Step-Sinner (Wanting What’s Wrong #8) Read Online Dani Wyatt

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love, Virgin Tags Authors: Series: Wanting What's Wrong Series by Dani Wyatt
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Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
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Her tongue slides on her lower lip as I latch onto her breast, drawing her deep, deeper, until her body shudders, her lids fall...

My hand moves in a fury, my chin dropping to my chest as I grimace, muscles twitching and twisting down my back as she moves against me. Her whisper into my ear…

“Daddy. I need you to be Daddy. I need that. I need—”

I growl, that’s it. My center. The reason I was ousted from the university. The recoil of women over the years who didn’t understand.

But, now I see what a gift their aversion was. It’s left me with something I’ve never shared. Something I never believed I would until I saw my stepsister at that baggage claim.

Rocking my hips into my hand as it locks in a vice grip around my dick, the room starts to spin. I grab at the doorjamb as darkness flickers in front of my eyes and the first jets of my climax spurt from my cock, the orgasm so strong I fall to my knees, knocking the hard-backed chair over, my forehead striking the wall as I strain with each spasm from my balls.

I pant, struggling for a breath as my lungs burn, the last jets of cum shooting onto the floor as I grunt and the first orgasm I’ve had in a decade nearly breaks me in two.

My hand will never be enough, I already know this. I expected relief, to give in to my urges, get it out of me and I would feel better.

But, I don’t. If anything, they’ve grown a hundred-fold. If I feel like this from imagining her, what will it feel like when I’m balls deep in the real thing?

The pressure in my chest increases like a tightening strap locking down. I fall back on my heels, hands on my thighs, looking to the ceiling where only cracked plaster and emptiness look back.

What have I done?

What have I yet to do?

When I can manage a breath, I push onto my feet, cleaning up the mess on the floor, the wall and myself before battling my still hard length into my pants, anger pulsing in my temples as I finish dressing in the mirror. The white collar choking me as I snap it into place.

It’s ten to five. Ten minutes until our next session where I will go over the rules, then map out her routine for the next thirty days, show her around the school. Share our journals.

God help me stay the course. I have not been the most loyal servant, but I have served. I have stayed true to my commitment.

But, I’m breaking. And I have no idea how to stop it happening.

CHAPTER 8

Kitty

It’s only been a day and a night and already I feel myself returning.

I was mad when Father Martin said I was playing a part. But, the truth stings and the persona I created over the last year is fragile. Who I am deep down is stronger than the costumes I’ve been wearing, trying to keep myself safe from more hurt.

Which is ironic because I’m pretty sure all my shenanigans since the wedding have done a good job hurting me more than if I’d stayed the course and remained true to myself.

And, speaking of playing a part, Father Martin does not look like a priest right now.

Honestly, when I first walked in, I thought someone else was here. A lone figure standing in an empty office with his back to me. I startled, almost blurted an apology for walking into the wrong room, and then he turned and I realized who it was. So this is what he looks like in “normal” clothes?

Me likey.

The simple white t-shirt is sexier than should be allowed. It pulls just the right amount over the expanse of his pectorals and there’s a hint of six pack indents when he moves. His biceps look like they belong on a soldier, not a man of the cloth, covered with that swirling and sexy ink I got a glimpse of before. The tattoos cover his forearms, the colorful artwork twisting with every movement of the thick, corded muscle beneath. The ink ends at his neck, a colorful ring of tribal tattoos ending about an inch up, where a shirt with any sort of collar would cover.

As I step closer, I think I see the start of a curse word leading up under the short sleeve…

Fu…

“One last thing,” Sister Nathalia says as she reads off the list on her tablet, raising her voice over the noise of construction workers in the corner of the office. It’s weird. She’s always so harsh and old-fashioned I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her using a slate and chalk. “Don’t forget your grandmother is due a visit in five days. Should I order a delivery of gardenias as usual?”


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