need those filthy words in my ear when he’s close. I live to hear his groans and growls—watch his face contort as the feel of my warmth overwhelms him.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“The tour.”

At my quick response, he smirks. “Liar.”

“What reason do I have to lie?” Walking past him, I enter the large penthouse but make sure that our bodies touch. That the thick bulge in his pants skims my hip. “I’m so fascinated by the difference in governing laws and the process of proving someone’s guilt.”

“Proving someone’s guilt?” He bites his bottom lip, jaw taut. “You’re going to need to explain that one, love.”

“I will.” My feet carry me toward the glass-domed living room with a 360-degree view of the London skyline, the Eye, and Parliament. It’s beautiful. Romantic. And I’ve had visions of doing something that’s more for me than him, with that backdrop behind me.

My shoes are the first to drop, the muted thud of my heels making him arch a brow, his fingers—those strong fingers that have brought me so much pleasure—scratching his chin. A shiver rushes through me at the sight, and his eyes burn me. They know. See me.

“I will what, Gem? You haven’t explained.” That’s the last thing you care about, Mr. Jameson.

“Patience,” I croon, giving him my back as I pull off the cashmere sweater I’d worn. It falls at my feet, and the warm air inside the room feels good against my skin. Goose bumps rise and I lift both arms high, arching my back and popping the roundness of my ass toward him.

His answering groan makes me feel sinfully beautiful. “Aurora.”

My name. Me. Only I can turn this man on, and every day he showers me with love. Calls me his queen.

“Come closer, baby.” I’m not looking back, but I see his reflection in the windows. Hear the hard slam of our room door closing. And then, I sense him—that electrical current that flows between us as he drops the items in his hands and stops behind me. Not talking. Not touching. “I love you.”

Another truth that tumbles past my lips without hesitation.

Because I can’t live without him.

“And I love you.” Casper pushes my long hair over my left shoulder before kissing the base of my neck. “You are my everything.” Another kiss, this one right between my shoulder blades at the center of my back. “My world revolves around your smile. To please you.”

“I was born to be yours.” Reaching back, I bring his hand toward the waistband of my jeans and with his help, I undo the button and lower the zipper slowly. Almost painstakingly. It’s open and then I shimmy against his front, making sure to rub my assheeks against his hardness while suppressing a needy moan.

I’m gifted with a warning sound that causes my walls to clench and panties to dampen. It causes my skin to prickle with excitement and this uncontrollable hunger to bend over and display every inch at his feet.

But more than wanting to service his need, I’m doing this for me. A little selfish, but there’s this image in my head that I need to become reality, and before my husband can pull me further under his dominating presence, I turn around.

Chest to chest, I watch him from beneath my long lashes. “That growl isn’t going to make me behave, Mr. Jameson.”

“Aurora.” This time my name is an admonishment. A reproach for taking back control of my actions.

Ignoring him, I hold up a single digit and bring it to my lips. Casper follows the movement, his own mouth parting as I suck my finger to the first knuckle, wetting the tip. My husband’s chest rumbles and his hand shoots out, gripping my hip and yanking me against his harsher planes. All the while, though, I don’t back down. There’s a challenge in my eyes, and when I trace the same digit over his lip, his arms shake.

He trembles for me. He lets me do as I please, and pushing him back when there’s no resistance becomes my new favorite toy.

I guide him back with confident steps, forcing his over six-foot frame to sit down at the center of the circular sectional that takes up most of this lavish living room. There’s heat in his eyes and muscles clench where my fingers touch, but he does so without complaint.

“That’s a good husband.”

“You’ll pay for that.”

“I know.” Bending at the waist, I lay a tiny kiss on his forehead, the tip of his nose, and then the smirk on his lips. “But right now, this is about me. What brings me pleasure.”

His eyes tell me that he’s taking this as a challenge.

The need to pleasure—to make my body sing for him—is nearly overwhelming, but he remains seated. Clenched hands are at his sides. Thighs tense where he remains seated.

“What do you need from me? Tell me and it’s yours.”

Instead of answering, I stand to my full short height and take two steps back. Because those words are the nexus of our predicament; my needs are always above his own, but he forgets that for me, his come before mine.

“Watch me and you’ll see.” Taking in a deep breath,