Page 143 of Sinful Lies

?John Banville

Jade

Dropping my coat to the floor and kicking off my heels, I winced as the icy floor shocked my toes.

Ignoring the chill, I headed straight for the kitchen. I yanked open the fridge, and stared blankly at its contents before grabbing a drink—or ten.

My mind was a mess, the whispers of a thousand devils cackling and mocking me, each one louder than the last. I needed to shut them the hell up.

I poured myself a glass of wine, leaned back against the fridge, and took three generous gulps.

I sighed, long and heavy.

This wasn’t supposed to have happened.

None of it.

After that night with Angelo… the night I let him fuck me—“let” being a laughable word, considering I’d practically begged for it—I’d ridden him until my legs were sore, wrung out from more orgasms than I’d had all year combined.

The way he bit my neck each time he came, the growl in his throat when he?—

Stop.

I’d always loved my independence.

Loved making my own rules, doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and inviting company strictly on my terms. But now? Now I had a problem.

Because my boss—my goddamn boss—had awakened a side of me I hadn’t even known existed. A new, sex-starved, ravenous creature who only wanted him. Needed him.

And no one else would ever be enough.

But hey, at least I had finally gotten the answers to all those little questions I’d been obsessed with for years. Guess some rumors are worth testing after all.

I finished my wine in one go, poured another glass, and made my way to my secret room. My fingers hovered over the scanner, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open.

My heart plummeted to my toes.

I hadn’t stepped foot in here in too long, and that’s exactly why I’d lost my damn mind. If I had, if I’d taken a minute to ground myself, I never would’ve let myself sleep with him. Not even those manipulative, dangerously gorgeous eyes of his could’ve convinced me—no matter how hard they begged.

Oh, Jade… what the hell did you do?

Careful not to crush any of the scattered documents or photos littering the floor, I put my glass down among them, the soft thud drowned out by the buzzing in my head.

Sliding to my knees, I started rifling through the mess—papers, photos, whatever.

And then, I found it.

A photo.

I snatched it up, my stomach twisting the second I recognized it.

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes.

My fingers trembled as I stared at it, the memory tied to it ripping through me like a jagged blade.

I flipped the photo over, and my breath caught.

There it was—J & S,Harvard Square Mayfair Festival, Boston, ‘14.

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