There Is No Devil Sinners Duet Book 2 By Sophie Lark-pdfread

2
COLE
W
hen we return from shopping, Mara pounces on me, shoving me
down on the nearest chaise, saying, “Now it’s my turn,” in that
husky voice of hers.
If I could describe the attraction I feel for her, and the way it eclipses what
I’ve ever felt before, I’d have to say that Mara is just … gritty. She has an
edge of roughness, wildness, neglect.
Even though I should dislike certain aspects of her person—the way she bites
her nails ragged, for instance—it all becomes the spice that I crave more than
any bland and perfect beauty.
The artist in me desires what is truly unique. The slope of Mara’s upturned
nose, her wild fling of freckles, the fox-tilt of her eyes, the lower lip’s ratio to
the top … these proportions are so exaggerated that they ought to be wrong.
Instead, they could never be more right.
She looks up at me, a wild creature. No captive pet … I’ve lured her here but
not yet tamed her to my will.
I lean back against the cushions, arms spread across the scrolled woodwork,
looking down at her. Watching her work.
She unzips my pants, looking up into my face, her sleet-gray eyes flirting
with mine. She’s smiling, licking her lips with anticipation, her fingers
fumbling with the zipper.