A Taste like Sin Page 6

  “If you need something to wear, feel free to check the wardrobe. There is some clothing,” Damien calls from down the hall as if realizing my dilemma. “You are welcome to wear whatever you like. I made sure to cater to your specific tastes.”

  Only he can make generosity seem like the most unsettling of threats.

  Wary, I creep to a set of closed double doors and open them to reveal a luxurious walk-in closet. Some clothing, he said. More like a complete wardrobe, stocked with everything from shoes to items of jewelry displayed in a glass case. How thoughtful. How…prepared.

  Flattery feeds a swarm of butterflies in my stomach until I recall his past muses.

  Oh. No wonder he has a full boutique in house, given his proclivities.

  Eyes narrowed, I flick through the items dangling from hangers and realize that they are all in my size. Every last item. Some are dresses in varying shades of crimson and navy. Some are simple blouses and slacks.

  None are my customary bulletproof black.

  I imagine him chuckling over that fact. Gloating. Any other day, I’d march toward him and deliver some haughty, scathing remark to prove how unaffected I am. Tonight, I bite back my pride and settle on a rich blue dress with a modest neckline and a knee-length hem. While outside of my usual wheelhouse of couture black, it’s beautiful. The A-line shape hugs the contours of my body without feeling too restricting or revealing.

  A fitting suit of armor to face an opponent like Damien Villa in. Touché.

  He’s in the foyer when I finally leave my room wearing my own pair of heels, clutching my purse to my chest. “So where are we going?” I muster up the courage to ask. “To your club?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He cocks his head in that predatory, hawklike way, and I swallow whatever else I meant to say. “Learning to take control is a methodical process, sweet girl. The first step is to cede it.”

  “I think I’ve been doing that my whole life. Ceding control,” I add. God, I sound so petulant. “Letting everyone else manipulate me at every turn. I doubt you follow that step yourself.”

  “I do.” He grabs my arm, pulling me closer before I can react. Soft and gentle, his fingers slide down my wrist and capture mine with a knowledge I will never get over. “When it matters,” he insists, tightening his grip. “When a brief moment of control can tip the scales in favor of someone who needs that security. I can cede it, even despite my…preferences.”

  “Oh.” My heart races, throat thickens. He’s too close. His voice is too damn deep. Too earnest.

  “However,” he warns. “This will not work if you do not trust me.”

  “I-I can. I mean…I do.”

  “Good.” He turns, guiding me to the door. “Then let us begin por favor.”

  Unsurprisingly, Julio is waiting in the hall to lead the way to the lower level. Given his appearance, I assume our destination is outside to a waiting car. Instead, we turn down a different hallway that leads deeper into the building. Eventually, we enter an elegant dining room, so out of place that it could have been conjured from thin air. Dark walls and wooden floors create an ebony backdrop for the round table draped in a pure white tablecloth, adorned with golden utensils.

  In a way, it’s a more terrifying battlefield than lying naked in front of a horde of strangers.

  “Dinner?” I say thickly. “An interesting lesson, Mr. Villa.”

  “Patience,” he replies, his upper lip quirked. With his free hand, he finds the back of one of the two chairs at the table and angles it toward me. “Yet another step that must be taken.”

  “And then?” I ask as I sit and watch him navigate his way to the chair opposite me. “Tell me: Is food the gateway drug to control?”

  “No,” he admits once seated. “But knowledge is. And to ensure your safety and comfort during our…arrangement, I need to know as much about you as you are willing to share.”

  “Oh?” I jut my chin haughtily into the air. “I thought there wasn’t anything about me worth learning?”

  His stern frown stubbornly remains. He wasn’t joking. “I can admit when I have miscalculated. In your case, perhaps I have—enough to realize that, with you, I may have to adjust my own boundaries. So allow me to rectify that. I need to know your limits. What you are comfortable with. What you will not allow. And…” He pauses and an uneasy realization worms into my mind. He’s hesitating.

  “And what?”

  “I need to know if you have any lingering trauma that may make our arrangement…unpleasant for you.”

  Ah, as polite a way of beating around the bush as I’ve heard.

  “If you’re asking if I was sexually assaulted, I wasn’t,” I say softly. “As far as monsters go, Simon was a different breed. He wasn’t interested in my body, I don’t think. Just my psyche. My sanity. My soul. But as far as the psychological trauma scale goes, we can check off daddy issues, trust issues, and post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Is he relieved by that information? I can’t tell. He sits like stone, his head tilted toward me, conveying that I have his full attention.

  And yet…

  I can’t shake the sense that he’s hiding something. Or perhaps avoiding.

  “You’re uncomfortable with the notion of sex,” he points out. “Though not sexuality. You seem to have no problem relishing in your mastery on that front.”

  My cheeks burn as I remember all of the many ways he’s gotten to experience me relishing in said sexuality.

  “In fact, if I may be so bold…”

  I swallow hard and scan the table in search of wine. There is none. I have to fight this battle of wits with no armor to hide behind.

  “Yes?” I croak when the passing seconds make it clear that he needs an answer. “You can be bold.”

  “I’m curious if you are partial to exhibition.”

  I nearly choke. By the grace of God, I spit out a reply instead. “Like what takes place at your little club?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “Like what takes place at my little club. Women, comfortable in their sex, empowered enough to bare it all for the rich, closeted clients willing to pay through the teeth to watch. It’s the clients who pretend as though they have the upper hand—the dignity in the situation, you see—but no.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “The woman they sneer down at. Scorn. Ogle. She knows who has the real power. They all wish they could be so free.”

  “Free…” I eye the elegant, polished table setting and flick my thumb along the edge of a silver fork. “And if I was into exhibition?”

  I don’t dare look at his face, but the sound he makes… Part startled grunt, part amused laugh. I squirrel it away in some far recess of my brain to parse over later.

  “In some ways, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he admits, startling me. “A woman such as yourself, always in the public eye, always watched and whispered about. How did you put it? ‘I want to give them something to stare at.’”

  “So fine, you got me. I want to writhe naked in front of a bunch of strangers.” How I said that without laughing, I will never understand. “But you don’t. You strike me as a private man, Mr. Villa. One who doesn’t enjoy sharing his experiences.”

  “There are ways to satisfy both of our requirements,” he says softly. “If that is what you desire.”

  “How so?” I ask instead. “You throw me to the wolves, letting your male ‘entertainers’ screw me while you sit back and watch?”

  What I intended as a joke lands more like a grenade.

  “No.” He sits straighter, and were his eyes whole, I’d imagine them flashing. “I apologize if I was not clear before. No one will ever touch you but me.” His voice is so thick that I feel it in my fucking bones. Crackling tension robs every ounce of air from my lungs—but a second later, his posture relaxes and I can breathe again. “At least until our arrangement is over. Sí, that is one boundary of mine I will never bend.”

  “So how—”

  “I need to know if this is truly what you want. You need to
be sure, no doubts or second-guessing. Once I finalize the arrangements, there is no going back.”

  Even considering what he’s offering should be ludicrous. One might argue it could easily be written off as driven by extreme emotional distress, at the very least. Deep down, I know it’s not. I have no excuse of mental frailty to fall back on. The same impulse driving me now is the same one that drew me to his art in the first place, I suppose.

  Curiosity. Discontentment. Enthrallment. Jealousy.

  “Dulce niña, how about I tell you?” he murmurs before I can reply. “You may correct me if I am wrong, ¿sí? But as much as you may try to deny it, you want to be like them. You want to know what it’s like to be on fucking display—but on your own terms for once. You want—no, need—to let the world see you as you are, in a way they can’t mock or deride or scrutinize. It’s why you wanted me to paint you in the first place, is it not? This desire you feel… It is more than lying naked on a pedestal on a rebellious whim—because you’ve already stripped yourself bare, robbing them of any ammunition to use against you.”

  His words reflect an assessment that goes far beyond this moment. He’s amassing everything he learned during his unknown months of surveilling me.

  “There is a hesitation in you,” he adds as if to prove as much. “A fear I doubt you are even aware of. Something that makes you unafraid to bare your skin yet causes you to flinch when I touch you, even as you moan. I believe it is deeply rooted in why you’ve remained alone for so long. One of the reasons I asked for your trust was in the hopes that we can both learn what is really troubling you.”

  Something more than the past, he seems to imply.

  “We can discuss it further after you eat,” he adds, gesturing to the doorway.

  A waiter appears as if on cue, carrying the caliber of fare I’ve come to expect from a man with his taste: an entrée of expertly seared steak on a bed of fresh greens paired with a serving of wine to wash it all down.

  I sample everything, tasting nothing. Eventually, I find myself watching Damien more than anything else. He manipulates a fork and a knife, mechanically chewing every now and again, but I’m not fooled by his air of indifference. I sense that his full attention is on me. Listening to every scrape of my utensils over my plate, tracking how much I consume.

  He’s studying me, compiling a dossier of my behavior that I bet contains far more secrets than the one I discovered in my father’s office.

  “All right.” Sighing, I finally set my fork aside. “So, what if I lied before?” I try my damn hardest to sound nonchalant. Like these words don’t matter—when, in reality, they symbolize everything. “About why I’m still a virgin. What if Simon does have everything to do with it?”

  “¿Sí?” He copies me and carefully dabs at his mouth with the tip of an ivory napkin. “Then I would be assured that my skills of deduction haven’t drastically degraded within the span of twenty-four hours,” he says. “Tell me the truth por favor.”

  “It’s childish,” I admit. “But…I’ve never stopped seeing his shadow everywhere I look. And I’ve always thought, even though I know it’s ridiculous…” Tears sting my eyes and I frantically blink them back. “I-I can’t stop…”

  “Go on,” Damien encourages.

  “I’ve always felt that if I let anyone else in… One day, they’ll leave and it may prove him right. All along, I wasn’t worth it. Leslie should have lived, not me.” I choke out a watery laugh, but I know even he can sense the tears I can’t keep from falling. “My virginity, as stupid as it sounds, was one of the few fucking things that was always mine. No one else’s. My parents, my innocence, my friend—I’ve lost everything else. I can’t lose any more. Not to him.”

  “I’m sorry.” Damien pushes back from the table. “Perhaps I did miscalculate. I am not the man you should surrender such trust to—”

  “But you’re wrong.”

  He stiffens and slowly lowers himself onto the chair.

  “Is it pathetic that you’re one of the few people in my life to ask me who I am? What I want?

  I don’t think you understand how much that affects me,” I concede. “Being asked a question and having someone actually care about the answer. If you’re worried about hurting me, then don’t be. Love isn’t what I need from people. I’ve had it. Have it. I know I could easily find someone out there to cherish me. A man who would coddle me and keep me on a leash just like Heyworth has. But it’s not what I want. Not what I need. I need…challenge. Someone who will shove me into a room stocked only with blank canvas and dare me to strip.”

  His jaw twitches as though he’s recalling that very memory.

  “A man who tests my limits and preys on my fears,” I continue. “I’m sorry if this is making you uncomfortable—”

  “No. Never.” He shakes his head. “Far from it. But I am not sure if I am quite the man you think I am. I could disappoint you.”

  “And I think that’s part of the thrill,” I confess. “You could. You could be the worst kind of monster under all this suave polish. But for some reason, I still want to play your twisted little game a little longer.”

  Unlike Simon, at least he’s given me a choice.

  “So, now what?” I ask, pushing my plate aside. “More stalling?”

  “Oh, no, Ms. Thorne.” His devilish laugh stiffens every hair on the back of my neck. “Now, I’ll take you up on your proposal. We will play my twisted game. May the best man win.”

  “Or woman.”

  “Sí, sí.” He chuckles even more deeply. “Or woman.”

  We arrive at his club well past the hour when other establishments would be closing. I vaguely recognize the gilded hallway marking his private entrance, but this time, we stop short of the hall leading toward the viewing booths.

  There’s a peculiar tension I sense in the air even before he speaks.

  “I’ll allow you a minute to rethink your request,” he warns, his hand on mine, imparting heat. “You say the word and we’ll leave. I’ll take you home and you can rest—because I’m partly sure delirium may be fueling your newfound lust to experience the forbidden.”

  I have to laugh at that. “No,” I say, shaking my head—for my own benefit, not his. “I…I’ll play your game, Mr. Villa. I want to.”

  “Then play you shall.” He lowers his mouth near my ear. “You will star alone tonight,” he says, dropping all pretense. No more word games. This is real. “Just you in front of a full audience—but I want you blindfolded. I’ll let you wonder as to their faces. Their identities. Their reactions. Because none of them matter to you, do you understand? This performance is for me. Show me who the sheltered girl is behind her mask. Reveal to me what she needs. In a sea of these pretentious fucking people, you listen for me.”

  He draws back as his words ripple down my spine.

  “Daphne will assist you from here,” he calls to me while advancing toward the viewing rooms. “I look forward to your performance, Ms. Thorne. I do suggest that you follow all of her instructions. Adios.”

  “Hello.” Daphne is a smiling blond in a slimming black dress who appears as if conjured. “Follow me, Ms. Thorne,” she says before heading in the direction opposite Damien. “Mr. Villa has made all of the arrangements.”

  I don’t know what I expect to discover when she finally ushers me into a small room. An elegant vanity and a wooden wardrobe would be far down on my list. It’s an intimate, surprisingly tasteful setting adorned with a ruby color scheme similar to the theater-like atrium I viewed the last time he brought me here.

  “You can undress,” Daphne says. Then she crosses the room and points out a door opposite from the one we entered through. “You can leave through here when you are ready,” she explains. “It opens to the stage.”

  “Is that where…where I’ll be blindfolded?” I ask.

  Daphne shakes her head. “No. Once you are ready, I’ll be waiting on the other side.” She nods to the door again. “There, I’ll blindfold you as well
as relay Mr. Villa’s final instructions. There is a robe you can put on until then,” she adds as if sensing the nerves crawling up my throat, robbing me of my voice. “Whenever you are ready.”

  She slips through the door, leaving me alone, and I eye my reflection in the vanity’s mirror.

  I look so young. So tired. Purplish bruises encircle my eyes, and my ratty hair is in dire need of a deep condition and a brush.

  No wonder Damien changed his mind so suddenly on indulging my impulsive request. As I look now, few men would desire me.

  Once I strip my coat, my beautiful dress enhances my appearance, but only by a little. I’m a dull, plain shadow overall. The kind of woman who may be whispered about and hounded but only because she makes for such an easy target.

  A haunted, hollow doll.

  My fingers shake as I reach around to my back, searching for the zipper of the dress. When it’s loosened, the fabric easily falls, revealing more pale, unremarkable skin.

  In a horrible way, I’m relieved Damien is blind. He can’t see the gaunt, rail-thin body I do. Or the scars on my thigh. Or the fear in my eyes.

  Yet he somehow sees beyond it all, peering beneath the flesh to the parts of me I can’t disguise. Now, I think I know exactly why he changed his mind; this is a test, designed for me more so than him.

  Can I truly trust him despite all the people who may be watching? Whispering? Judging?

  Am I that fragile doll Heyworth coddled or an opponent worthy of playing the monster’s game?

  The answer terrifies me as I step out of my shoes and approach the closed door, knocking once.

  I don’t know.

  But I want to find out.

  Daphne stays true to her promise. At my knocking, she opens the door, a slender strip of black silk dangling from her opposite hand. Without a word, I turn, allowing her to secure the blindfold over my eyes. It’s soft against my skin but impenetrable—a sheet of endless dark.

  “There is one more thing Mr. Villa insisted upon,” she murmurs.