In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Roman: There's a Basic Bondage Workshop at Sanctum tonight, and I could use your help.
Paris: I'll be there.
Roman: The Dominants from Crimson Tavern are joining us, and I'm charging a fee at the door. All the proceeds will go to the Healing Hearts Foundation. Bring your someone with you.
Paris: There isn't someone to bring.
Roman: Whatever you say, man.
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I'M READING WHEN REAGAN stumbles out of her room, and although I shouldn't look at her, my eyes are drawn regardless. Her hair is a curly mess that hangs almost to her ass, and she's aggressively rubbing the sleep away from her eyes. Her sweatpants hang low on her hips and my eyes linger on the small patches of white skin around her navel. I follow them upwards and Jesus, where the hell is her bra? Her top clings to her chest and outlines the shape of her small breasts and pert little nipples, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice that one of them is pierced, the outline of a barbell visible through the thin material of her top.
She looks adorably bed-rumpled with a blend of both sweet and sexy, and it's a fucking lethal combination.
“Good morning, love,” I murmur. She scowls at the statement as she makes her way over to the living room, sitting cross-legged on the armchair opposite me and covering her mouth as she yawns.
“It's not a good morning. It's a pretty shit morning, actually,” she answers, laying her head on the handle of the chair and looking at me, her hair toppling over in a tangled mess. It's safe to say she's not a morning person.
“Such bad words for such a pretty mouth,” I scold, hardening my voice a little. Her eyes widen, her throat working as she swallows.
“Sorry. Good morning,” she mumbles, looking properly chastised as she takes the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV on. She watches something on the Discovery Channel while I read, but when I look up a few minutes later, it's to find her staring at my coffee with her teeth working on her lower lips, and her fingers twisting and untwisting in her lap. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. She looks up from my cup, hazel eyes widening slightly when she finds me already staring at her. I'm quiet as I wait to see what she's going to do. She's been pushing the boundaries of our friendship lately, and I have the feeling that she's testing me. Seeing how much I'll tolerate, how much she can get away with. I don't say anything as she reaches over to wrap her fingers around the handle of my coffee cup, and I don't say anything when she brings it to her mouth and takes a sip. Her mouth curves into a satisfied smile as she leans back on the chair, my coffee tucked into her chest.
“Thanks,” she says, searching my face for a reaction I don't give her. I let my eyes slowly drop to her mouth instead, following the gentle curve of her smile before moving to the line of her collarbone, and from there up her delicate throat to finally settle on her head, noticing the way the curls at the front hang looser than the ones at the back. I clench my teeth. I want to fist my hand in that curtain of curls and bring her to her knees. Tell her that a good girl asks for permission first, and there's something dangerous about those desires.
