A Taste like Sin Read online

  A Taste like Sin

  Painted Sin Book 2

  Lana Sky

  A Taste like Sin

  A Taste like Sin By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2019 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Charity Chimni

  Editing by Mickey Reed Editing

  Formatting by Charity Chimni

  Proofreading by Charity Chimni

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Real monsters hide their true identities behind their polished masks. But broken little girls? We disguise our pain with rebellion.

  For instance, when faced with her father’s betrayal, in what ways might a sheltered socialite lash out? Why, by selling her virginity to none other than said father’s sworn enemy.

  And where might such a man take her in order to culminate her pain and humiliation?

  To view an orgy, of course. In all fairness, I all but dared him to.

  Distract me was the challenge I proposed to Damien Villa after spending forty-eight hours locked inside my apartment. It’s only fitting that he picked his favorite arena to amuse me within—as well as to reinforce the bargain we’ve struck: I’ve sold my virginity to him for a dangerous price. His company.

  “You’re shaking, Ms. Thorne,” Damien acknowledges, his coarse tone like velvet against my eardrum. He’s seated on a leather chair beside the identical one I’m perched on the edge of. Only a sliver of space separates us and, this close, his heat is a cruel, mocking taste of what I can’t seem to feel: anything.

  The aftermath of Heyworth’s deception has rendered me hollow.

  Empty.

  Numb.

  Though my nails dig into my palms—I’m clenching them that tightly—nothing cuts through the fog in my brain. Nothing except his voice.

  “I can smell the sweat on your skin,” he says, utilizing his skills of perception the way an assassin would a knife. To reinforce that comparison, the blindfold obscuring his vision is the same ebony shade as his suit, helping him cut a chilling figure against the blood-colored backdrop. “If you are nervous, we can leave. I’m sure I can devise another form of entertainment.”

  “N-No.” The appearance of an easy out makes me shudder—this man, despite how short a time I’ve known him, doesn’t strike me as the merciful type. More devilish if anything.

  Because we’ve made a deal, he and I. It’s only fitting that he brought me to Hell in order to honor that pact.

  To be fair, his version of Hell is a stylish affair. Scarlet walls enclose a private booth resembling one that might be found in an opera house. Admittedly, an opera house that stars naked performers writhing upon black silken sheets rather than a stage.

  In a sick way, there’s beauty in it all.

  Down below, two men and a woman lie entwined, their pale limbs entangled. Hoarse groans allude to their activity, but as far as I can tell, there’s been no penetration. Yet. A strange detail to notice with a madman seated beside me.

  Fully aware of him, I sense my inner thighs tense in a way that makes me stiffen and cross them tighter.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “And I laid out my terms. It’s only fair that you get to specify yours.”

  Like “dinner” here, again.

  The first time he brought me to this taboo venue, the layout was admittedly different: a single couple viewed through a sheet of glass. Tonight, shadowed balconies reveal the vague hints of other people watching from across this wide atrium. At a glance, I count six booths in total, all with a bird’s-eye view of the trio, their occupants rapt at attention.

  “I will admit,” I whisper, “that when you mentioned sex, I wasn’t aware that you meant in the context of…an orgy.” God, I can barely spit that word out. I breathe it instead, a gasp tinged by so many connotations. Dirty. Disgusting. Debasing.

  Least of all: My father wouldn’t approve.

  The man who, as of two days ago, I considered to be my father, at least. Maybe that stubborn fact is why I haven’t left yet? Why I can’t seem to take my eyes off the naked woman being pawed like a toy doll between two different men, either.

  Spite.

  At least she’s enjoying her stint as a pawn.

  “I won’t insist on anything you are not comfortable with,” Damien warns, a rather polite non-denial. “You will have the final say in that matter when it comes to it. This is merely a diversion.”

  “From the saga of Heyworth Thorne,” I snipe. “I know he’s been trying to contact me.” And I’ve avoided every message, call, and text. Something tells me that Damien hasn’t strived to be as ignorant as I have, however. “How many times has he called today? Let me guess, he apologized? Promised to buy me a pony if I forgive him for protecting the identity of the man who made my life a living hell for twenty years? Or perhaps a new dress?” The vitriol undercuts the sensual murmurs drifting from below, and I have enough sense to feel some semblance of guilt. I’m ruining the show. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be ashamed of your anger, ” Damien growls, displaying his uncanny knack for sensing my emotions, even as I try to ignore them. “You have every right to express it.”

  “Do I?” I tilt my head thoughtfully, blinking back a burning sting from my eyes.

  The loss of a loved one is an awful, ripping kind of pain. I’ve suffered it before—and I should be able to survive anything after that.

  But I was wrong. So wrong.

  My birth parents were absentee, barely imprinted in my memory—but Heyworth Thorne is my father. My mentor. My protector. My hero.

  And beneath his well-crafted mask, he is little more than a fraud.

  And a liar.

  “Several,” Damien says, shrugging the question off. Before I can command him to elaborate, he inclines his head toward the balcony. A not-so-subtle reference to the high-pitched moan emanating from below. “I must admit I’m curious as to the act encouraging our current soundtrack. Would you kindly narrate?”

  I lean forward just enough to view the trio again. “They’re fingering the woman,” I dryly convey. “It looks rather uncomfortable, if I do say so myself—”

  “Oh?” He laughs while copying my movements, his breath on my throat. “Do add some more theatrics to your descriptions, Ms. Thorne. I would like to visualize the scene, if you will. Is it one finger or two?”

  I stiffen. Only he could pleasantly request something so obscene yet make it seem tempting to comply.

  “They’re…positioning her,” I say. “On her hands and knees. The taller one is looming over her from behind and—”

  “Ah, but what is she feeling?” As if such a thing could be discerned just at a glance.

  Surprisingly, I think it can be as the woman in
question arches her back into the taller man while brushing her fingers along the chest of the other.

  “She’s not ashamed,” I hear myself croak. “I think…she’s enjoying it.”

  “Is that so?” He’s even closer, his scent flooding my nostrils with every breath I take. Wine. Cologne. Sin. My eyelids flutter as my gaze darts from the show to him and back again. “How could someone enjoy something so vulgar?”

  “Her eyes are wide,” I admit. “She’s trembling. Moaning. I suppose you can hear the rest.”

  “That I can.”

  I turn in time to catch a flash of teeth as he grins. But just as quickly, a frown replaces the expression.

  “I’m afraid our entertainment may be cut short.”

  “Huh?” I look behind us and find a hostess entering the booth, her teeth clenched.

  She crosses to Damien and leans down to murmur something into his ear.

  “I see,” he replies, reaching for his cane. Extending his hand toward me, he nods to the door. “I was correct. After you.”

  “What’s going on?” I warily place my hand on his and allow him to pull me along after the hostess, but he doesn’t offer up an explanation. Near the mouth of the lobby, I deduce the reason for this unceremonious interruption all on my own.

  Two police officers are guarding the door, glaringly out of place. Their twin stern expressions fixate on me simultaneously and one of them advances, his hand extended. “Miss Thorne?”

  “Yes,” I croak. “Can I help you?”

  The two share a look. “Have you heard from your father recently?” the first one asks.

  My heart falls into my stomach. “Is something wrong? Did something happen—”

  “No,” the man says quickly. “But he seems to be…concerned for your welfare.”

  “My welfare?” My brows furrow. “He didn’t—”

  “As you can see, she is safe and sound,” Damien smoothly says before I can complete my suspicion out loud. “We apologize for the confusion, officers. Goodnight.”

  His careful tone implies the worst-case scenario. Like the fact that these officers didn’t randomly show up to a sex club for the hell of it. They had been sent here.

  For me.

  “He called you, didn’t he?” I demand of the nearer officer, who looks back at his partner. “My father?”

  “We’re just doing our duty, ma’am.” A confirmation if there ever was one.

  “Well, you can tell my father…” I grit my teeth over that word and choke it down. “Heyworth Thorne. You can tell him to stop contacting me. I’m fine.”

  “And you feel safe?” the other officer inquires, his eyes darting in Damien’s direction. “Your father would like you to give him a call if you can. Just to reassure him that you’re okay.”

  “Why?” I demand. But then another, more pointed question escapes. “Or what?”

  Isn’t the answer obvious?

  “He wants you to arrest me, doesn’t he?” I suspect, my voice breaking. “Or commit me, or whatever you can do to lock me away—”

  “Juliana.” Damien’s hand lands over my shoulder. Even I know how insane I sound out loud. Paranoid. Irrational.

  Days of obsessing over Heyworth’s next move might do that to a person.

  “You can tell him to go fuck himself,” I hiss. “Tell him to—”

  “I believe you have witnessed more than enough to be assured that Ms. Thorne is perfectly safe, as well as in her right mind,” Damien says over me. “If you please.”

  When he touches my arm again, I have enough sense to follow, allowing him to guide me into another section of the shadowy lobby. Then through a door and into a small sitting room.

  “That will be all,” Damien says to the attendant, who scurries off. “Breathe,” he commands me. “Getting upset now would only play into Thorne’s hands.”

  I hate that he’s right. That he can read me—and my father—so damn well. Like pawns on a well-studied chessboard. That’s all we are to him really. Mere pieces in a giant game.

  “You think like him,” I croak, tearing my hands through my hair, desperate to keep them from shaking—it doesn’t help. Helpless, I tug at the sleeves of my coat instead, straightening it over my black cocktail dress. He suggested formal attire for tonight’s engagement—a bit of irony all things considered. My life is in shambles, but at least I’m well dressed for the occasion. “Always about appearances and propriety, and—”

  “My reputation doesn’t depend on you,” Damien argues. “Frankly, we haven’t been publicly linked, so I have no stake in ensuring the paparazzi doesn’t capture a front-page story of you having a meltdown in a private club. So scream if you so choose. Rant. I will not judge you.”

  God, it’s the wrong thing for him to say. Patient. Understanding.

  Disarming.

  “I would rather you be an ass right now,” I admit. “It would be easier to be furious.”

  And I need to stay angry. Bitter. Callous.

  Because if I can’t…

  “Forget the rest of the world.” Like a wall of muscle, every contour of Damien hardens against me from behind. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather we return to the show. Your sanitized narration has grown on me—”

  “Is that what you want from me?” I ask.

  His silence intrigues me, overriding the ache in my chest—for now. Like a drowning victim presented with a life rope, I latch onto it.

  “Want to do to me, I mean. F-Fuck me in front of a room of people like some kind of pathetic porn—”

  “I believe you weren’t paying close enough attention, Ms. Thorne,” he scolds, his lips grazing my jaw, a whisper of lethally soft flesh. “There is nothing pathetic about that woman. She holds all of the power in that instance. I would ask you not deride her method to express her empowerment. However, these excursions are diversions meant to occupy your attention. Nothing more.”

  “Diversions.” It’s as if tasting the word out loud unlocks the hidden meaning. Perhaps I ignored it until now. Here, in his private fantasy club, Heyworth Thorne would never dare follow. In fact, there is only one way anyone knew where to find us at all, I suspect. “Did Julio direct the police here?” I ask, referring to his lead bodyguard.

  An uncharacteristic grunt escapes him. Then he sighs. “I have friends in law enforcement, shall we say. Your father has been persistent—belligerent, even. To placate him, they threatened to mount a more…public search. This way, they can be satisfied with seeing you safe and whole. For now. And the police chief can’t use your association with me as fodder for his son’s political machinations.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “And you didn’t warn me?”

  “Would you have come?” he inquires. “Would you have stayed?”

  “I… Damn him.” Ignoring his question, I refocus my irritation on the one person who deserves it. “Damn him—”

  “But can you blame him? You have been avoiding him for two days.”

  “Don’t pretend you care.” Only as the words leave my mouth do I realize how ungrateful they sound. “I’m sorry. I just mean… After everything he put me through, the silent treatment isn’t the worst method of revenge I could resort to.”

  What are a few days of shunning in comparison to over twenty years of lies? Deception designed to make me believe my best friend’s killer was an unknown assailant. A specter. A shadow. When all along…he defended the man in court. He knows his identity. And even now, he has yet to tell me.

  All to protect his pride.

  “Have you learned anything?” I ask Damien, turning to face him. “About Simon?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He shakes his head. “The records are proving harder to track down than expected. But when I do discover anything at all, I’ll alert you immediately.”

  “Thank you.” I squeeze my eyes shut, even though it’s futile around him. He may not be able to see my tears, but he can sense them. Smell them. I tremble as what feels like his thumb swipes at a fresh bead of li
quid, wicking it away.

  “I will keep looking,” he promises. “In the meantime… Let me take you home—”

  “No.” Opening my eyes, I turn away from him and find myself nearing the threshold of the hallway. This place is so strange when given more scrutiny. Private. Discreet. Yet within these walls, anything but takes place. How strange that, of all potential hiding places, he would let the police find us here—because I have no doubt in my mind that they wouldn’t be here otherwise. “Don’t you value your privacy? I mean, if one of those officers decides to leak to the press that you were found in this place…”

  “They could,” he says. “Or perhaps, they would if I hadn’t had Julio educate them on the strict privacy guidelines of this establishment before bringing them here. I’ve also ensured that their chief is aware to remind them. Though it was only a matter of time before they came here looking regardless.”

  Such a harmless statement reminds me eerily of the tensing of a trap readying to spring. Like a good lamb to the slaughter, I blindly step within its snare. “Why?”

  “Because I own it,” he explains. “And while its true purpose is private and its clientele strictly guarded, public documents are alas public. Though I did have the officers come in through a private entrance, preventing any unnecessary dramatics.”

  Which sounds like a lot of trouble to go through for a welfare check.

  “Why not just take me home? Unless… You wanted them to find me here specifically. Or, to be blunter, you wanted Heyworth Thorne to know I was here. With you.”

  At a sex club.

  His smile should unsettle me more than it does. “If I admitted as much, would that bother you?”

  The bastard. He makes it sound so casual, as if he’s truly offering me a legitimate choice.