Page 218 of A Vicious Love

Honestly, at this state, sainthood was overfucking rated.

I had always enjoyed being a sinner more.

Crows weren’t born saints. We were born with blood under the floorboards, violence in the family crest, and enough inherited darkness to make priests check the locks twice. But I would worship the fuck out of her. That was the problem. The reverence. If I ever got Sienna Bellemere naked beneath me by her own choice, I would make religion out of every inch.

She reached for her sleep top on the bed.

It wasn’t there.

It sat on the dresser.

Near me.

Her eyes found it, then me, in the mirror.

She froze, one arm crossing over her chest.

A sweet, useless mistake, because the motion only shifted her body and made the black panties ride higher over that perfect, tight ass.

“Your top is here,” I said.

Her face went scarlet. “I see that.”

“I can bring it to you.”

“No.”

“Then come get it.”

She looked at me as though I had personally ruined her.

I had not.

I appreciated the opportunity, though.

Her chin lifted. Brave. Furious in the smallest possible way. She walked past me with her arm across her breasts and making dignity out of near nakedness because Sienna Bellemere had spent her life surviving rooms by refusing to let them see how much they cost her.

I watched.

Naturally.

She had a perfect ass. Tight. Soft and disciplined from years of ballet, almost entirely swallowed by black lace. My hand twitched with the urge to see how it would fit beneath my palm.

I behaved.

Wasn’t I a fucking saint?

She snatched the top from the dresser and pulled it over herself so quickly she nearly tangled in it. Pale silk fell to the top of her thighs, covering the worst of the damage and somehow creating new problems. Her cheeks stayed bright as she crossed to the bed and slid beneath the sheet.

“Don’t say anything,” she said.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

“My thoughts are private.”

She turned her head away, but the corner of her mouth moved.