A Taste like Sin Read online

  Touché.

  Alone, I hunch into myself. I’m shaking, twisting that goddamn journal over and over until I finally gather up the nerve to open it. The first entry is dated over four years ago. In surprisingly neat script, Lynn McKelvy recorded her day-to-day thoughts. She had a boyfriend named Tim. A sister named Sarah. Wonderful, attentive parents.

  And…she hated her birthday. Dreaded it in fact. That single looming date dominates nearly every passage. In the same sentence where she bemoaned boring chores or a shitty day at work, she prefaced it with a single foreboding statement: It’s a month until my birthday. A week. A day.

  Until the date finally came and went. Afterward, the entries become sparser. Less coherent. The last scribbled statements chill me to my core,

  It didn’t happen. No card. No present. He didn’t come.

  And I should be relieved…

  But I’m not.

  Lynn McKelvy feared her birthday—not the day itself, but what it meant. Midnight ushered in a series of disturbing events that had become a ritual of sorts. They seemed so benign on paper: receiving a card from an unwanted well-wisher. A few carefully curated presents, all from him.

  A reminder of the hell she barely survived as a child.

  But four years ago, in her case, they seemingly stopped coming.

  And rather than relish that fact, it terrified her.

  As I finish the last page of the journal, there’s only one method I can think of to salvage what I can from the smoldering wreckage of my sanity.

  Step one: ignore reality—starting with shoving Lynn McKelvy’s diary beneath the pillow in my room and pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s foolish. Childish, but I’ll worry about the consequences later.

  Now, it seems far more vital to wallow in a scalding-hot shower and attempt to erase Damien Villa from my skin. Scrubbing and soap are no match; he stains my flesh like oil paint, highlighting the glaring flaws I’m used to suppressing. In the end, I scuttle into a robe in defeat.

  My hollow gaze watches me from the mirror’s surface, noticing the subtle ways he’s tainted me. The skin on my neck flushes pink as if remembering his touch. Even the usual fear surging through my veins feels different now. Electric, capable of sowing more damage upon my psyche than a few memories.

  Like those of my own hated birthdays.

  Simon’s never missed a single one. Those three tortuous days always play out in chilling predictability. First, the wine—merely a card when I was younger—followed by a wrapped newspaper clipping from the day I went missing, then the doll, a replica of Leslie’s. Then a rose.

  And finally…

  I rack my brain for the image required to fill in the blank. Every single year, it came on the third day without fail, but this year…

  Bile congeals into a creeping creature, crawling up my throat. No… I rake my fingers through my hair as if searching for that one terrible memory. But I can’t find it. How ironic that over a week of chaos has allowed me to forget. This year, on the third day, my final present never came.

  Logic escapes my brain as I throw my coat on and lunge for the front door of the suite, ripping it open. I hear someone call my name as I race to the elevator and ride it to the lower floor, but I can’t stop. Panting, I tear onto the street and flag down the first cab I can, taking it straight to the Lariat.

  “Hey!” the driver snaps as I shove the door open and climb out without bothering to hear the fare. “You owe me, lady!”

  But he’ll just have to get in line.

  My once familiar, if cold home is a labyrinth now. A few nights away have warped the gilded hallways, transforming luxury into a foreboding maze. My front door is the portal to a nightmare world and every nerve urges me to run as I open the door and step inside.

  On the surface, it looks as I left it last. No avalanche of flowers. No lurking Damien Villa.

  No final, haunting warning from Simon.

  Though perhaps he decided to deliver it in person?

  A shadow flickers on the fringes of my entryway—near the kitchen. A stranger. A man. Panic paralyzes me. It takes a heart-stopping second before I notice the uniform the intruder is wearing, the navy blue of a police officer.

  “Can I help you?” I blurt in a rush.

  “Ms. Thorne,” he says, stepping from behind my counters, his hands elevated. “Sorry to bother you, but Chief Harrison wanted me to secure—”

  “Secure?” I croak. “Just because my father’s in the hospital, that doesn’t mean you get to do his bidding. Not without a warrant or whatever it is you need.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Ma’am, I was sent by the chief. For your safety. Apparently, there’s an investigation into—”

  “I’m sorry.” My chest heaves as those dangerous keywords land on the overwhelming pile on my psyche like drops of gasoline. “Just please g-get out!” I point a trembling finger toward the door. “Now! Get out!”

  “Of course.” The man lurches past me and respectfully inclines his head. “Sorry to startle you.”

  The full extent of just how badly he has doesn’t sink in until the door finally closes after him. My knees tremble, knocking together. I have to stagger forward and brace my hands over the counter just to stay upright. My poor, abandoned pot of oleander wilts nearby: a few naked stalks amid a swath of fallen petals.

  I brush my finger along the rim of the tiny pot, remembering its original intent: to terrify me. One morbid present accounted for—though not one of Simon’s.

  Pushing myself upright, I remove my coat before I leave the kitchen in search of my fourth gift.

  And I rip the entire suite apart looking for it. His usual spot would be the bathroom, taped to the mirror, my final reminder of why we play his twisted game.

  But it’s not there.

  Or in the hall.

  Or in my bedroom.

  I give up somewhere in the middle of searching the walk-in closet. Around me, I sense the world continuing, the day elongating. Shadows loom and deepen across the floor, but I can’t move. It’s selfish in retrospect. My father could be dying. Damien could be moving on to his next conquest.

  Or Simon could be waiting to finish me off once and for all.

  When heavy footsteps intrude into my suite, I’m convinced it’s him—ha, not even a police presence would deter him. My old tormentor has come to finish me off for good. Is that what really happened to Lynn McKelvy?

  I should feel terror building with every slow, approaching step.

  But I don’t.

  All I can do is tilt my head to watch a figure appear in the threshold of my room, bathed in indigo twilight.

  “I did offer to retrieve your things,” Damien announces before advancing a step. “Though I will admit your method seems more…lively.” He tentatively nudges a wad of clothing strewn across his path with his foot, but his clenched jaw betrays just how unsure he is. One of his hands feels out in front of him to maintain his balance, a rare sign of instability.

  “Wait!” I lurch upright and kick any nearby objects out of his way. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You’re crying.” He grabs my wrist with uncanny insight, pulling me toward him. His cocked head warns that he’s tracking every hitch in my voice. There’s no point in trying to disguise it. “I know packing can be overwhelming for some, but I suspect that is not the case in this instance.”

  “Lynn McKelvy was attacked by Simon,” I croak in a rush. “I know it was him. He haunted her on her birthday too. Every year. But then one year, he stopped…and she died—”

  “Slow down,” Damien urges. His hand sinks into my hair, parting the thick strands. Subtly applied pressure urges me closer to him until my face is resting against his chest. “Breathe.”

  “She died,” I stammer, fisting my hands in the front of his coat. “And I don’t—what if he killed her? What if he’s planning to finally kill me? My last present never came.” Tears stream down my cheeks, heedless of the fingers I deploy to combat them.


  “Easy. Easy, sweet, girl.” Damien shifts, fully engulfing me in his arms. “Talk to me.”

  “It never came,” I insist, between gasping sobs. “He always sends it on the third day, always.”

  “What?” he demands, but his voice is tenser. Brittle. “Talk to me, sweet girl. What didn’t come?”

  “A picture,” I confess. I can see it: the same sick image used to torment me every single year since I was eight years old. Squeezing my eyes shut doesn’t erase it. “My class picture from second grade.”

  Scrawled across it would be the same mocking phrase, year after year: Was she worth it?

  Was my life worth Leslie’s?

  The answer resonates in my soul, just as true now as it was then: No.

  “What if he kills me too? What if…what if he hurt my father?” I can’t even imagine the prospect, and my fingers tighten over the luxurious fabric in their grasp. “People connected to your brother’s case have wound up dead lately. What if—”

  “No one will harm you,” Damien says as though it’s as solid a fact as the sky being blue. We breathe air. He’ll protect me. “Though I can’t say the same for myself…” His pained tone draws my attention down to my hands. I’m clutching his arms, nails drawn.

  “S-Sorry!” I loosen my grip, but he captures my hand before I can pull away completely.

  “You don’t ever need to apologize to me.”

  “Not even for suspecting you of the unthinkable?” I counter. “I can’t lie and say I haven’t considered it, that you could be the reason my father is in the hospital. What if you wanted to hurt him that badly?”

  He’s gone as far as sending me poisonous shrubs and bugging my apartment for over four years. Would it be much of a stretch to assume that he’s capable of far worse?

  “I despise Heyworth Thorne,” he admits. At the same time, he slips one of his hands around to my lower back as if to ensure I can’t run from such a confession. “I loathe what he stands for—but the justice I seek can’t be found if he’s dead. Trust that I have no interest in hurting him physically.”

  “You just want to destroy his reputation,” I surmise. “But why? I know about your brother, but there has to be more to it than that—”

  “I will tell you,” he swears. “But not like this, when you are panicked and hysterical.” He brushes his hand along my forearm as if to use my trembling as evidence against me. “You need rest. I am going to take you back to my suite and tie you to the bed if I have to. You may even enjoy it, ¿sí?”

  “I can’t…” An exhausted sigh nearly robs me of balance. I sway as he tightens his grip, steering me against his chest. For the first time, I notice the real world beyond him. Rain is lashing at the windows and a streak of lightning lances across his face, illuminating the tension in his jaw. “I can’t sleep,” I croak. “I can’t think. I’m so damn tired.”

  “Fine. But staying here is obviously distressing to you.” Through gritted teeth, he proposes, “So let me take you somewhere else—”

  “No. What if—”

  “Away from here,” he continues to insist. “Look at me.” He cups my cheek against his palm as thunder resonates through the walls. “You shouldn’t be here alone. Not during a storm.” Ironic, considering that his heat feels more destructive than anything lightning could inflict. “Let me take you somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

  “Why?” My voice lacks the taunt it should have. “It’s not just the storms I’m afraid of. I’ll never escape him. I’ll never—”

  “Enough.” He lunges, but the act his lips inflict isn’t a kiss. It’s a kill shot. Swift and decisive, designed to shut me up. Distract.

  Disorient.

  And it works. Shock strips me of everything—thoughts, fears, common sense. All that remains is searing fire.

  And I want to burn in it.

  His touch is an inferno I eagerly throw myself into. Grunting, he captures my waist in both hands, igniting me through the thin silk of my robe. His tongue invades, his mouth conquers, and there’s nothing I can do to withstand the onslaught but breathe.

  So I do, inhaling all I can of Damien Villa. It’s a dangerous game to play. With every frantic gasp of air, my chest meets his, causing my nipples to harden beneath the friction.

  “Wait,” he breathes, pulling back. “Just wait—”

  “Please.” I slide my hands down to his hips.

  “Mierda.” His teeth nip the tip of my tongue in response, sending a jolt of alarm through my entire body. A warning. Submit, Juliana. Let him regain control and this won’t go any further.

  My brain is more than willing to comply. My body, however, rebels.

  “Please.” I flex my fingers, sending each nail into the material of his shirt. In retaliation, he jerks me closer. Our mouths collide again, grappling for the upper hand.

  No one wins. We wind up panting, openmouthed, in a standoff he decides to break by sweeping his thumb around to the tie of my robe.

  “Interesting outfit choice, Ms. Thorne,” he growls against my tongue as I curl my fingers into the waistband of his trousers. “Can’t say I’m not impressed. But easy, sweet girl.” He finds my fingers and gently moves them from his zipper. With a practiced twist of his fingers, he undoes the fastening himself. “Let me take care of you, ¿sí? Close your eyes.”

  I obey, shutting out everything but him. The ragged sound of his breathing, the rasp of his heated skin over mine…

  “That’s it,” he all but groans as my fingers brush his abdomen. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  God, the hoarse sound building in his throat resonates in my bones, so much more alarming than thunder. It’s concession.

  “I propose another bargain.” He cups my chin, recapturing my mouth while his other hand fists itself into my hair, holding me captive for every searing, searching thrust of his tongue. Against my parted lips, he breathes, “You give me tonight. All those fears, your pain…it’s all mine.”

  His deft fingers yank the material of my robe from my shoulders as he guides me back step by step. When my knees finally brush the edge of my mattress, he eases me down and my eyes flutter open just enough to take him in. A mixture of neon streetlights and lightning paints him in varying degrees of blues and yellows. He’s abstract artwork too beautiful to ever own.

  My fingers smooth down his torso anyway, sliding beneath his suit jacket to study him thoroughly. Rapid heartbeat. Formidable chest that vibrates as he snarls something into my open mouth.

  He tenses the lower I go. Lower. Lower. Jackpot.

  “Easy, dulce niña.” A warning exhale blows from his nostrils as my fingers find what I assume is a tailored pair of boxer briefs and… There’s no mistaking what’s beneath my palm. Heat. Fabric. Pulsing. Danger.

  A knot in my belly tightens as I peel the cotton down bit by bit—but he was right. Watching him isn’t enough. I make myself blind again, flicking my tongue along his jaw. God, it’s like I can taste in his skin the things my eyes alone would never reveal. The spicy hint of excitement. The bitter tinge of irritation for not having complete control.

  He is a toxin more potent than my dying oleander.

  His fingers, dangerously soft, smooth over my hips, positioning me against him. The width of his knee starts to nudge my thighs apart and shock pierces through the fog in my brain.

  “Easy, sweet girl.” Before I can even tense, his mouth teases a moist trail from my jaw to my ear, nipping all the way. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs against my earlobe.

  His body advances where his mind shows restraint, however. Grasping hands drift between my legs, stroking a searing path along my inner thigh. When he slides his thumb along my core, air escapes my lungs in pitiful gasps. I writhe, drawing my knees together, easing them apart. I’m exposed to him like this, with no blindfold or distance to hide behind.

  I have a first-row seat to how his nostrils twitch. My parted lips capture the hiss escaping his clenched teeth as his fingers find me slick and read
y. The next kiss holds no mercy. No sanity. He gives. Takes. Bites.

  “Mine,” he growls, cupping my waist, urging me against him. “I knew you’d feel… Mine.”

  With my eyes closed, I find his ear again, brushing my lips against the lobe. Words escape between pants. “Please—Please—”

  He’s gone. I blink, finding him on his knees, wrestling with the front of his trousers, tugging them off completely. My eyes go directly to the part of him I’ve only felt until now.

  My lips part in awe. He’s beautiful. He’s terrible. A thickened ridge of flesh jutting to attention. Pulsing. For me. I reach out, curling my fingers around the swollen tip—but nothing could prepare me for how he feels: silk over steel.

  “Lie back.” With harsh, unsteady motions, he fishes a square silver package from his pocket. “Something told me to always be prepared when it comes to you,” he says as if in answer to my questioning look. Upon bringing the wrapper to his teeth, he tears it open and slides the sheath along his length. Then he cups my ass in both hands and drags me to him.

  My nails pierce the flesh of his shoulders and he sinks into me with the fervor of someone ripping open their collector toy, forsaking its value.

  I cry out, flinching at the unexpected burning pressure as I’m spread open around him, forced to accept every inch. All of Damien Villa.

  He’s in my head, shutting out the world, and the storm, and memories, and everything but this. I’m in his skin, defacing him with hairline scratches and finger-shaped bruises.

  His thumb finds the bundle of nerves above where we’re joined and rubs. Fire. Sparks. Pleasure gradually replaces the discomfort and he silences my gasp with heated words of Spanish, his lips fluttering over mine, coaxing them apart.

  I let him in and he lunges, matching each thrust of his hips with one of his tongue. Pinching pain quickly ebbs, giving way to a toe-curling sensation I can’t name. Something too raw. Too sharp. Too burning. Too much.

  My body grips him like a vise, my knees locking around his hips, guiding every move he makes. He only goes as deep as I let him. As fast as I need him to. It’s a terrible, torturous courtesy, because I don’t know what I want.