Read Novel Full Chapter 884: Sinful Big Sister (r-18)
Chapter 884: Sinful Big Sister (r-18)
Peter caught her wrists mid-motion. Gentle. Inexorable. He guided them back down to the sheets—slowly, so slowly—thumbs stroking endless, burning circles over the frantic flutter of her pulse points until fresh sparks raced straight to her core.
"Stay," he murmured, voice gravel and sin. "Let me see you break for me... inch by inch, Big Sister."
Her lip caught viciously between her teeth. Eyes squeezed shut—then fluttered open again—wide, glassy, drowning. The flush spread in a slow, humiliating tide: throat, chest, the very tops of her breasts turning the same deep, embarrassed crimson as her cheeks.
A tiny, fractured "Please... brother..." leaked out—barely sound, more air than voice, cracked by mortification.
She was shivering violently now realizing how scandalous and taboo this was. Every breath came in shallow, uneven hitches.
Nipples throbbed under the cool air and his gaze.
Between her thighs, heat pooled thicker, wetter—soaking the cotton she still wore, the dampness spreading visibly, obscenely.
Only then—only then—did he finally push the fabric the rest of the way. One torturous centimeter at a time. The shirt slid over the stiff peaks—dragging across them with agonizing friction—before he peeled it up her arms, past her shoulders, over her head.
It caught briefly in her hair; he took his time untangling it, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin behind her ears, along her neck, making her whimper again—soft, broken, humiliated.
The shirt finally slipped free. Fell somewhere behind them. Forgotten.
She lay bare from the waist up—completely exposed—arms instinctively trying to curl inward again. Peter caught her wrists once more.
"Open for me," he rasped. "Show me everything."
She obeyed—shaking so hard the bed trembled with her. Fists clenched white-knuckled in the sheets. Face turned sharply into the pillow, cheek burning, lashes wet. Couldn’t watch him watch her.
He exhaled—low, reverent, predatory. Then he began.
Fingertips first.
Feather-light.
Tracing the fragile ridge of one collarbone... then the other... taking forever to follow the delicate line downward. Drifting into the shallow valley between her breasts—never touching the peaks—circling the firm outer swells in slow, endless spirals that made her arch involuntarily.
He paused at the tender crease beneath each breast—thumb brushing back and forth, back and forth—letting her feel the maddening nearness without relief.
A soft, mortified "ohhh..." slipped free—high and trembling.
Only then did his mouth descend. Open kisses—agonizingly slow—along her sternum. Wet, lingering drags of lips over the flushed skin just below one breast... then the other... tasting salt and heat and shame. Tongue flicked out—once—barely grazing the hypersensitive underside.
Her whole torso jerked. A tiny, shattered sob escaped before she bit it back.
He took his time. Kissed every curve. Every slope. Every trembling inch of skin he could reach.
Circled the aching peaks with hot breath—hovering, never closing the distance—until she was writhing, hips twitching upward in helpless reflex, thighs squeezing together as if she could hide the slick heat soaking through her shorts.
When he finally—finally—closed his lips around one stiff nipple, it was devastatingly slow. Just the softest suck at first... while moving his fingers letting Magical Touch and Touch of Taboo rewrite every nerve in real time.
Pleasure bloomed outward in forbidden ripples—along her ribs, down her sides, into the dip of her waist—places that had no right to feel this obscene.
The wrongness of it—the sin of his mouth on her like this—only made every spark burn hotter.
Her back bowed—offering more even as tears of pure overwhelm slipped free. Fingers clawed at the sheets. A soft, broken "Peter... I—I can’t take it..." cracked into a helpless whimper.
He stayed there—minutes—lavishing one nipple with slow circles of tongue, gentle pulls, tiny grazes of teeth—then switched to the other. Same unhurried torment. Same devastating patience. Every suck sent another hot rush of wetness between her thighs; the cotton was drenched, clinging, betraying her completely.
Only when she was trembling on the edge of sobbing did he drift lower. Mouth following the centerline of her quivering stomach—kissing... pausing... kissing again—each press of lips slower than the last.
He lingered over her navel—tongue dipping inside in lazy, filthy swirls that made her hips jerk and a fresh, mortified moan escape. Traced the sharp dip of her hip bones. Nipped softly at the sensitive skin just above the waistband.
Everywhere except where she ached most.
She was soaking. Dripping. The wet spot on her shorts had spread visibly—dark, obscene—and still he refused to touch her there.
Just kept worshipping the rest of her—torturously, sinfully slow—until every soft, fragile sound she made felt like confession, until every tremble felt like surrender, until she was nothing but flushed skin and helpless need beneath him.
"Peter..." His name came out tiny, quivering, soaked in shame and want. A plea wrapped in unbearable anticipation.
He lifted his head—eyes black fire, reverent possession. Two fingers hooked beneath the waistband.
Paused. Let the elastic bite into her fevered skin. Let the slow stretch twist inside her until she was shaking harder, thighs trembling, breath coming in short, desperate pants.
And then—even slower—he began to drag the last scrap of fabric down... inch... by... agonizing... inch...
Kissing every newly bared curve of hip, every quivering line of thigh, every sensitive hollow—never straying to the slick, aching center that wept for him.
She was his.Utterly. Sinfully. Helplessly. And he wa s going to make her feel every second of it.
He hooked two fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts. Paused—deliberately cruel in his patience—letting the elastic bite into the soft skin just above her hips, letting her feel the slow, inevitable stretch. Her breath caught in tiny, panicked hitches.
Her thighs trembled. The soaked cotton clung obscenely to her wet folds, outlining every swollen detail of her outer folds she couldn’t hide.
"Peter... I—I’m so..." The words died in a mortified whisper. She couldn’t even finish the sentence—couldn’t admit out loud how drenched she was, how her body had already surrendered long before her mind caught up.
He didn’t answer with words. Just began to drag the fabric downward—agonizingly slow, reverently sinful.
The shorts peeled away inch by trembling inch. First the sharp dip of her hips—he kissed open-mouthed, tongue tracing the delicate ridge until she whimpered and arched.
Then the soft, quivering plane of her lower belly—lips lingering there, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just above her pubic mound, leaving a faint red bloom she’d feel tomorrow like a secret brand.
Her hands flew to cover her face—palms pressed tight over burning cheeks—as the waistband finally cleared the top of her mound. The damp cotton stuck for a heartbeat—clinging to her slick, swollen lips—before he tugged it free with a soft, wet sound that made her whole body flinch in humiliation.
Exposed. Completely. No hiding now.
He pulled the shorts the rest of the way down her thighs—kissing every newly bared curve as he went: the trembling inner thighs he’d already claimed earlier, the sensitive hollows behind her knees, even the delicate arches of her feet when he finally slipped the fabric off and tossed it aside.
Then he settled back between her legs—knees spreading her wider, palms sliding up the backs of her thighs to hook under them and lift, opening her like an offering.
The Eye flared again: golden desire lines blazed brightest now at the glistening apex of her thighs—her clit swollen and flushed, pulsing visibly; inner lips parted and slick, arousal dripping in slow, shameful trails down toward the sheets.
He stared—long, unblinking, speechless with hunger. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest.
Sarah’s hands stayed clamped over her face. Fingers trembling. A soft, broken sob leaked out—pure overwhelm, pure shyness, pure need.
"Don’t... don’t just look..." she whispered, voice cracking. "Please... it’s too much..." He had already seen her already, but the shyness was still there.
But then her hips betrayed her—lifting just a fraction, thighs falling open wider on instinct, body begging even as her mind screamed with embarrassment.
He spread her wider—palms firm under her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft crease where leg met groin, holding her open like an offering she could no longer refuse. Her knees trembled violently against his shoulders.