Chapter 882: The Sins of Sarah~ (r-18)

I slowed. Not stopped completely. Just... lingered. Let the last few paces stretch into something deliberate, obscene in its patience. My pulse was loud in my own ears now—

too loud

—like the hallway itself was holding its breath with us.

Sarah felt it. She pulled back just enough to look at me—both hands rising to cradle my face, palms hot against my jaw, thumbs dragging slow across the wet curve of my lower lip. Her fingertips were trembling the tiniest amount. Not fear. Not nerves exactly.

Just... the body

admitting

what the mind was still trying to whisper.

Her eyes searched mine in the dim hallway light. Long. Unblinking. Pupils blown wide. No words. Just that raw, quiet, absolute recognition burning between us:

This is happening. This is real. This is us—finally past the point of pretending

.

I watched her throat move on a hard swallow. Watched the quick flutter at the base of her neck where her pulse was sprinting.

She was already

glistening

there—tiny sheen of sweat born from heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the house.

She leaned in again. This

kiss

was different.

Tender

at first—

almost chaste

—lips simply resting together, soft and still, holding like a vow sealed mouth-to-mouth.

No rush. No teeth yet.

Just the heavy, deliberate press of intention. For three full seconds we simply existed

mouth-to-mouth,

breathing each other’s air, lips barely moving. It felt more intimate than any tongue I’d ever had in my life.

Then she

deepened

it herself—hungry now. Her tongue slipped past my lips—slow, searching, curling once against mine before retreating, teasing, then plunging back deeper.

Wet. Insistent.

Fucking my mouth with the same patient rhythm she knew would ruin me.

She tasted faintly of mint toothpaste and something

sweeter underneath

—like she’d been biting the inside of her own lip earlier, waiting for this moment.

I met her halfway—gentle but greedy—sucking lightly on her tongue when she gave it to me, letting her feel every flick and drag.

A low rumble started in my chest and vibrated into her mouth.

The sound surprised even me—

animal, possessive, involuntary

. I felt her shiver straight down her spine in response.

My hand on her lower back slid under the hem of her tank top. Palm met bare skin—fever-hot, satin-smooth—the small of her back curving into my grip like it remembered every time I’d ever touched her there.

My thumb traced one slow vertebra. Just one. Up. Then down again. Claiming it like handwriting.

She gasped into my mouth—sharp, broken, involuntary—and her whole body arched hard against mine, breasts crushing to my chest,

hips rolling once in a slow, filthy grind

.

Her

thighs clamped

tighter around my waist, the heat of

her core

pulsing through thin cotton straight against my abdomen.

I could feel how swollen she already was—how the

damp

cotton had molded itself obscenely to every fold.

The realization hit me like a drug: she’s been wet for me for hours.

I didn’t move my hand. Just spread my fingers wider. Claimed that strip of skin like territory. Letting her feel the weight of my palm branding her.

She whimpered

—small, fractured sound trapped between our mouths—and her nails dug

half-moon crescents

into the back of my neck.

She broke the kiss. Pressed her forehead to mine. Eyes fluttering shut. Breathing in harsh, wet pants against my lips—each exhale trembling, edged with a tiny, helpless whimper.

For a long heartbeat we stayed locked like that—foreheads pressed, mouths open an inch apart, breaths fucking each other’s lungs, hearts slamming so hard I could feel hers through her ribs.

My own chest felt cracked open. Like something too big was trying to climb out.

Then she whispered—voice cracked, barely audible, thick with awe and raw ache: "Put me down."

I

t wasn’t a command. It was a

plea wrapped

in permission.

I lowered her slowly. Torturously. Letting her slide down my body inch by torturous inch—her stiff

nipples

scraping my chest through fabric, her belly dragging over the ridges of my abs, the

soaked heat

between her thighs painting a slow stripe of arousal down my stomach until her bare feet finally brushed the rug.

When her toes touched the floor she swayed—only for a second—like her knees had forgotten how to lock.

I steadied her hips without thinking.

She didn’t step back. She stayed flush—

chest heaving

— I

dropped

to my knees right there in the hallway. The floor was cold against my shins. I didn’t care. All I felt was her.

My hands shook once

—only once—

before I caught them on the outsides of her thighs. Steady. Focus.

I started at her knees—lips brushing the soft, trembling skin just below the cap, then

higher.

Open-mouthed kisses along the inside of one leg—slow, wet, obscene.

Tongue flicking

flat against the tender crease behind her knee, tasting salt and clean skin and the first faint trace of her arousal leaking through cotton.

She moaned—long, low, throaty and wrecked—head tipping back against the wall, fingers plunging into my hair and gripping hard.

Her grip wasn’t gentle.

It hurt in the best way

—anchor and demand all at once. I felt her thighs quiver under my palms, muscles jumping every time my tongue dragged higher. She was trying so hard not to buck.

Trying and failing.

I went higher. Kissing the plush, fevered flesh of her

inner thigh

—

first one leg, then the other

—

alternating, deliberate

, drowning in her scent: warm, clean sweat, and the thick,

heady musk of her cunt soaking

through the shorts, blooming stronger with every inch I

climbed.

Each kiss felt like pressing a brand into her skin—not pain, but ownership. I could almost hear the quiet snap inside her: another small rule breaking, another piece of her

good-girl

armor cracking open.

My hands slid up the backs of her calves, thumbs digging into muscle,

spreading her wider,

opening her just enough that I could feel the heat radiating against my face.

Her legs trembled like she was fighting gravity itself. Or maybe fighting the part of her that wanted to snap her thighs shut and run.

She whimpered—

soft, fractured

—then bit her lip hard, remembering the sleeping house around us.

"We’ll be found," she breathed, half-laugh, half-desperate plea, voice already shredded.

Her eyes flicked toward the dark end of the hallway—

wide, guilty, glittering

. But the fear only sharpened the ache between her legs. I watched it happen: the moment shame twisted into something hotter, something she couldn’t name yet.

But her hands

yanked me closer

—fingers twisting in my hair, hips canting forward, silently begging me to bury my face where she was dripping.

She was choosing this now. Choosing sin over silence

. The princess inside her—the one who still believed in locked doors and proper behavior—was watching from farther and farther away, horrified and hypnotized.

I groaned against her thigh—deep, guttural—the sound vibrating straight up into her

clit

through the

thin barrier

. She squeaked—

high and startled

—thighs quaking, squeezing my head once before spreading even wider on pure instinct.

That little squeak broke into a moan she couldn’t swallow. Her body was betraying her faster than her mind could protest.

Good girls don’t spread like this in hallways. Good girls don’t drip down their own thighs.

And yet here she was—princess turning god-devil’s disciple one shudder at a time.

Another long, seductive moan tore from her throat—drawn-out, breathy, ending in a tiny, choked cry she tried to muffle against her own forearm.

Her hips rocked forward—

small, helpless, greedy

—chasing my mouth.

The forearm she bit tasted like her own skin and salt and the faint copper of bitten lip. She was marking herself now—tiny punishment for how badly she wanted to be ruined.

I gave it to her. Lips trailing higher, kissing the crease where thigh met hip right at the hem of her shorts, tongue pressing flat against the damp cotton, tasting salt and slick heat and Sarah—

fuck, so much Sarah.

The fabric was obscene—clinging, translucent where she was

wettest.

I could see the

dark outline of her pussy lips

through it,

swollen and parted

like they were already trying to kiss me back.

She

shoved me deeper

—fingers curling painfully in my hair, not rough, just

frantic—guiding

her hips on my mouth exactly where she was

throbbing.

Her breathing splintered into soft, pleading sounds

—

moans curling into whimpers

, whimpers breaking into those

almost-silent,

devastated little cries.

"Peter..."

My name again—prayer, curse, surrender—voice so wrecked it sounded like she was crying.

Every time she said my name it came out smaller, more broken—like she was handing over another piece of her soul with it.

The

corruption

was slow, delicious: not force, but invitation.

She was learning how sweet it felt to fall.

I lost myself completely. Mouth open wide against her inner thigh—kissing, licking, sucking bruises into the softest skin, tongue dragging slow stripes higher and higher until the tip nudged the swollen outline of her clit through soaked fabric.

Hands sliding up to grip her hips, thumbs hooking under the

waistband of her shorts

—

not pulling them down, not yet

—just stretching the cotton tight, letting it outline every fold, every pulse. I could feel her

clit twitching

under my tongue even through the cloth—hard, needy, begging.

Her whole

pussy fluttered

against my mouth like a trapped heartbeat.

I pressed harder—

flat tongue, slow circles

—watching the wet spot bloom wider, darker. She was soaking my chin now, marking me the way I was marking her thighs.