A Taste like Sin Page 9

  All I can do is move. And shudder. And whimper. And break.

  Suddenly, he rips his mouth from mine and sinks his teeth along my jaw. “Mierda,” he snarls, followed by a rush of grated nonsense. Promises. Threats. Dark things he wishes to do to me. Things he swears I’ll let him do.

  When he rears back for one last thrust, my hips arch to meet him, driving him so deep that I’m not sure where he ends and I begin.

  Everything inside me tightens and releases like a rubber band snapping. My back bows. My eyes widen. Limp in the aftermath, I lie breathless as sanity returns in slow, fleeting snatches. I’m drenched in sweat. He has me pinned between cotton and flesh. The storm still rages around us, but his arms hold me tight, cocooning me from the rest of the world.

  “Sweet…sweet girl.” He’s still panting. Startlingly hot fingers trace my cheek, demanding my attention. “Don’t presume that this negates our agreement.”

  He grips me even tighter. Captured. The same way someone might lock his doll away for safekeeping until he decided to play with her again. A rumble of thunder partially obscures what he murmurs to me next. Something that should haunt whatever nightmares I dare to have.

  “Exquisite. Too exquisite, sweet girl. In fact, I think I shall keep you after all…”

  My Egyptian cotton duvet is worth fifteen hundred dollars and it doesn’t compare to the comfort of being held. Heat, sweat, and Damien combined is a sensation that can’t be packaged and sold. What a shame. A pleasant ache lingers in my muscles as I stretch my naked limbs, but I should feel guilt, I suppose. Disgust. Maybe those emotions would distract from the grim realization that has me opening my eyes to a dreary view of an overcast sky from beyond my windows.

  I’m alone again.

  A carefully folded note waits on my bedside table, but I don’t bother reading it until I finally find the strength to stand.

  The message is simple: Had some business to attend to. Will return shortly. At the bottom of the page, he painstakingly added, PS: I have access to your medical records. I will have mine delivered.

  I swallow hard, uneasy at the implication. Not only has the bastard penetrated my life further, but he…

  Well, he got what he wanted. Didn’t he?

  Thoughts of medical records aside, I drag myself into the shower and dress in the plainest clothing I can find: a black sweater and pants. After ripping my bedsheets from the mattress and tossing them into the hamper, I make my usual cup of coffee. Then I slam my fist into the counter so hard that I wind up crying out and clutching the damn thing to my chest.

  What the hell have I done?

  Why, I had sex with Damien Villa, of course. Sex with my father’s archenemy while he’s lying near death in a hospital bed. To put it even blunter: I gave him exactly what he wanted.

  Perhaps he’ll move on to the next bored, pathetic socialite? Instead of flowers today, I’ll receive a calling card or two reminding me of his hate for my father outside my door.

  Instead, I find a small ivory box on my welcome mat.

  Inside it lies a delicate strip of pink silk covered in tiny, seemingly hand-painted roses. My fingers shake as I hold it upright. A beautiful custom blindfold sufficient enough to use in whatever game Damien may have in store for me next. I carry it and the box inside and place it somewhere within sight, remembering his promise to have my things brought to his place.

  When a sharp, shrill tone cuts the silence, I barely recognize it as my cell phone. I answer it absently, but the voice on the other end snaps me from my daze.

  “He’s awake,” Diane says through smothered sobs. “Juliana… He’s finally awake.”

  I enter my father’s hospital room unsure of what to expect. From my position near the doorway, I can tell he’s still in bed. But one obvious change is impossible to miss. His eyes are open…

  Only the expression in them doesn’t belong to the charming, witty man I know. Dark-blue eyes sit like marbles in his skull, devoid of their usual sparkle. Instead, they’re blank. Staring. Empty.

  “Daddy?” I croak, inching closer.

  “Juliana…” Diane rises from her vigil beside him and surreptitiously swipes at her bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “You came.” The second I’m close enough, she throws her arms around me. “He doesn’t respond much,” she whispers near my ear. “He doesn’t talk, but he may be able to hear you. The doctors aren’t sure how long it may last… But it’s progress.” She smiles tearfully as if trying to convince herself of that fact. Progress.

  “Daddy?” I circle around to his bed.

  One of his frail, pale hands is resting over his chest, perched atop the blankets. I grab it, but he doesn’t even look in my direction. Heyworth Thorne is gone, replaced by a shell.

  Or the worst kind of villain: a helpless one. It’s as if his goddamn soul is determined to withhold answers from me. Or punish me.

  “I know this isn’t the right moment,” Diane says, lifting something from the bedside table: a stack of documents. “But just in case… You should be prepared. It’s his will,” she explains, holding the documents out to me. “Thank God we finalized it before—” She breaks off, clearing her throat. “I want you to look it over so that you aren’t surprised if the worst comes to fruition.”

  “S-Surprised?” I scan the document, steeling myself for the worst scenarios my paranoia can dream up. Plenty. Perhaps he cut me out. He never intended to leave me a dime, not that the money matters in the grand scheme. If anything, a legal, binding document will prove that I was always his daughter merely for show. But as I scan the first lines, I shake my head. “This can’t be right.”

  “It is,” Diane insists, her eyes welling with tears. “We discussed it beforehand. It’s what he wanted. But I think, all things considered, you should have access to some items now. I’ve already cleared it with the lawyer. They’re highlighted there. A safety deposit box he had. I’m not sure what’s in it, but you should have access to it.”

  I blink, fighting to resist how my eyes are burning. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s something else.” Diane grabs my arm.

  For the first time, I sense how her fingers are shaking. Her distress takes on a new connotation; perhaps the tears aren’t solely related to my father’s condition.

  “There might be tighter security when you come back. Family only. The police have opened an investigation. After the doctors ran more tests, they think the stroke may have been exacerbated by something.”

  “Exacerbated? Like…” I parse the clinical term and can only come up with one comparable to it. “He was poisoned?”

  Her lips purse, her face pale. “I don’t know. With all of the other reports… I’m terrified, Juliana. I know your father wanted extra security on you before he—”

  “I’ll be fine.” I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “And I’ll be back. I just…”

  Need to breakdown, alone in a back stairwell, where no one can hear me sob openly into my palm. I thought Heyworth Thorne’s death would be the hardest reality to face—but this is worse. So much worse. He’s still here, his face the familiar one of my childhood hero. But in those blank, soulless eyes, all I saw was my reflection. My face. My guilt. This is all my fault.

  He’s gone because of me.

  And a part of me still hates him for it.

  With the city in turmoil over my father’s recent scandal and subsequent health issues, there is only one place I can escape to find some semblance of peace.

  I try not to feel guilty for invading it. As long as I inhale deeply, relishing the scent of hundreds of blooming flowers, it’s surprisingly easy to. Peace seems attainable here—as long as I ignore the fact that I’m an intruder in this unique parallel universe. Its owner may make an exception for me though—for a price.

  “I never allow anyone in here,” he declares as he advances through the greenhouse, toward the section I’m standing in, sandwiched between nightshade and oleander. “And Julio usually
abides by that rule. He must like you to risk upsetting me.”

  “Or he could just pity me. I’m crying,” I say casually before he can deduce as much himself. “I’m upset. I’m…I’m a mess—”

  “Because your father is awake.”

  It’s pointless to ask how he knows that. Where my family is concerned, he seems to know everything.

  “He is awake. If you can call it that.” I finger the very edge of a petal of oleander, comparing the fresh bloom to the dying one in my apartment. The contrast is a stark parallel to my father’s health: vitality vs. decay. “He couldn’t even look at me. He can’t speak. The doctors don’t know if he’ll ever fully recover. In fact, they’re prepared for the worst.” I rustle the documents clutched in my opposite fist. “Diane even gave me his will, just in case.”

  “I’m sorry,” Damien says. His steps continue their slow, steady advance and I hate how my heart lurches at his presence. It’s dangerous to grow attached to him. To need him. To crave the touch he runs along my lower back in quiet reassurance. “You may have full access to my legal team should you need their assistance.”

  “You don’t understand. He left me everything.” I can barely get the words out. “Everything. The house. His money. I don’t understand. Did he love me or not? Was I his daughter or a trophy?”

  Damien doesn’t answer.

  “The police think he may have been poisoned,” I add. “Targeted by the same bad luck affecting every high-profile official who worked on your brother’s case. They were even at my suite yesterday. Invading my privacy in the name of safety—”

  “If this is an accusation…” He trails his thumb up to my neck, following the path of my throat. “It is a rather polite one, I must say. As far as cold-blooded murder is concerned, I’ve been accused of far worse with much less tact.”

  “Please.” I squeeze my eyes shut, sensing every smooth, silken dip in the pad of his finger. “Don’t lie to me,” I beg. “You said you wanted honesty from me—but I need it from you.”

  “Sí,” he agrees. “But first I must ask you directly: Do you really think that I would resort to murdering Heyworth Thorne, knowing how much he means to you still?”

  It’s a dangerous question and I loathe the way he asked it: in a strained, cautious tone. Like my answer matters to him more than anything else.

  Even revenge.

  “You hate him,” I explain. “Maybe you have a good reason to. But if you care about me, even a fraction, you’d know…he’s all I have.” Fresh tears well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks, impossible to stop. “He’s all I have. I can’t lose him. I can’t—”

  “He had a reputation on the bench, especially back then,” Damien says gruffly. “For being fair. Just. A judge who would hear all facts and rule with honesty.”

  I force myself to nod. That is the Heyworth Thorne I grew up with—a man admired in his interpretation of the law.

  “But as I sat in that courtroom, with Mathias’ life at stake, I saw a different man,” Damien confesses, his tone level. The deliberate lack of anger somehow makes his words cut deeper. “A reckless tyrant too interested in bold headlines to actually listen. To fucking see. Sí, I saw a fraud too prideful to make the judgment the facts demanded.”

  “The jury convicted him,” I point out. “My father would have upheld it. He wouldn’t overrule a guilty verdict.”

  “I have the case files,” he says. “I’ll let you read them.”

  And in some ways, it’s a more terrifying prospect than having him try to convince me on his own. More words. More exposed lies. Can I handle them?

  “But not tonight. I’ve humored you enough. You need to eat. I’m taking you to dinner.”

  “Oh?” I incline my head to view him from over my shoulder. “Is that a command?”

  “No.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Think of it as more of a request. A stern request in the interest of your welfare. And some selfishness as well. We need to discuss what happened last night.”

  “Hmm?” I feign ignorance. “About the storm?”

  He smiles for real, but there’s no warmth in it. An intensity wafts from him instead, more unnerving than his polished, suave charm. “I’d prefer to discuss the sex, if you don’t mind.”

  I cough, clearing my throat. “I—”

  “I would like to extend our arrangement as well,” he says over me. “In case you thought I desired only your virginity.”

  “You don’t?” I ask hoarsely. “I mean…you didn’t?”

  “Sí.” He frowns, stroking his chin with the tip of his thumb. “It seems I desire more when it comes to you than initially anticipated.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…” He circles my position, allowing one of his hands to molest a budding flower as he goes. “I’d very much like to feel my cock inside of you again, for one.”

  “Oh?” I squeak as fire sears my cheeks. “How bold of you to say, Mr. Villa.”

  “Sí.” He takes another step in my direction. “Bold. As is the fact that I know you enjoyed feeling said cock inside of you. In fact…” He’s close enough now to cup my cheek with his palm, tilting my face into his touch. “I believe I’ve discovered a more enticing conquest than your innocence.”

  A second’s pause is my cue to reply.

  “W-What?”

  “Your fear of the dark.” His nostrils flare as if chasing that elusive prize. “Oh, sí, I want to take it,” he tells me. “Own it. Shape it. You will never hear another thunderstorm without thinking of me.”

  I close my eyes as the full extent of his promise resonates. No more fear. No night terrors. No Simon.

  “And if I refuse?” I wonder, daring to open my eyes again. He’s still here, alarmingly intent. This isn’t a dream. Painfully real, his heat assaults my skin, awakening parts of me I’ve felt stir only at his touch. His whim.

  “I don’t think you will,” he says, confident. “In fact, I think you might enjoy this conquest more than the first.”

  I draw in a ragged breath at the memory. The slickness of his skin. The friction between us. The way the world faded, reduced to him alone.

  “I should have you sussed by now. In fact, sex should have concluded my interest in you,” he adds, the grit in his tone drawing me from my thoughts. “And yet, at every damn turn, you…confound me.”

  Confound? I bite my lip against a retort. I’m sure he has no trouble sensing my emotions regardless. My chest is heaving against the barely-there barrier of my clothing, my breaths fanning the air.

  “I’m reckless with you,” he adds as warm breath nudges my throat, alluding to just how close he is now. “You make me…impulsive when I should have a steadying hand. And you know damn well what I mean.”

  He stills right when another gained inch would press him against me—yet he’s near enough for me to inhale his scent and exhale resolve.

  “Do I?”

  “Sí.” Rare tension sows ripples through his polished baritone. “I expected you quivering and fearful beneath me. Maybe then I could draw the real woman lurking behind the polished façade. I’d make her talk to me.”

  His hands smooth up my spine from behind, locking me into place. With only a thin bit of fabric as a shield, my body is his plaything. Trembling. Alight. Ignoring my commands to run.

  “I’m tired of being afraid, Mr. Villa,” I say.

  “As if you ever were. Last night, I realized the truth.”

  I stiffen as his lips ghost the side of my throat, beneath my ratty hair.

  “I’ve been sending you the wrong flower, Ms. Thorne. You’re no rose—you’re a vine. You grow there in the midst of the weeds, your stem slightly crooked, your petals lacking the uniform nature of all the other flowers. At a glance, you look like the rest. But if someone were to feel…”

  He performs that very action as the words leave his throat, sliding his hands up my back, cinching the thin material of my dress beneath his fingers. “They’d realize the truth. Your th
orns are sharper. Your petals are softer. Your smell is different.” His fingers shake. Grasping. Pulling.

  Focusing on his words is hard enough, let alone keeping my balance. I sway.

  “I could spend years painting you and never learn more than I did last night just by being inside of you.”

  Does that infuriate him? Yes. I can hear the scowl in his voice. Damien Villa, the artist so used to deciphering his subjects and throwing them away. I confound him.

  But he mystifies me.

  “I may even rethink my boundary when it comes to the club,” he adds, his voice lowering, just for me to hear. “I could fuck you in front of them all. Let them see: I’m the only man who will know how it feels to have you come on his cock. Like heaven.” His palm flexes against my cheek as the thumb of his opposite hand grazes my lower lip. “Exquisite.”

  I’m too breathless to question. Speak. Inhale. All I can do is savor the sensation of his heat on my skin. His breath mingling with mine. The growl he bites down as I step into him, letting him feel every inch I can press into his flesh.

  “Beautiful girl,” he praises, his lips grazing my ear before drifting lower. “Beautiful, sweet…mine.” With a predatory intent, he finds the exposed flesh, raking with his teeth. Grasping with his nails.

  A moan slips from my lips, my head falling back.

  It’s like he’s aware of every sordid thought before I even think it. His mouth finds mine easily. As if he memorized the distance. He exhales at the taste of me, slipping his tongue between my lips. Drinking me in. One word grated against my mouth reveals his impression.

  “Maddening. The way you sound… It’s sinful. I can tell from one note if you are in pain. Pleasure. Ecstasy. No one else has such range.”

  As if to prove it, his hand finds my breast, stroking the aching peak through chafing cotton.

  “I knew from the moment I heard your voice—really heard it—that I was going to count the many ways I could make you scream.”