A Taste like Sin Page 7

  I jump as a cold, hard surface brushes my ear and settles against the lobe. Solid. Slightly heavy. My thoughts spin, desperately trying to put a name to the object.

  “This way,” Daphne says without giving an explanation herself.

  Taking my hand, she leads me forward and I can almost feel the atmosphere shift from the stale, close air of the hall to the wider, echoing theater. My first thought is to assume it’s empty—Damien Villa wouldn’t dare share his new doll with the world.

  He’s merely toying with me.

  But faint murmurs and whispers nibble at my ears to spite my pathetic assumption. People—more than one.

  “You can lie here,” Daphne suggests, stopping short.

  I tentatively reach out, alarmed as my fingers brush a silken surface that gives slightly when I apply pressure. A mattress? I lower myself onto it, and soft footsteps betray Daphne’s retreat. Barring the audience, I’m alone in this arena now. Thin fabric forms a fragile base beneath me as unseen eyes take in more of me than anyone has ever seen. The blindfold obscuring my vision serves as my lone piece of armor.

  And I don’t even know how many spectators are present. Ten? Twenty? Hundreds? Their murmured voices echo in a constant hum: an ocean of rejection, or scrutiny, or judgment.

  Panic sets in. My hands twitch upward to cover myself as my heart hammers a silent command against the inside of my rib cage: run.

  I can’t do this. I can’t…

  Wait. That low, rumbling clearing of a throat rises above all other noise. I’m insane—there’s no way I could pick him out so easily. So definitively. It’s another man I’m straining my ears to catch. A stranger, whose voice drips directly into by ear, fed by the object nestled there. An earpiece, I realize.

  “Sweet dulce niña. Did you think I’d let you have full rein for your little performance?” His deep, raspy laugh twists my stomach into knots. “I warned you: This performance is for me.”

  “Oh?” I gasp, unsure if he can even hear me through the device.

  But he can—another grated chuckle proves it, laced with faint hints of static.

  “I thought you were supposed to be teaching me control?” I whisper—but even the faint sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the persistent hints of the others in attendance. I can smell them. Perfume. Cologne. Cigar smoke. An amalgam of strangers watching me. Waiting.

  They demand entertainment.

  “This is mine,” Damien declares as casually as if commenting on the color of the sky. “Lie back. Do not hide. Place your hand on your belly. Now breathe deeply. Like that.”

  I obey, letting the sound of my breathing and the blood humming through my veins drown out all other noise.

  “Keep it there and let your other hand sweep along your hip. Feel the softness of your skin. Like silk, ¿sí?”

  I don’t know if it’s his voice or the warm sensation of my fingertips gliding over me that hypnotizes me. First my throat, then skimming down the sides of my breasts, across my stomach. Back up.

  “Now…spread your legs, sweet girl. Let them see what they will never have.”

  I stiffen. Refusing is my first reaction. I almost can’t bite it down. “I can’t—”

  “Sí,” Damien growls. “You will. Nice and wide, sweet girl.” God. A moan edges his voice so unexpected in that grated tone.

  My body jerks, my thighs parting as if of their own accord.

  “You’ve done it,” he hisses as if spitting the words through clenched teeth. “I can hear them gasping. So beautiful. So pink—”

  Heat floods my cheeks and I almost stop listening. Shut down. Ignore.

  But he’s right. I can hear a distinctive shift in the room: a change presented in a sudden hush the farther my legs drift apart.

  “Touch yourself,” Damien commands, his voice so damn thick. Each word is drenched in his accent, barely recognizable as English. “Just once. Mierda.” He hisses as I slip my hand between my legs. “Good girl. I can hear your breathing change. Again por favor.”

  My finger grazes a sensitive ball of nerves and a cry rips from my throat. Nerves prickle and twitch, unsure of how to process each hesitant touch. With pleasure? Shame? Both? My quivering thighs battle to close together. Hide. Retreat. God, who knows who could be watching. What they see. How I look.

  And the more my brain runs through every frantic fear and scenario, the less they seem to matter.

  “Stop,” Damien snarls, jarring me back to the present. “I said once, sweet girl. I doubt these bastards deserve more—mierda!” he grunts as my finger slips, which draws another gasp from my lips. “You’re disobeying, Juliana.” A hoarseness laces the warning—he sounds anything but upset. “Don’t stop there, then. Add another finger, sweet girl.”

  A part of me shies from the dare. But another, bolder impulse seizes control of my limbs. Two fingers stroke my flesh in tandem. It’s lightning. My back arches, my throat contracting around another strangled cry.

  “Imagine I’m there with you,” Damien murmurs. “Remember what it was like when you were at my mercy.”

  I stiffen at the memory, the images almost too sinful to imagine—but my brain produces them anyway. Him kneeling in front of me. His heat on me. Inside…

  “Yes,” he grates. “You’re touching yourself again. I can tell. I can practically taste you, even from here.” He curses. “Stop. Too much—”

  But I can’t. Forsaking his order, I perform solely for me, letting my fingers twist and stroke of their own accord. Harder. Faster. Deeper.

  “This is what I wanted for you,” he growls heatedly. “Selfishness. Greed. They all want you, sweet girl. But you’re mine, aren’t you? Can you sense them?”

  I can. They’re staring. Focused only on the image I’m displaying. Only what I want them to see.

  A million people may be in this room, but he’s inside my head. Listening. Studying the slick sound of every stroke of my finger. Imagining himself touching me instead. I bet he can sense the moisture growing the longer this moment extends. The world may be watching, but none are sensing the same things he is. Smelling me with flared nostrils. Tasting me in the air.

  I picture him interpreting every little sound I make, imagining their cause.

  He wanted to know my limits. My wants. My desires.

  Perhaps they’re pathetically simple? I need him to see me—to explore me in a way no one else would dare. Deeper than any other man could. Harder and more intimately than anyone else has the right to.

  I want him.

  I want him.

  I want him to want me just as insanely.

  I’m on the verge of something soul-shatteringly destructive when I catch that low, tortured growl again. It’s a promise, ringing true even as my sharp gasp drowns it out.

  He’ll give it to me, those dangerous things I desire.

  Whether I’m ready or not.

  Somehow, I manage to stand on jellied legs and return to the dressing room. Daphne helps me into my dress, but when I finally reenter the lobby, Julio is the one waiting for me. Damien is nowhere to be seen. Not even as we exit the building and enter the car idling out front.

  He isn’t in his suite, either. The stale air lacks his trademark scent as Julio ushers me inside while remaining in the hall. In fact, all I smell is my own sweat, and nervousness rises like a slap, erasing the thrill from the club.

  As childish as it fucking sounds, did I do it wrong? Did I upset him somehow, even though I followed his damn instructions to the T? I listened for him. Performed for him. Bared myself to him.

  And the bastard can’t even pat me on the back for a job well done.

  Damn it. I hate what uncertainty does to me when it comes to him. It nibbles, chewing at my nerves in a way disappointing Heyworth never did. Wearing a mask for my father was a superficial game—this one has gone deeper. Too deep.

  My cheeks sear as I linger in the foyer, debating whether or not to even stay. Could I face him? Let him laugh: Silly Juliana, it was all
a game. You gave me plenty of fodder to sell to the tabloids, however. Gracias.

  I turn for the door and brace my hand on the doorknob—but I don’t know what makes me release it in the end. Maybe pride. I won’t give him the satisfaction of running this time. I’ll meet him head-on. Because even if this was some cruel, sick form of humiliation…

  I don’t regret it.

  The thought gives me the strength to march into my room, my head held high like the bastard’s watching. Maybe he is—listening anyway. He can hear me laugh in defiance of his goddamn mind games. He can hear me…

  Gasp as I leave the monotone color scheme of his suite and enter a world of roses. Beautiful, swollen budding roses in more colors than I have considered possible. Natural. They cover nearly every available surface, spilling from vases or in petals scattered over the bed and the floor. In the midst of it all is a silver box perched on one of the pillows. An ivory card lies beside it.

  I pick up the card first with trembling fingers. All it contains is a slash of elegantly penned script: You were exquisite.

  Not quite the reaction one would expect when paired with cold, disappearing silence.

  Intrigued, I set the card aside and turn my attention to the silver box. It’s thin, delicately crafted, and when I lift the lid to reveal what’s inside it, it takes every muscle I possess to keep from dropping it.

  Lying on a bed of red silk is a thin silver chain suspending a single perfectly round pearl.

  And I know before I even run my finger along the edge of it that it’s the pearl.

  Our pearl.

  I put it on, shivering as it settles between my breasts. So delicate…

  And yet so dangerous.

  So damning.

  After everything I’ve been through, it should be impossible to sleep. Impossible. Yet I wind up blinking my eyes open to pale light flooding the room of Damien’s suite. My nostrils flare, swollen with floral scents. Sighing, I roll onto my side and scan the room, observing the forest of roses in the different lighting—and they are still here.

  But I’m sure I closed the door last night before stripping my clothing and climbing beneath the sheets. It’s open now, and in the shadows of the hall, something draws me from the bed for a better look.

  A potted arrangement blocks my path—one that I’m sure wasn’t there last night. Carefully nestled in an ivory vase, an array of orchids and lilies in varying shades of white clamor for sunlight. So beautiful and—in a way—so wasteful.

  Breathtaking gesture aside, it’s a fact that all of these flowers will be dead within days.

  As I finger the pearl hanging from my throat, I have to wonder if that’s his point. Beauty decays. Natural freshness withers. A true artist would seek what he could from such fragility and then move on from the rotting husk. Does he look at me the same way? A beautiful bloom to be plucked at just the right moment. I’ll make for a lovely diversion for a while, but eventually, he’ll have to toss me aside and find another bud to corrupt.

  It’s the natural order of things.

  Noise from the other room draws my attention and I rake my hands through my hair, clearing the morbid thoughts as I follow the hall.

  I find Damien waiting for me in the living room of the penthouse, seated on the leather chaise. Damn. Despite his penchant for disappearing, the man can cut a figure when he wants to. An ebony suit enhances his broad shoulders and a blood-red tie creates a startling contrast of color.

  My fingers twitch, still caressing his pearl. For a second, I consider creeping toward him, potentially catching him off guard. Perhaps I’d run my fingers along his skin, tracing the stern line of his jaw he hides so well around me. But the second I cross the threshold of the room, he stiffens.

  “I apologize for last night.”

  “Huh?” I clear my throat to disguise my surprise. Odd. It’s not quite what I was expecting: a genuine apology uttered in a guttural baritone. “Don’t tell me, Mr. Villa,” I start, feigning nonchalance as I linger in the doorway. “You didn’t want an encore?”

  “Far from it,” he counters, shifting to face me.

  Damn. My inner thighs clench as his tongue dances along his lower lip.

  “I had to sleep in my studio in fact, to ensure I didn’t insist on that very scenario.”

  My heart lurches in my chest. “Oh?”

  “Sí. The intricacies of your little performances never cease to intrigue me,” he admits, sounding even raspier. His hands are braced over his knees, the knuckles damn near white in comparison to the rest of his skin. “I can only imagine how much you enjoy thwarting my expectations at every turn.”

  He makes it sound criminal: thwarting him. Confusing him. Surprising him.

  I suppose I should feel smug. Instead…

  “Thank you,” I croak, turning away as my cheeks heat. “I mean it. I…I didn’t know how much I needed a diversion until—”

  “I understand,” he says, only unnerving me further. “But you did ask me for one other favor, and before we discuss last night, I owe it to you to report what I’ve found.”

  “Did you find her?” Hope bubbles up, distorting my voice before I can choke it back. “The other victim? Is she—”

  “I did,” he says carefully. “But it’s bad news, I’m afraid. Lynn McKelvy died several years ago.”

  The stress he put on that terrible word sends my brain spinning with a million possible reasons. “How?”

  “An overdose,” he says.

  “You mean she killed herself.” I cross my arms over my chest—they’re trembling. “Didn’t she?”

  His solemn nod is all the confirmation I need.

  “That’s awful.” I stagger forward and wind up sitting beside him, my face pressed to my palm. My head is spinning. God, I can’t think. The weight of everything comes bearing down, a torrent of conflicting emotions. Guilt. Pain. Rage.

  “Awful,” Damien agrees. “But what happened to her is not your fault—”

  “Isn’t it?” I counter bitterly. “All this pain and my father knew. How could someone be so selfish? How?”

  Though I could ask myself the same question. I haven’t looked at my cell phone since last night for a reason. Dread of what I might find? Fear of what I might not?

  I don’t even know if him being alive or dead terrifies me more.

  “How could he lie to me?” The kind, lovely man who comforted me all those years ago. Who snuck candy into my hospital room. The doting yet stern figure who bought me a puppy for my ninth birthday and rented out the entire zoo for my enjoyment. No matter how hard I try, I can’t reconcile that man with the monster all facts point to him being. “How could he—”

  “If it is any consolation, there may be one way for you to find some ounce of closure.” He slips a hand into the pocket of his coat and withdraws, of all things, a slim, pink book. Stickers coat the cover in a mockingly colorful collage given the morbid topic of conversation—and something tells me it’s not his. It looks old and well worn, swollen with crinkled, written-on pages. “Lynn McKelvy kept a journal that her sister salvaged from her belongings. At my request, she’s loaned it to me. Do you want it?”

  I force my fingers to uncurl, gripping the end of it. Overall, it’s barely the width of my palm, yet it feels so weighty in my grasp. Balanced on my lap, I don’t know if it’s a gift.

  Or a curse.

  “Thank you—”

  “I would caution you not to. At least not yet.” He stands, finding his cane. “But I hope it brings you some measure of comfort.”

  “Have you read it? I mean, had Julio read it to you?”

  A muscle in his jaw lurches and I marvel at that. Not smugness for once. Unease? “No,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  Men like him don’t relinquish knowledge so easily. Lynn could have written about the menial ins and outs of her daily life—or Simon.

  Yet he’s given it to me first.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have busin
ess I need to attend to,” he says, heading for the door, his cane in hand. “I’ll return later.”

  “I should go home anyway,” I say, standing as well. “I appreciate you letting me stay here—”

  “Oh, that is right. We never did clarify this one, small matter.” He inclines his head, displaying that dangerously charming smile. “I will continue to uphold my end of our bargain, but in return, you fulfill one daily task for me, ¿sí?”

  A shiver runs down my spine as I force myself to reply. “Oh? Like what?” It’s chilling how quickly he can turn the tables. I never know what to expect from one minute to the next. Charming Damien? Mocking Damien? Disarmingly gentle Damien?

  “You sleep here for as long as this arrangement persists. Though I will remind you that you’ve already agreed to do so.”

  “W-What? But I—”

  “I’ll see you later tonight,” he says, but this time, it sounds less reassuring. More like a dare. Or a threat.

  “I suppose you’ll pay for my things to be brought here?” I inquire, placing my hands on my hips. “I mean, your clothes are lovely, but I would prefer my own. If I’m to stay here for any period of time, at least.”

  There. I almost sound confident, but if he’s caught off guard, his posture doesn’t reveal it.

  His back is to me as he continues his slow, lazy pace to the door—but his laugh resonates in my belly. “Of course. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

  “And,” I add, waiting until he pauses near the entrance to the foyer, “no listening devices. If I want you to hear me, you’ll hear me. If not, you accept that.” The seriousness in my tone negates the playful nonchalance I wish to convey. But it’s like he said: He wants me to trust him.

  And I can’t if he treats me like an enemy one second and a plaything the next.

  “I mean that,” I insist as seconds pass without a response. “Please.”

  “As you wish. Adios.” The door opens and his footsteps drift into the hall. “We will have dinner tonight,” he adds before leaving entirely. “I’m afraid pizza, however, will not be on the menu.”

  In a telling display of leverage, he doesn’t give me the chance to refuse before the door closes after him.