Page 76 of Sinner's Vows

I tap hot water into the big pasta pot and put it on the stove to a high heat. Once I’ve set up the pasta roller, I watch himfrom afar as he kneads the dough. He is strong and makes quick business of the process, his muscles flexing in his forearms and the veins on his hands etching out hard with each move.

Once he’s done, he gives the round ball of dough a loving pat as if it’s a woman’s ass, and now I want it to be mine. I’m so out of whack when it comes to this man, my body slowly spinning out of control toward something I never understood. Not after Franco. I reach for my wine and take two gulps.

Oh, God. This is the last thing I want even if it is the first thing I need. And not because he’s getting to my body, but because he understands mine…he understandsme.

Dominic raises a brow as he picks up his own glass and leisurely takes a sip as he stares at me over the rim, enjoying the golden liquid as it hits his tongue. From the wine’s taste, it isn’t some cheap five-euro chardonnay, either. Not that I’ve checked the label, but it tastes like pouring liquid money down my throat.

“Looks like you’re drinking for Dutch courage, sweetheart.” He puts his glass down to pick up the rolling pin and goes over the dough a few times. “Want to talk about it?”

God help us all. He’s still onto me. He isn’t going to let it go, is he?One night, Portia? What about one hour?

I drop my gaze and wipe my hands down my jeans. It’s a nervous gesture, and I can kick myself for giving anything away. My training has left the building, walked out as soon as he walked in with his soft gaze and masculine body I touched earlier today, his gentle gestures, his slow, sweet teasing. The whole combination only makes need pool into my panties—panties that’ve never been this wet.

I seep in a slow breath and then go to the only place that will be safe for Portia’s secret. For one night, at least. Only me and him.

“You said earlier—” I pause to blow out some tension that seems to battle for space in every muscle in my body. “You saidearlier that you can try and help me…show me how to live as if I’m…whole again?” I chew my lip when he doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he pauses where he’d been peeling the dough off the counter, never breaking our locked gazes. “How?”

“Ariana—” he starts.

“I know. It’s weird. We could definitely be brother and sister, and I—I?—”

“Yeah. There’s that?—”

“We don’t need to do anything,” I say, flushed all over my body now. “Can you just tell me? What you’ve done for other women? Because it isn’t something I know of or…” I trail off, not sure how to phrase my total lack of experience and only want to puddle to the floor in embarrassment which isn’t feigned at all.

We’re staring at each other, and his gaze softens so much, I have to look away. No man has ever looked at me like this.

Eventually, he picks up the dough and comes over to where I’ve stationed the pasta roller. He reaches for some flour and dusts it over the adjacent surface.

“I’m a service dominant, sweetheart,” he says simply, as if there isn’t a whole box to unpack there.

“And what does that mean? You’re into BDSM and stuff like that?”

He smiles but doesn’t look at me as he sets the machine to its thickest setting.

“Stuff like that, hmm?” he jokes gently. “BDSM is a very broad spectrum, sweetheart, and no, I’m not into most of what that spectrum covers.” He feeds the sheet of pasta through the machine, and I wait as he does it a few times, shaping it into a long fat slab that would go through the thinner settings with ease. “Hardcore BDSM is too much like the baseline stuff I have to do, but without the sexual edge. It’s me dying slowly. Service dominant stuff is what I do to bring me back to life, for living.”

My breathing stalls as those words sink into my soul. Things for dying, things for living… I’ve only been doing things for dying, so focused on my vendetta with Franco, with Randazzo, with my job of burning down his empire to the ground, that I’ve never done anything for living. Too scared even to find out what it would be like to be more than a victim of his choices for me.

Dominic spreads the wide ribbon of pasta onto the surface and takes a knife to cut it in half. With a sigh, he leans into the counter to take a deep breath. “The funny thing is, I need it to somehow find my own inner equilibrium again after doing shit like I had to do today and with the guys in the basement—” He breaks off, his jaw working as he seems to fight for a grip over something.

I trap his hand with mine where he is clenching it tight.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, my heart in my throat.

He looks at me then, shifting his hand to cover my fingers with his instead. Warm and strong but gentle, too. “It reminds me that I wasn’t always programmed to be…to be this fucking monster, you know?”

That rogue pinkie of his quivers, where the rest of his hand is steady. We look down at it at the same time, and then he rolls his hand to the side, still holding on to me, but pressing that little finger against the cold marble, forcing it to be still.

“How did you even start? How did you discover this thing you do?” I ask, hesitant now because he seems to be on edge, going through memories.

“Luca,” he says as he pulls away to massage his pinkie instead. “My younger brother. He’s one of the twins. He’s a little shit most of the time, but he knows how to match people. He introduced me to an older woman who knew what she wanted and needed, and he figured I could use the guidance…to do the opposite of everything?—”

He closes his eyes, and I feel like crap making him talk about something he clearly doesn’t want to share. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to?—”

“No,” he interrupts softly. “I actually do. You’re not the only person out there who never tells anybody anything, sweetheart.”

He rolls his shoulders as he drops his head back with a huffed exhale. He has about as much tension in his body as me, and I inch away slightly. Not out of fear, but he seems to need space.

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