A Taste like Sin Read online

  “Did you know that he didn’t show?” I demand. “If so, then tell me. Did someone powerful come along and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse?” I force a smile while telling myself I can handle any explanation. But my stomach churns more the longer Damien’s silence extends. It’s not out of ignorance, I suspect. He’s hiding something. “Just tell me.”

  “I’m not sure,” he concedes. “Just that he canceled all appointments for the day.”

  “You don’t think something’s wrong, do you?” The concern in my voice isn’t fake. Heyworth Thorne may be many things. But for twenty years, he was my father. Go figure, those emotions can’t be shaken overnight. “Maybe I should go to the house?” I start to stand.

  “I can have Julio take you there now,” Damien suggests without moving. “Merely say the word.”

  “Or it could be a trick,” I find myself blurting, lowering beside him again. “Lure me to the house. Ambush me with the police present. Declare me mentally unfit. Have me committed—”

  “Well, you did physically assault an innocent, prying journalist,” Damien dryly interjects. “In the midst of cursing you to hell and back, the man did admit that you have a decent right hook.”

  I laugh, alarmed by how real it sounds. A real laugh in this shit-storm of a morning.

  “Can I ask you for something else?”

  He doesn’t even bother to answer me this time. A stern grunt is all the encouragement I need to confess.

  “I…I want to forget everything about today.” My father. Mateo. The press. “You can pick the distraction.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know how dangerous they sound. “Just take me somewhere far away where I don’t have to think. Please.”

  “A brave request.” He stands and murmurs into his headset, “Julio, bring the car around por favor.” To me, he offers his hand and helps me to my feet. “That I can do.”

  Of all places he could take me, he fittingly picks one of the last I’d assume.

  His waterfront studio. The place where he sketched me for the first time on his wooden table. Naked. Today, a blank canvas dominates an easel placed strategically in the center of that same room. Beside it is a flat marble slab with a mattress covered in a black sheet balanced on top.

  A brave request, he said. Now, I’m starting to realize why.

  “Strip,” Damien commands, shedding his own coat, which he tosses onto a leather chair near the entrance. “You can leave the dress on the floor. I assure you it’s clean. Then, we can begin.”

  “You plan to paint me?” My gaze settles on the marble slab and then the easel set up beside it.

  “You sound skeptical,” Damien points out, pouncing on my unease. “Not quite what you had in mind?”

  He doesn’t seem disappointed. If anything… amused, like a master puppeteer waiting for his pretty little doll to notice her strings.

  “Lying still for a long period of time utterly motionless isn’t exactly conducive to helping me forget.” Even still, my hands graze the front of my coat. Slowly, I undo the first button.

  “Motionless?” Damien echoes, tapping his chin with an extended finger. “Who said I would use the drug this time? In fact, I will offer you a choice.”

  “A choice?” Intrigued, I track his trek across the room.

  When he reaches the marble slab, his cane in hand, he bends in an elegant motion, lifting something from a shelf built into the side of the structure. A tray, I see as I come closer. On it are a few assorted objects. A mirror, a small box, a swath of black silk…

  “A blindfold?” I question.

  “Sí,” Damien says, his mouth quirked. “You may pick between it and the drug—”

  “The blindfold,” I blurt while snatching up the strip of silk. I’m relieved for reasons I can’t explain as the fabric settles into the palm of my hand. “Now what?”

  “Now…” He turns his attention to the small box and lifts the lid, revealing the round objects lying on a bed of red velvet. “Pearls,” he explains. “Harvested by hand and chosen for quality. They are damn near priceless; I can assure you of that. Each one is exquisitely unique.”

  “Oh?” It’s hard to keep the awe from my tone. Only a man like him would have priceless items lying around out in the open, their purpose unknown. I tentatively finger one bead, impressed by the quality. “Are you planning on bribing me with a necklace, Mr. Villa?”

  “Something like that.” His deep, rumbling laugh sends tendrils of unease lancing through my blood. “You will lie back while I paint you,” he explains, his tone professionally level. “I will place these pearls on your body and you must not allow them to move. Does that make for a fitting diversion?”

  I swallow hard, intrigued despite myself. “And if they do fall off?”

  He smiles, and I have never witnessed something so devastatingly beautiful. Rather than answer me right away, he extends his palm, and without being prompted further, I surrender the blindfold. As easily as if he’s memorized every inch of my body, he reaches out and finds my cheek.

  “Turn around, sweet girl.” His use of the endearing term sets my nerves on the edge of a cliff.

  When I comply, he draws the silk over my eyes, using my ears as a guide. After tying the knot, he steers me back until what I assume to be the ledge of the platform brushes my hip.

  “Every pearl that falls is one I will be allowed to use,” he says, casually picking up the thread of our previous conversation. “As I see fit.”

  “In what way?” I question.

  Subtle sounds are all I have to discern his next movements. A soft click, as if he propped his cane against an edge of the platform, followed by the creak of the leather-topped stool placed halfway between the platform and the easel. It makes sense. From that position, both are within his reach—as will I be.

  “In a way that will allow me to explore your body in a manner entirely separate from my art.”

  Heat sears my cheeks. A nun could hear the innuendo in his tone—and he’s done so well to disguise it until now: the restrained lust oozing from him, as tantalizing as his cologne. A part of me shivers in response. Flinches. I’m painfully aware of the thin fabric of my dress whispering over my skin.

  “Have I startled you, Ms. Thorne?” he wonders innocently. A soft hiss makes me imagine him picking up the brush, dipping it into paint before testing a streak over the canvas. “Perhaps you find this proposed diversion too stimulating? We can skip the blindfold, if that appeases you.”

  “No. In fact, I think you have a deal, Mr. Villa.” I wrench my coat open, fiddling with the buttons as I go. Once it’s off, I toss it aside and shed my dress, feeling the chill in the room. My nipples tighten as I wad my panties up and discard that as well. “Now what?”

  “Lie down.” His voice has deepened. Gone is the mocking, playful edge, and I can’t stop my arms from flinching toward my breasts, despite his lack of sight. An artist has replaced the powerful, reclusive billionaire—but he’s a more dangerous animal. One who communicates with grit in his tone and an authoritative aura. “On your back,” he prompts as I feel for the platform and perch myself on the edge of it. “Don’t worry about positioning your limbs. I will arrange them for you.”

  An ominous sentence if there ever was one.

  “Arrange?” I can’t resist parroting as I run my fingers along the silken sheets, testing their quality: luxurious. “You make it sound more in-depth than painting.”

  “Sí.” A wistful sigh rips from his throat. “It always is…”

  “Ah, how could I forget? You’ve done this before.”

  Painting naked women is a pastime that’s garnered him acclaim. Though it’s the first time in a while that he’s referred to his other subjects—a deliberate tactic, I suspect. Deciphering his reasons why is like playing an elaborate game of chess with a master far out of my league.

  So I forge a change in subject.

  “I’m lying down.” Twisting, I lift my legs and lower myself onto the platform. “So
when do the pearls come into play?” I ask, sounding bolder than I feel.

  “Now.”

  I sense him stand again and my ears strain to catch his every movement. There is a practiced grace to how he moves, supposedly pivoting on his feet to navigate the slender path between his stool and the platform. From this angle, I have no idea where he’s positioned. My only clues are the nuanced shifts in the air. His breathing. His scent.

  “Are you ready?” Gone is the smug mocking from his voice. I picture his nostrils flaring, his tongue flicking along his lower lip.

  With what I suspect is another practiced motion, he finds the tray near my hip and noisily drags it closer to him, allowing the edge to brush my skin so I can feel every single inch.

  Tiny pings make me assume that the pearls are colliding with the sides of the tray. Each delicate click sends my heart surging just a bit faster. There are too many possibilities for him to implement the words he said. Use the pearls to explore me. But how?

  I’m so lost in thought that I almost miss the moment he seizes one of the ivory balls between his thumb and his forefinger: the only solution I can envision when the tiny noises suddenly go silent. I can almost see him rolling his chosen pearl between his fingers as if memorizing every slight flaw in its surface. Satisfied, he’d cock his head, a dangerous grin shaping his mouth.

  “Do you want to place them initially, or should I?”

  “Is that a trick question?” I counter, resorting to the only weakness of his I can use to my advantage: his blindness. “Just tell me where you want them and I’ll—”

  He laughs. “Oh, I’m sure I could manage. Your hip,” he announces before the silk pad of a finger brushes along my side, persistent even as I jump. “Your stomach. Your navel. Should I utilize this spot in particular?”

  I shiver as he flicks the dip in my belly. Rather than move on, he lingers, imparting his heat into my skin merely to prove a point.

  “Yes, here,” he declares before replacing his touch with the unmistakable round shape of a pearl.

  Panic spreads down my spine like wildfire as the slight weight settles there precariously. One wrong move and it’s gone.

  “And if it falls?” I struggle to ask while keeping my stomach flat.

  He laughs again, but the sound is an octave deeper. “I’ll let you imagine what the consequence may be.”

  “B-But—”

  “Next one,” he declares, cutting me off. The hiss of silk and flesh teases my ears as he presumably rummages through the contents of the tray to retrieve yet another pearl.

  “Open your mouth,” he commands as the noise ceases.

  “W-What?” Heat brushes my cheek, easily finding my mouth—his thumb, I think. He teases my lower lip with the hardened tip of a nail. “Why?”

  “Just open.”

  My lips part on command and I’m rewarded with the hint of salt. From his thumb. The rigid shape is recognizable as my tongue skims the ridges and whirls on the pad of it. With every tentative lick, my stomach twists into knots, registering his unique taste. Sweat. Sin. His finger withdraws before I can decipher more, and something new replaces it. Smooth with a slightly gritty surface, not completely round. And…

  It’s wet, tainted with flavor. The sinful taste triggers my memory as heat ignites near my belly: expensive wine like the kind he owns. A dangerous thought worms its way into my skull, robbing the air from my lungs. Did he taste this before giving it to me?

  The pearl withdraws before I muster up the strength to decide. For a painful few seconds, he remains silent.

  “Perhaps here, next?” he murmurs as a soft touch teases the space between my breasts.

  I gasp, remembering the first pearl before it’s too late. Moisture paints my skin in the wake of the second pearl, leaving a path that cools instantly in the air. I shiver as he guides it up…over…

  There’s no disguising my body’s instinctive reaction. A low hum taints the air as the pearl meets the stiffened peak of my nipple.

  “Here?” he wonders thickly before rolling the pearl down my breast. There he leaves it, balanced on my breastbone.

  He’s quiet again, only his breathing gives me any clue where he is—more distant as if he’s moved near my feet. The next moment, his touch is back, at my ankle this time. I can feel the heat of his hand, but only a newer pearl contacts my skin, gliding up my leg. I feel all its imperfections, its dents as it grazes my calf. It’s surprisingly gritty like sand, teasing the flesh on my knee.

  “Here?” he murmurs, lingering again.

  My lower half trembles, muscles tense to ensure the other pearls don’t move.

  “Or here?”

  Coldness swipes along my inner thigh, inching higher…

  I barely register the unnerving sensation of the small bead between my legs before a firmer touch continues its original path. I have no trouble naming the culprit: his hand. The individual shape of every finger sends my senses spiraling. My spine stiffens, aching to arch—into him? Away from him? The thinnest shred of pride keeps me still, a slave to his touch. One by one, he spreads his fingers over my hip. Slowly…so damn slowly, they dance across my pelvis, stopping just short of the thatch of curls at the base of my abdomen.

  And another pearl settles, jarring my dazed thoughts.

  “Last one.” Alarm sets in as his finger caresses a path up my throat and finds my lips. “Open,” he commands again.

  This time, I definitely taste salt as his finger glides across my tongue. “Close.”

  Once my lips meet, a gentle pressure seals them shut—the final pearl.

  “There.” He turns back to his canvas and the stool creaks beneath his weight. “Now we can begin. I hope you are comfortable, Juliana?”

  He chuckles in that slow, callous way when I don’t answer.

  “Good. Now that I have your full attention, we can discuss in detail what I plan to do to you. When I finally decide to take what I am owed.”

  My lips twitch and the pearl slips—thank God it doesn’t fall. It’s certain now; the man is evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.

  “I’m sure you’ve wondered about it,” he taunts. “Obsessed over every little detail—you may let your gilded world control every aspect of your life, but you still can’t stand it. And yet you haven’t asked me.”

  So he has noticed my silence on that topic. Has he been waiting for me to broach it first?

  The pearl feels like a lead weight, keeping me silent. And like a true torturer, he knows exactly how to twist the knife.

  “Shall I tell you?” That dangerous chuckle rumbles from him again. “Though I’m tempted to let you stew on it. There are so many ways to rob you of that one shred of innocence you cling to—because you have clung to it. I know you’ve dated before.” He throws it off like a casual observation, but it conveys so much more. Like the fact that he’s delved into more than just my past. Perhaps he’s spied on more than my intimate moments as well. “All powerful, pretty men, none of whom last the month with you. And not because they leave you,” he adds, proving my suspicions correct. “You never let them in. Not to your apartment. Not even the damn building. You’ve built a wall between the world and your private life and I doubt you even know how to break it. Because of him.”

  He doesn’t say the name. I flinch regardless—and the round bead on my breastbone shifts, threatening to roll off. Holding my breath is the only way to keep it still.

  “He hurt you, didn’t he?” There’s an uncharacteristic softness to his baritone. “In more ways than killing your friend.”

  No. I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale, heedless of the way the pearls on my body lurch in response. A frantic sound builds up in my throat but doesn’t escape my mouth. Yet. A plea. Please don’t.

  “I’m not mocking you,” he clarifies like it matters—but the gruff, bitter note in his voice makes me bite back a scoff. “Your limits. Your fears. Those are the things I must know before I can fully take what you wagered. I refuse to traumatize you,
for lack of a better word. Despite what happens between us, I have no intention of harming you.”

  And perhaps that’s why he claimed to be willing to offer up anything in advance. The price of my deepest, darkest secrets is one worth paying to a man like him.

  So that he can use my past against me?

  “I believe the best course of action would be to have you demonstrate for me,” he muses amid the scrape of the brush on the canvas. “Where to touch you. How. Exhibition seems to be one of your defining traits. I’m sure you’d enjoy the experience more than I—”

  “You’re insane.” Ping! The musical sound chimes a faint warning as my lips part again. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Wouldn’t what?” he murmurs.

  With my mouth free, I don’t hold back. “Take me to your creepy little club,” I spit hoarsely. “Make me…in front of—”

  “You think I meant publicly? Oh, no. Some experiences should remain private between two individuals. Like how you sound in the throes of an orgasm. Sí…” A grated sound resonates in his throat. “The members of my club don’t pay nearly enough to partake in that kind of entertainment.”

  “Why even own a club like that?” I spit without parsing the possession evident in that statement. A nefarious reason worms into my brain. “Do you participate in the ‘entertainment’ yourself perhaps? At an owner’s discount?”

  “¿Qué?” Another heartless laugh conveys he’s anything but insulted. “No. I am afraid the true reason is rather boring, Ms. Thorne: leverage.”

  “How enterprising of you,” I counter. “Naked, undisguised blackmail. There is a poetic irony to it.”

  “Gracias, though I’m not sure you fully appreciate what I mean. Humans are such strange creatures, you see. They’d give one man the absolute power to destroy their lives in a heartbeat, all for the promise of freedom to indulge in the most wicked of pastimes. It is quite the Faustian bargain.”

  “Leverage?” I echo. “That sounds more like blackmail. I thought you valued discretion and ensured privacy?”

  “And I do,” he insists, but I sense another half to that statement that he doesn’t voice. And I do…for now. “But if you’re wondering if I fuck the performers in my spare time, I’m afraid the answer is no.”