Sinner: Devil's Sons MC by Kathryn Thomas Page B

room, smiling sheepishly. "Company," she answered.
     
    He chuckled and set aside his e-reader, beckoning to Afia who casually climbed into his bed like it wasn't the first time in her entire life she had climbed into the bed of a male who wasn't a family member. He hid a smile at her dauntlessness. She was turning out to be quite a surprise.
     
    It wasn't intended.  Afia's hijab slid backwards enough for a lock of hair to escape. She gasped and apologized. Sam barely shook his head. "Don't hide," he found himself saying.
     
    "I'm not hiding, I'm—"
     
    "You don't have to show me. Just don't feel like you have to hide. Not from me." Sam's gaze was riveted to hers. Afia paused. She almost looked like she would bolt from the room, but she didn't. She stayed. She stared him in the eyes. She felt her heart, a Persian drum, pounding in her chest; her hands sweated; and her pulse quickened. There were rules. She had already broken so many, and suddenly all of them seemed pointless in the face of what she felt for the handsome American who was entirely different from any other man she had ever known. 
     
    Afia flipped the hijab over her head, exposing for the first time her lustrous hair, the silky strands floating free on the ephemeral gust of desire. Sam lifted his hands and hesitated, fingers hovering a short distance from touching. She stared into his eyes, knowing she was supposed to say no, but Afia nodded, and he fondled her hair reverently. The tresses flowed over his palm. He pushed his fingers through and grabbed her angular face, and her head lolled back so the hair swished against her bare shoulder blades. The spaghetti strap of her camisole slipped from her shoulder as if to incite further flames.
     
    His fiery gaze followed the light down the curve of her slender neck to the shadow at the hollow of her throat as Afia gulped, gasping to breathe. She dropped her head to stare at him.  His thumb smoothed over her cheek to her mouth. Her innocent lips caught the digit and drew him inside. He sucked in a breath; she sucked the tip of his thumb. Her tongue swirled along the whirls and patterns of his fingerprint, and he gnawed at his bottom lip, a man ravaged by self-restraint.
     
    His eyes dropped lower to the dip of her shirt, her breasts straining against the fabric. Her unbound nipples protruded, hard nubs beneath the cotton.  Her flesh was the color of honey. He licked his lips, wanting to taste her skin. He was a starving man, and she was a land of nourishment.  When Afia nervously pushed the straps further down her arms, pulled her hands through, pushed it down her slim torso, he pulled away, not trusting himself to stay in control.
     
    With her breasts bare, the heat in the room seemed to go up instead of coming down, and boundaries were being crossed that couldn't be reclaimed. There was a war going on in her head between what was seemingly right and what her spirit understood came naturally, and her womanhood was winning out.
     
    Between her legs flowed a fountain that couldn't be contained. The wetness made her petals slick, and her thighs clench. Seated on the edge of the bed, her legs shifted against one another restlessly, and she averted her gaze from the limpid blue eyes that tried hard not to persuade her to transgress. She knew Sam was holding back and that under normal circumstances his virility would've demanded he take instead of ask, but he was patient with her.
     
    She wished she could be as patient with herself. With every fiber of her being, she was bursting at the seams for release. Her hands flew to his wide shoulders, dragging him to her mouth, as if she knew no other direction to take him. When he kissed her, her exhale carried prayers. His tongue was a scripture, coating her tongue with holiness. There was something exquisitely divine in the kiss. He sucked at her sweetness, sipping at her spit. His tongue arced along her pearly white teeth, rubbed the roof of her mouth. She pushed