Page 51 of A Taste like Sin
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.
